The clock is ticking!

Warning: Angst, some GerIta, suspicious activities, Nichu fluff and innuendo

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

"Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil… Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and—he knew not why—apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer, the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch."

—Ambrose Bierce, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

Decay

"They're getting warm."

Ludwig lifted his tired gaze from his coffee and oatmeal (it and soup were practically the only things that could be smuggled into the bunker) to Red, who was finishing up another cigarette. The whole place smelled like one all day long, but Red seemed not to notice. She was sitting back in her chair (as she had verified that it was her chair and her chair only), a black-clad elbow propped up on the foldable table leading up to equally black fingers between which her smoke was cradled. She seemed to be examining the water stains on the wall, wrinkling her nose at them even as she addressed a completely different issue.

"The Board. That's why I was asked to stay so long last night."

Ludwig perked up immediately and set his spoon down. He wasn't that hungry anyway. Hadn't been since they'd gotten to the bunker. "Ja? What did they say?"

"Well, they talked a ton of shit like they usually do," Red continued. "Then they launched into this whole topic handed down to them by the Overlord about that disturbance on the border of the district yesterday and the disappearance of those two guards at Gate 11." She stubbed out her cigarette with bottled aggression and looked at him then. "They also mentioned that they'd found canoes pulled up along the shoreline close to the gate and they had just taken in those three dead guys that had agreed to scout with me the day I found you."

Ludwig chewed on his tongue for a moment, contemplating if he should ask for further information. He hadn't gotten much sleep at all of late, and knowing the Organization may be onto them sooner than he would have liked would definitely prevent any slumber whatsoever until everything was said and done. He weighed his options and decided that his paranoia would prevail either way at this point. "What did you do?"

"Oh, for sure I tried to make it seem like I didn't know about this and was shocked at the suspicious activities going on, even suggesting stuff I could do to secure the perimeter more. But it couldn't take away from the fact that I was on that scouting mission and I had supposedly chased someone from Bethesda to somewhere near Gate 11, after which those guards disappeared, and I came up with no one.

"They began to interrogate me, though it was sort of offhandedly, as if they were trying to weasel information out of me without me noticing. But I knew. The Board is never discreet. I answered everything they asked me; told them that there had been someone I'd pursued from Bethesda to where those mines went off near Gate 11, that the hat those two guys found who came after hearing those mines blow up belonged to the person I had been chasing, that I had no idea why the canoes were there and I hadn't paid much attention to them as I was too busy chasing the guy, that when I'd entered Gate 11 the guards were there, that I assumed the rest of my scouting group made it back to their squads later in the evening and I hadn't bothered to check because I had to tend to my own squad, being a captain.

"It was a bunch of excuses all haphazardly strung together, but I was hoping because of my supposed young age they would let me off. I wouldn't care if I was demoted, which was the worst thing I had been expecting them to do. But then they joked about how that might not cut it for the Overlord—how he might call me in and ask me to take my mask off. And everyone who's affiliated with the Organization knows that when the Overlord requests your presence you won't be coming back."

Ludwig met her gaze, knowing by now he couldn't hide the worry that swelled within his own eyes. "What do you plan to do?"

The overly loud screeee as Red pushed her chair back and stood could have pierced the German's eardrums. She pushed a loose strand of red hair back behind her ears. Her eyes remained on the floor, and Ludwig knew enough about himself to realize that Red was refusing to look at him for the fact that her concern might be multiplied when met with his own. "We move the date up for the coup. I know the Overlord knows about you and perhaps me. It isn't the fact that he knows something is coming, it's that he's choosing to bide his time until… when? That's the question. For all we know, he could send people to storm this bunker at any second if he wanted. If he knew there was a bunker."

"So, he doesn't know about this place?"

"I said if," Red corrected and tapped her middle and index fingers on the table, taptap, taptap, taptap. "Either way, he knows and if we don't get this underway soon he may just smoke us out before killing us off like a bunch of chickens on an assembly line."

Ludwig drew patterns in his oatmeal with his spoon. "How soon?"

Red did look at him then, and he noted the poorly-smothered angst in her gaze. "Tomorrow. We make our move tomorrow, during the morning drill. You know what has to be done. We're as ready as we're ever going to be. Might as well not forestall the bloodbath." She pulled another cigarette from a pack in the pocket of her Organization-assigned black vest and balanced the smoke between her chewed lips. "I'm goin' out. Tell the other's for me, will ya?" And she disappeared down the hallway, a plume of smoke stretching out after her.

Ludwig's heart felt like it had stopped beating, and he could have sworn he'd felt his soul drift from his body for a second before settling back down inside with a sickening churn of reality. This was real. This was happening. Soon they would be victorious or food for the rats, though he supposed everyone was food for everything morbid and loathsome eventually.

Ludwig peered down into his oatmeal and imagined maggots writhing in the bowl. "Eat me! Eat me!" they screeched. "Eat me, and then I'll eat you."

He gave a disgusted huff and pushed his bowl away, having lost his appetite. It took him several minutes to convince himself to stand and tell the others—time that could have been put to better use, he ruefully surmised.

So much for getting any sleep.

After they were told they might die in little more than a day's time, that marked the end of all conversation between them. They each found a little space that no one else dared to invade and just remained there. Arthur's eyes were constantly drawn to his watch, his heart matching the ticking of the second hand as it made its way across the face. He fancied he could hear his heartbeat growing louder and louder with each revolution, and he was eventually forced to yank the damned thing from his wrist. He threw it across the room with a defiant grunt, dashing it against the opposite wall. The throw wasn't hard enough to break it, weak as he was.

How are we ever going to do this? Arthur wondered as he sat back on his knees, hands planted on the ground, hunched and staring. He supposed an adrenaline rush would be ideal, but how far could adrenaline go… how long would the coup be? Weeks, months, years?

It was afternoon, Arthur's watch said from its place on the floor, and no one had moved. Except for Ludwig. He broke the rule of entering someone else's space, but Feliciano seemed not to notice. In fact, he seemed not to notice anything at all.

"Feli?" Ludwig ventured, his own voice unnaturally loud to his ears. The Italian was sitting on his sleeping bag, a spot he had taken to for most of their time in the bunker, staring at the far wall. As Ludwig got closer, he realized the man was muttering to himself.

He sat down beside him. "Feli?"

"… fall soon. They're going to fall soon. We can't let the stars fall. No room, too much…"

Ludwig's heart clenched immediately and his arms shot out before his brain could register what was happening, latching onto Feliciano's shoulders and shaking with all his might. "Feli, stop this. What's wrong? Why do you keep saying this?"

But Feliciano's gaze was glassy and unblinking as he continued, "Must hold them up, si. Hold them up or else they'll fall down. And there's no room—the bloody head…"

Ludwig gave Feliciano one more vigorous shake. "What head, verdammt?"

Feliciano turned his head to him then, and Ludwig felt all the blood in his veins turn to ice. It seemed like Feliciano was looking through him. "The bloody head. It's so close, so close. It will come with the falling stars, and it will ruin us all."

Ludwig felt disgusted with himself as his instincts flared and he snatched his hands back from Feliciano like he was something to be abhorred. He wanted to touch Feliciano to make sure the man was okay, but his hands refused to move from his own lap. He had never heard Feliciano speak with such authority. He had honestly thought the man hadn't had it in him. "Feli?" was all he could say.

It was a good thing no one was in the room, else Ludwig would have had to share this experience with another. He was worried and knew it may be advisable to inform the others of Feliciano's ramblings, but he didn't want the Italian to be traumatized by the attention. Instead, he forced one of his hands to rest on the man's shoulder, shivering as he made contact. Feliciano's skin was frigid.

"Feliciano, please, I don't know what to do." It was hard for Ludwig to admit, but there it was, on the table before a man who didn't even seem to realize he was being addressed. The way Feliciano's body was pulled like a chord reminded him of Arthur's demonic possession, and his fingers dug into the Italian's bony shoulder. "Feli, what is this? There's someone talking to you, ja? Someone's telling you to say this." He knew it was true. Feliciano was far too frivolous to make such statements. He took both of Feliciano's shoulders then and shook them. "Who is it, Feli? Tell me who it is!"

Feliciano opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. He eventually blinked, amber eyes regaining their enthusiastic hue, and when he saw Ludwig staring at him, holding him, tears pushed their way to the surface.

"Feli?"

"S-si," Feliciano replied before sniffling, flickering eyelids sending moisture rolling down his cheeks. "I… it happened again, didn't it, Luddy?"

Ludwig continued to stare for a moment more, taking in the stark realization in the Italian's wide, wet eyes before pulling him into a firm embrace. It was only then that Feliciano felt secure enough to let go with his emotions, burying his face in Ludwig's shoulder and weeping quietly.

"I-I don't know w-why this is happening," Feliciano told him through miserable hiccups. "The whispers. The w-whispers h-hurt…"

Ludwig's hand extended down Feliciano's shuddering back, stroking. "How do they hurt, Feli?"

He could feel the wetness of Feliciano's tears soaking into his skin. "Hurts…" It came out as a sob, and Feliciano truly couldn't describe what it felt like when the whispers manifested. It didn't hurt in a physical way—it overwhelmed his mind, stabbing his psyche, pounding at his eardrums over and over. He didn't know what it was or how to make it stop, but something in his gut told him that once everything was over, he would be free. Although the meaning of 'over' could be construed as either winning or dying. Maybe both.

Ludwig held him tighter now, let him cry out the hurt. "How often have you heard these voices, Feli?"

It took a full minute for Feliciano to respond, but Ludwig didn't press. Feliciano seemed to be done with crying now, exhausted from the experience, resting his cheek against Ludwig's shoulder with his arms hanging limp by his sides. "They… they used to come once every day. Now I hear them every few hours. And they're always saying the same thing. I don't understand, Luddy." He shivered again. "I'm cold."

Ludwig held Feliciano for a moment more before pulling back and brushing a few strands of loose hair out of the Italian's teary, puffy face. "You need to sleep."

Feliciano didn't protest; he watched Ludwig turn down his sleeping bag, arrange the pancake-like pillows assigned by the Organization, and then he took Feliciano by the hand, leading him over to the cot. Feliciano gladly slipped in, not even bothering to remove his heavy clothing, and Ludwig tucked him in—something Feliciano regarded as an anomaly, and he couldn't convince his eyes to divert.

"Wait," Feliciano called as Ludwig turned to leave. The man moved to look at him again, and Feliciano's arms were extended, his eyes begging. "Please," he urged. "I'm really cold."

Ludwig couldn't keep a bit of color from rising to his cheeks at what Feliciano's words implied, and he cast a cautious glance to the door. Then he sighed and shrugged off his coat and stepped out of his pants. He figured if he was going to lay with Feliciano, he might as well be comfortable.

Feliciano lifted the flap of the sleeping bag to welcome him in, and the Italian was practically attached to him before he could properly settle in. But Ludwig couldn't bring himself to be annoyed, especially not when Feliciano snuggled in close, head tucked under Ludwig's chin, warm breath on his chest. "I love you, Luddy."

Ludwig felt his chest constrict, and suddenly he didn't care if someone saw them anymore. He wrapped an arm around Feliciano and said, "I love you too, Feli."

Another few minutes, and Feliciano was out like a light.

Everyone had more or less heard Feliciano crying, but no one had wanted to intervene so as to grant Feliciano his privacy. Everyone needed some time to themselves. It could be the only time they had left.

Since they were confined to the bunker, there really wasn't much they could do in regards to preparation for the coup. That was up to Red, and the girl still hadn't returned from her smoke break above ground.

Yao didn't want to admit that he was worried, but the tension was eating at his nerves so much he feared he would be unable to move when the time came to begin. All of the blank stares he saw didn't help, and he eventually took to the bathroom—the one without the shower and the tub—and sat down on the toilet seat lid. He usually had ways of dealing with stress, but with all that had been going on he had forgotten them all. So he just sat there and picked at the skin on his lips with his teeth, pulling off layer after delicate layer until he felt several drops of blood splash warmly over the back of his hand.

"You're bleeding."

Yao snapped his head up to see Kiku, ever stealthily quiet, standing before him. Although his expression seldom changed, his eyes were locked on the flowing blood with a kind of morbid curiosity—as if he had never seen such a thing before then. His dark eyes traveled back up to Yao's, and the Chinaman gathered enough sense to tear some toilet paper off from the roll sitting on the tank and press it to his self-inflicted wound.

"Your lips," Kiku continued, forgetting where he was going with his words and just staring as Yao stared back. They were so soft. But now they were torn and chapped and ruined; just like everything else in the world. Kiku would never say it, but Yao was gradually turning into the old man that he was. His round face was slowly hollowing, the wrinkles on the man's forehead were constant now, and he fancied he could see a few gray hairs among the dark locks. But it didn't matter. As far as Kiku was concerned, they all looked like shit. Somehow the crinkly little silver hairs only made him realize how much he loved Yao, how much he cared about his well-being. He walked over and knelt down beside Yao, taking hold of the older man's frail wrist and pulling it away, revealing the ravages of his lower lip.

"You should not hurt yourself like this," Kiku told him rather motherly.

Yao glanced away, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to."

Kiku lifted Yao's hand, bringing it close and examining the splotches of blood that covered it. I never want to see your skin like this, Kiku thought but couldn't bring himself to say it. Stained with death. Instead, Kiku continued, "You're worried."

Yao scoffed bitterly. "Tell me who is not."

Kiku couldn't argue with that, so he just sat down on the grimy floor, not even bothering to pay mind to the unhygienic position, holding Yao's hand. He wished he'd done it before. Yao had tried to hold his hand on so many occasions, and only now did Kiku realize how secure he felt with the contact.

"Yao-chan?"

"Shì, yīnghuā?"

Kiku's heart fluttered at the name, and he didn't know quite what the make of it. He cleared his throat. "Have you ever seen Kinkaku-ji?"

Yao nodded, still holding the thin wad of toilet paper to his lip and his stare at the wall. "Yes. It was very peaceful."

"We have never visited it together," Kiku said. "Maybe when all of this is over, we can go see it. If they haven't already burned it down."

Yao glanced at him then, and the devious spark in his eyes took a moment for Kiku to process. "Kiku, that temple is where monks used to worship. We can't misbehave in there."

Kiku's mind was blank for a few seconds (which was certainly new to him), but when he finally caught on he had the grace to blush. "Th-that was not what I was suggesting!"

Yao chuckled. "No, yīnghuā, I know you not mean it. You just look so kawaii when you blush."

Kiku looked away, embarrassed, but he squeezed the hand in his own back. No more words passed between them and their hand-holding offered no tension to Kiku. They just sat there and stared and stared at the hard gray wall until Yao thought he would become completely colorblind.

But Kiku's mind was somewhere else. He was standing on the temple's golden veranda with Yao by his side, and the man's hair was down, tumbled over his shoulders with the sunlight turning it glossy. He looked so young—no long face, no wrinkles, no gray hair, anything. The same Yao that had first visited him when he was younger, and now Kiku had no place in his heart to even consider pushing him away. They held hands, and everything was warm and bright and peaceful. They could live there forever, if fortune favored them well.

In his daydream, Yao tugged at his hand, and Kiku glanced over. He saw Yao's smile and that glint was back in his eyes again. The man was pulling him toward the center of the temple. Kiku promptly switched off the vision, but not before all the blood had rushed to his face and perhaps some more taking a detour, inevitably, further south.

No translations (because they're the same ones, dammit!)

A Word From the Writer: Annnnd, we end with more Nichu. I'm really trying to milk this for all it's worth, people. It's just so damn cute, I wjashdjhjshf. So, yes, I got impatient and moved the date up for the coup. And we have GerIta fluffiness and sad stuff. Simply adorkable. I just like to torture Feliciano. I dunno, he seems to have not gotten picked on by me enough throughout the fic, and now I'm making up for it by breaking his head with WTF-ness.

Can you believe I wrote that excerpt from Bierce down last year? Yeah, last year when I was only a few chapters into this fic. I'm too into this, I swear. X3

Btw, the reason why I'm posting early is because I'll be super busy today. So... I had to kick myself in the ass and get this posted for ya. Next post will have a little surprise in it and was one of my favorite chapters to write. I know I said I don't do favoritism but... yeah, I couldn't help it. So much angsty goodness... Anyway, later!