The moar you know.

Warning: Angst, mention of inhumanities, sad stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Wishful Thinking

Yao opened his eyes at the sudden smell and glanced down.

He still couldn't believe Kiku was sleeping this close to him. The smaller man was currently dozing, forehead pressed up against Yao's chest and his nose buried beneath the covers. Their legs were intertwined, and Kiku's arm had come to drape over Yao's hip during the night, inclined to twitch every so often with the events of his dreams. Seeing as Kiku had barely moved since they'd turned in last night, Yao guessed he was in a very deep and much-needed sleep. Yao smiled, becoming drowsy with how warm it was between them—he hadn't felt warmer since the snow came rolling in.

But then what he had smelled came walking through the door. He craned his neck as far as he thought would not wake Kiku and saw a bald, lean muscled man standing beside their cot, holding a steaming bowl.

"Um…" the stranger deadpanned, examining Yao and Kiku's current sleeping arrangements not-quite-so surreptitiously before continuing, "Yeah, um, brought you some breakfast."

As much as Yao wanted to ignore the man, roll over, and return to his slumber, his stomach gave a beastly growl, and he suddenly felt hungrier than he could ever remember being.

Naturally, the sound woke Kiku, who opened his sleep-swollen eyes and blinked groggily up at him before saying, "Hm, what is it?"

"Food?" drifted a voice from across the room, and they all turned their heads to see Feliciano sitting up on the cot Yao could distinctly remember he had been sharing with Ludwig. The German was nowhere to be found (which was only natural, seeing as Ludwig was an early riser), but Feliciano's attention was consumed by the bowl in the stranger's hand.

"There's more," the man told them. "Out in the meeting room." And he wisely gave the bowl he was carrying to Feliciano (who appeared wolfish in appetite), leaving the room with an awkward little wave.

Yao turned back to see Kiku leaning against the wall their cot was pushed up against, cross-legged and eyes locked on the door, as if seeing a ghost of the man that just left the room. "Who was that? I do not recall seeing him yesterday."

Yao shrugged. "Probably those two guys who were absent. Danny and… Tom?"

"Todd," Ludwig corrected and answered at once as he came walking in, towel draped over his shoulders and fringe hanging in damp strands over his brow. He took one glance at Feliciano eating (the Italian barely noticing his entrance for his gorging) and sighed hopelessly. "Feli, slow down. You will make yourself sick."

"Bu' I'm hungwie," Feliciano pouted with cheeks full of oatmeal. Fuck if it wasn't pasta, he was starving.

… But pasta would still be better.

Ludwig huffed wearily and took a seat in front of Feliciano, seeing no choice but to snatch the bowl away and feed the Italian himself. Feliciano whined, but Ludwig had to prevent him from swallowing the spoon whole as the German offered a spoonful to him.

Kiku would have liked to stay in their warm cot and watch the amusing scene, but Yao stood, pulling on some pants (to prevent unintentional awkwardness between them and the squad, he'd decided to sleep in his underwear) and insisting that Kiku do the same so he could get some food in him. Though from the sound of it, Yao seemed more anxious to eat than Kiku was.

The hallway was ominously quiet as Kiku followed Yao down to the so-called 'meeting room' they had all gathered in after their arrival at the bunker. They walked past the bathroom and could hear the shower running. As they neared the meeting room, voices drifted to them from within as well as the smell that had woken Yao from a dead sleep. Kiku had been dreaming—something he hadn't done in months, he'd been so tired.

He could still see it as clearly as if he had just been there. Like he had been standing on the veranda, his hands recalling the feel of the sun-yellow rail as he gripped it, the wind as it whispered over his face and combed through his hair. The smell of the place still lingered—warm and rich with summer, the pollen of freshly-bloomed flowers, the air crisp with greenery and the clean scent of water. Insects dominated the lush landscape, their humming going straight through his body, enveloping it in a drowsy, natural warmth he had not known for some time. The water was pure, rippling sunlight before him, licking at the columns below. The colors were almost overwhelming to Kiku's eye, all the greens and yellows and reds, he hadn't seen them in so long. They were almost too bright and too beautiful to behold. When he finally could take in his surroundings properly, however, he was nearly blinded again by tears. It was all so fragile, so precious, the balance he perceived. Yet it was indescribably strong. Like nothing could break it. Nothing could touch it. Here, Kiku was safe. Here, he was in the cradle of solitude and purity.

He hadn't visited Kinkaku-ji since trouble began with his economy, during which he was obliged to remain at his residence, but he knew this veranda, this rail, this view better than he knew his own backyard. He saw a flock of birds take flight out of a cluster of red maples, crowding the air with chirps, and his fingers tightened on the rail. He never wanted to leave this place. He could live in the temple for the rest of his life and never grow displeased with his environment or miss any aspect of society. He could spend his days watching the mayflies alight on the water, spend his nights gazing at stars, lulled to sleep by the breeze and woken by birdsong.

That was why he'd almost cried when he woke up to find it all wasn't true. He was grateful that one of the squad had come in to distract Yao, else the man would have seen his tears, and he didn't need to be fretted over. Yet with the vision still swimming behind his eyes of the temple with its curving pagoda roof and liquid gold cloak, it was hard for Kiku to eat the oatmeal that had been placed in front of him at the table he was sitting at.

Yao was having no trouble whatsoever, not even displeased at the fact that the oatmeal was quite bland (near tasteless, he would say if he had more of a care), but food was food and he would not complain after being so long without a decent, hot meal. Todd had disappeared into his room down the hall that he presumably shared with Danny, clearly ashamed at having been locked out the previous night and so hesitant to confront them, which was just fine with Yao. He couldn't afford to have his meal interrupted, hungry as he was.

The newcomers had been so absorbed in eating that they barely acknowledged the other nations that were gathered around, having finished their own meals. They continued to converse quietly, so accustomed to using low voices, when they heard an echoing clank rumble down the hall and immediately went silent. The tension was nearly palpable, and more than one person twitched in the direction of the hall, eager to get to their rooms and procure their weapons. But then they saw Shawn emerge, and the stiffness dissipated.

"Whoop, sorry," he said, his hair an example of the worst kind of bedhead. He was wearing a peculiar outfit presumed to be the Organization's uniform: black military-grade pants not all that different from their camouflage cousins, coupled with a long-sleeved turtle neck that clung tight to the body and a black vest with pockets for ammo and weapons or worse. He was dressed all in black from the chin down, complete with leather gloves and newly-shined boots. On his left breast was a gray insignia, a spiral with the red letters FOM across it. "Didn't mean to scare you guys." And he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying them. "Ya know, now that I look at you, you do resemble countries. Dunno how, but…" He waved a dismissive hand and shook his shaggy head. "I dunno."

There was some awkward silence for a moment. The nations had barely interacted with anyone outside their own group, and all with whom they had were either states or backstabbers. They didn't know how to perceive this young man with his flyaway brown hair and relaxed gait and casual conversation, especially when Red wasn't around to be their intermediary.

Sensing their unease, Shawn said, "Red had to attend a last-minute Board meeting to evaluate the newbs, and Bernard had to stand in for her at the gathering. Todd and Dan were locked out last night. We went outside this morning to find them passed out in the room above, so we had to drag 'em back inside. Evans is in one of the rooms making sure Dan doesn't choke on his own puke. Glad my shift for that is over." He tugged off his gloves and stuffed them in a back pocket. "Can't say I'll be equally as glad to be out here when Red comes back. Her squad messenger woke her at four to inform her of a Board meeting she was never told about. At least I wasn't there when she was woken up. She's fit to kill, then." He gave a little laugh and proceeded to take off his vest with the spiral insignia. Everyone's eyes focused on it.

"Squad messenger, you say?" Arthur finally spoke up. "You mean, she has more squad members than just you guys?"

Shawn peered up at them, stopping right in the middle of removing a magazine from his issued glock to laugh in disbelief. When he realized Arthur's question was serious, he said, "Well, yeah. We'd be a pretty sorry lot with just the five of us. Squads usually consist of at least fifty members. We're just some of the more senior ones, so she trusts us more." Then he gave a sly smile. "And as much as she might deny it, she sometimes seeks our advice as well."

"Advice?" Yao repeated. He needed to stop doing that before someone mistook him for a fool.

Shawn nodded. "Um, just before the Uprising I was enrolled in a political science class at Yale, working toward my Master's. Bernie is a retired sniper (though he never tells us where he served his tour), Todd monitored intel at the DoD, Dan was Todd's assistant, and Evans was a police officer. He's Red's right hand."

The last title made them all shiver, minds going instantly back to Jeanne. "Police officer?" Alfred said, confused. "I don't get it. How is he—"

At this, Shawn gave a wry smile. "I didn't either, at first. It took a while for Evans to tell me, but he wasn't actually a police officer. He was a government plant, assigned to move his way up the ranks in the department so that he could identify potential terrorists, manipulate investigations, and correspond with the people he worked for."

Alfred frowned. "And who would they be?"

"Who else?" Shawn said. "NSA. Thought you would know that one, man."

"I know of the plants," Alfred insisted, feeling a bit guilty as he said it, still confused. "But how can he still be, you know, here? Last I heard the NSA's headquarters at Fort Meade was blown to shit, and all the employees had been captured or executed." It was true. Really, it was no surprise to Alfred that they would be one of the first agencies to go. He honestly didn't know why the people who worked there didn't get out while they could.

Shawn bobbed his head in affirmation. "Yeah, you're not wrong. Building's nothing but a huge crater now. But some of the files on the agency's plants were burned or deleted before they were attacked, at least they had that much sense. While most of the plants have been located and captured, Evans is part of a small group that have completely disappeared off the radar. As far as the Overlord and his lapdogs know he's just some cop turned rogue, which is not hard to believe seeing as a good portion of the force has bent to the Organization's wishes. Probably revenge for not getting paid enough by the brass, in my opinion."

"Where do the others reside?" Arthur prompted. Their ignorance was what had fueled the Uprising, was what had killed Lovino and Gilbert and Sadiq and so many others. He was tired of not knowing, and if it took asking a million questions to get the answers he needed Arthur would gladly do so. "Is there some other bunker, perhaps a door that leads to one from here?"

"Nah, it'd be suspicious if all of the squad was bunking in some secret place at once," Shawn replied. He ran a finger over the polished barrel of his glock, Francis's eyes following it, recalling the feel of a similar barrel that had been pressed to his own head, standing naked and collared in that Wyoming town. "It's hard enough hiding where Red goes every evening. The captains, as a privilege given with their positions, are assigned their own quarters at the rear of their squad's bunker above. The bunkers are essentially just walled-off tunnels with stacked cots shoved inside. Heh, one of the bunkers is near a part of the tunnels that was only just recently closed off. We call it the Shithole, and for good reason; anyone who misbehaves is locked inside for a good week for 're-education' purposes. Needless to say that everyone avoids them when they get back."

"How do they not know, though?" Matthew plucked up his courage and asked. It felt good to ask questions. Answers gave him some control. "That you're leaving and all?"

"Curfew is at 11," Shawn explained, seeming somewhat entertained by their interrogation. "You turn in or you take a shift at the Shithole. No one disturbs us after that, but there are handpicked guards haunting the halls at all hours to make sure everyone stays where they're supposed to. We don't see them, but we know they got cams recording us inside, even in Red's place. She wears her mask at all times, and we saw that as rather useful." His sly grin returned. "So just before curfew, when everyone is headed back from the evening gathering, she chooses one of her own squad (we kind of rotate) and pulls them aside into a dark corner we've determined is not watched by the cameras and they exchange accessories and Red gives them her mask. Then the member with the mask returns to the bunker to occupy Red's quarters and entertain the cameras while Red shuffles off into the crowd to access the latch to this bunker. There is a back door to this place, you know."

"No headcounts?" Yao inquired, shocked that the Organization overlooking the number of squad members returning to the bunker could come about so easily.

Shawn perked up at that. "Oh, there are. Multiple ones. You'd think the Overlord was OCD with how many headcounts he assigns. But I understand his reasoning. All members caught going AWOL are quickly found and taken away. No one knows what happens to them, but it's common suspicion that they're killed." Shawn chewed his lip for a moment, eyes glazing over in memory for a moment. Then he snapped to and continued, "No, we know how to take care of that issue. Red's decoy doesn't return to the bunker alone. Didn't I say that one of us was completely off the Organization's radar?"

"Evans?" Francis asked rather stupidly, he surmised. Who else? "But how—"

"How does the Organization not notice he disappears and reappears only when it comes time for us to turn in?" Shawn finished, smile still on his face. "We thought that too at first. But then we began to realize after not getting caught for so long that the eyes that watch the cams don't give a shit about the little people. They only have eyes for the squad captains, especially Red, seeing as she wears a mask. So Evans takes the place of the decoy wearing Red's mask and then Red retires to the bunker to convene with us. Me, Todd, Dan, and Bernie always take the graveyard shift guarding one of the tunnel entrances," Shawn interjected when Arthur opened his mouth to ask something. "Luckily, the Organization only relies on the guards down there to report anything weird going on, so no cams. We go in pairs, and we convene with Red in the bunker one at a time while the other stands watch, then we switch off during the night. That's why Red was so pissed last night at Todd and Dan. They were supposed to be Bernie and I's partners on watch, but they decided they'd rather find some other fill-ins so they could go drinking at the officer's club that's open once a week catering to those that have worked the night shift. Good thing they had the sense to tell the guards taking their place that their partners had reported to their bunks or else we'd be really screwed."

"And…" Alfred began carefully, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer he was prompting. "No one notices that Red is not a member? I mean, she hasn't ever taken off her mask, so wouldn't suddenly seeing a redheaded girl among them make them a bit suspicious?"

"She's taken care of that. Her hair is still cut and she binds her chest so that no one knows she's a girl." Here Shawn frowned, as if trying to imagine Red as her original gender with little success. He shook his head. "Anyway, the Organization has referred indirectly in many of their speeches and doctrines to their disinterest with the individual person and addresses members only en masse. We're like one big unit to them, and every member is taught that as well, so they assume everyone attending the gatherings is just an extension of the Organization's militia. They won't pay any mind to some redhead that seems to come and go like a ghost. As long as she uses the crowd as cover after the evening gatherings, there's little chance she'll be noticed and caught."

"So you have planned the coup?" Ivan asked. He had been growing more anxious by the hour ever since he'd set foot in the bunker. He couldn't stand to just wait around knowing that at any second, when he may not be expecting it, an attack on the Organization's core would begin. He needed a date and time, and he most definitely needed a briefing. It was enough that Ivan felt naked without having the protective, immortal covering of a nation.

"Extensively," Shawn replied, and they didn't know whether to relax or tense. "But it's not for me to explain. That's Red's job. And she does it better than I ever could. I can't tell you the specifics until she gets back, but I will say it will happen within the week. You know, after she incorporates you into it." Then, with a cautious glance around the room and leaning peek down the hall, he whispered, "And don't tell her I said this, but she also wants to get some pointers from you guys."

It turned out that Red had more duties to attend to than just the Board meeting and wouldn't be returning until later, Shawn specified. The nations were then surprised to discover that it was only six a.m. After so long, the regimen of waking at dawn was still with them, even in the windowless sanctuary of the bunker. Shawn said that he would have to be leaving soon for the morning gathering, and it was soon after that another squad member they had never met emerged from one of the back rooms. He introduced himself as Seref, his smile wide behind his dark stubble as he shook hands with them all, though its hollowness was more than apparent. He explained that he'd been Red's decoy the night before and had switched off with her on her way to the Board meeting but would go up with the rest of his squad for the morning gathering. When asked how they'd managed such a feat without being caught by the cameras, he replied, "Even in sewer tunnels there are dark corners."

That was the extent of their conversation as an electronic horn sounded down the arched corridors and penetrated their little bunker, signaling the start of the morning gathering. Shawn and Seref bid them farewell until later that evening, though Seref was due to rotate with another squad member for decoy duty and Shawn would be switching out with either Bernard, Danny, or Todd during the guard night shift.

Until then, the nations were left alone and feeling rather out of place in the bunker. They spent their first ten minutes without the squad's company listening to the horn sound and a mass of feet move toward what they assumed to be the gathering place. No one moved, they barely even breathed, so scared were they of someone hearing them through the 12-inch thick concrete.

They waited several minutes after the feet vanished from their hearing before they broke off to wander and brood, which was just about all they could do. Those who had not taken advantage of the showers the night before did so then; there was enough hot water to assume that the bunker pipes were feeding off of the main tank the Organization had commandeered. Following that, there was nothing to do but wait and although some of them sported watches, the absence of the sun and sky made them feel as if they were living in a vacuum.

Mostly they just hung around in their rooms, sprawled out on their cots or sleeping bags. Kiku laid back on his own cot, hoping to return to sleep and the golden temple whose image was still a ghostly imprint behind his eyes, but his only reprieve was staring myopically at the gray ceiling in the gray room until everything started to blur. He caught himself then and glanced at his watch. He was astonished to find that two hours had passed since his daze had begun. The Kinkaku-ji was gone; only gray filled his vision now.

There were cards to play with, but they had been playing a game of chance since the Uprising, and they'd rather not add to their lot. So Francis sat at the table, fingering the edges, reveling in how sharp and perfectly smooth they were despite the wounded hands that held them. He entertained himself by stacking them and re-stacking them, sometimes even having the patience to build a house of cards that fell as easily as Versailles had been hacked at and statues toppled. Francis found himself becoming more and more morose as he stacked the cards, and soon he contented himself with shuffling them, placing the whole stack on the table, and swiping the card on top. On his first try he drew the Ace of Spades.

"I hate this," Alfred said from where he sat crosslegged in the corner of the meeting room. He was carving the J of his initials into the concrete floor with his pocketknife. "Waiting."

"All we've done is wait," Francis replied offhandedly as he shoved his card beneath the deck.

"I know, but…" Alfred sighed and ceased his scraping to examine his tired eyes in the dull, reflective metal. "This silence. It's gonna drive me outta my mind."

A song came unbidden to Arthur's mind, and without much thought he began to hum it. Alfred glanced over to him, the Briton sitting across the room with his knees pulled up to his chest, ankles crossed and knobby elbows resting on equally knobby kneecaps. No one would know what it was, but that was fine with Arthur. This song was not a song he wished to share with anyone but the person who he used to sing it with. The song was liquor-laced breaths and heavy, malfunctioning tongues, red hair that Arthur always found on his clothes the next day that he hesitated to pick off. I don't want a harp or a halo, not me. Just give me a breeze and good rolling sea. Arthur could almost smell the beer they were quaffing. Fuck, he needed one. No, he needed something stronger. He wouldn't even care if it was warm. Warm drinks went straight to head anyway. And I'll play me old squeeze box as we sail along, when the wind's in the rigging to sing me this song.

The image of Ian with a 'squeeze box' made Arthur laugh, but his throat was sore and it was really more a cough. His vision blurred, hot and burning, and he scrubbed at his eyes. He didn't want the wind to sing the song. He wanted Ian to sing it, slurring the lyrics with an arm around him like Arthur only let him do when they were both shitfaced. Just tell me old shipmates I'm taking a trip, mates, and I'll see them someday in the Fiddler's Green.

Except he wouldn't. He practiced black magic. For all intents and purposes, he should be going to Hell. And yet he recalled Britannia standing at the prow of her galley in the golden waters of what certainly wasn't Hell. Was it truly a visit from his mother or was it just a dream conjured by a brain deprived of oxygen?

When he sensed that there were eyes on him, Arthur cleared his throat and unfolded himself, standing. "Er… I'm going to sleep. It'll pass faster that way."

No one called after him or followed him. He could be grateful for that at least. He cleared his throat as he walked down the hallway to his room, determined to relieve the gravelly ache in it. He passed by the room the other half of them were sharing when he stopped dead.

Whispers, Arthur concluded as he listened beside the door. It was more akin to hissing, and no one he knew whispered in such a way. In fact, he was sure not even a demon whispered like that. Arthur put his ear to the door, trying to discern what was being said. Had someone gotten into the bunker? It sounded like only one person, so why were they whispering to themselves? Was he so mad that he was just hearing things?

His hand went to the doorknob, grasping lightly before turning it and flinging open the door in less than a millisecond.

Feliciano's head snapped to him, blinking wide amber eyes. "Arthur?"

Arthur blinked back at him, as equally surprised. "Er, Feliciano, were you… whispering to yourself just now?"

Feliciano scrunched up his nose in confusion and shook his head. "No. I just woke up."

Arthur frowned and craned his neck to peer around the room, wanting to enter to check things out, but his feet remained frozen to the floor just outside. He looked back at Feliciano and nodded. "Right then, er, continue with… whatever you were doing." I'm going mad. That's it. Way to cause unnecessary fright.

Feliciano only stared at him as he shut the door. When he took his hand from the doorknob, he found that it was throbbing, a sharp sting rattling up his arm. He grunted and snatched his hand back, examining the knob, but nothing was out of place, as far as he could see. He reached out, trying to turn it again, but his hand protested harshly and he was forced to leave it at that and continue on to his room.

His hand was still burning as he entered, taking to the cot he shared with Francis and spreading his fingers against the cold concrete wall to soothe the pain. After it had ebbed, he stretched out on the cot and unwrapped the bandages to have a look. His face twisted into a wince, the scars newly red and swollen, seeming to pulse with each brush of gauze. Why hadn't he asked Red for medical treatment first thing? In his constant worry, he was starting to forget to take care of himself.

Whispers, Arthur mused as he wrapped the gauze around his palm again. I've gone completely daft.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: So... yeah, a bit slow, but that's kinda the point here. I just wanna make sure I give you as much information as I can before jumping right into things with some suspicious shit thrown in at the end to cut through all the briefing. Nothing will make sense otherwise, so your patience is appreciated.

And Kinkaku-ji is a Buddhist temple in Kyoto that dates back to the 14th century. Yes, it's roofs are covered in gold leaf.

The Fiddler's Green is a traditional folk song commonly attributed to the Irish. And for some strange reason it's used by the U.S. military to memorialize the deceased. Guess it's somehow related to why bagpipes are played at military funerals... either that, or there were a bunch of Irish (or Scots) in the U.S. Army at one point, which would not be hard to believe... idk, too lazy to research, bleh.

Stereotypes aside...