"Why was I not informed the moment you found out?" Arthur demanded the moment he entered Canada's favorite meeting room in Ontario. Parental outrage raised his voice to frightening decibels. "I'd anticipate that level of sheer thoughtlessness from Alfred. But I expected better of you!"

"I found out while Roosevelt was in office," Matthew defended with uncharacteristic anger. " The first one. You would hear nothing of Alfred back then!"

"You should have made me listen!"

"Well excuse me if I didn't feel like wasting my time!"

Was that a storm he felt? Because Arthur was about ready to let lightning fly. "How dare you—"

"Please," France went to stand between the two. "Family should not fight like this."

"You've met my brothers," Arthur retorted venomously. "If any of them had done this I would not hesitate to hex them senseless!"

"Mon ami." France gripped Arthur's shoulder and shook it. Hard. "Surely zat is the anger talking. You would not do such a thing to mon petit Mattieu, oui?"

Regardless of the obvious-to-all-present truth in that statement. Arthur roughly removed the French Nation's hand. "Don't touch me, Frog."

"Do not threaten my son, Rossbif."

"Your son?"

The tension was suffocating. Prussia commented offhandedly, "Family reunions for you guys must be fun."

"We don't have them." Matthew moved to the head of the table at the other end of the room and sat down. England and France death-glared each other a moment longer before finding seats far away from each other.

Germany cleared his throat, and set about attacking the problem directly. "Family bonding aside, are we the only ones that know about this…problem?"

"No one else left their rooms," France supplied. "We are the only ones."

"Should we be keeping it that way?" Germany prodded more tentatively. "America is a danger to himself and others. Is it even our right to not warn our colleagues?"

Prussia scoffed. "That's your ignorance of his illness talking, bruder. Because broadcasting this is a very, very bad idea."

Germany frowned "How so?"

"America's government overreacting," Matthew grimaced. "They'd do their absolute best to make sure we never see him again, which would only make the problem worse."

"Are you saying his isolation period somehow caused it?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know for sure. But it definitely didn't help…I think it started around that time."

"So we can't tell people," Germany surmised, sounding distinctly displeased. "We can't isolate him, if there's even any facility that could hold him for long. How are we supposed to stop this from happening again?"

"He has medicine," Matthew said slowly. "Tony—ah, his alien friend—engineered them somehow. But they don't work like they used to. And he's had to up the dosage twice in the past decade. I won't even get into his daily intake. Suffice to say he should be in a medical coma by now."

That blue pill from the meeting, Arthur realized. Then he scowled as he remembered the empty bottle. "Foolish boy. He's been depending on them and now he's built up a tolerance."

"The only option is self-control," France said. "Unless someone has a magic cure up their sleeve?"

Arthur knew his rival was joking, but it made him wonder. Because that was quite possibly the only avenue that America couldn't have tried. "I'll make inquiries."

France shot him a look. Prussia carried on as though he hadn't heard. "The words 'America' and 'self-control' don't even belong in the same realm. And that's assuming he even accepts the help. He's at home right now, you know. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't."

Matthew's voice was steeled with determination. "This has been happening for years. I'm tired of letting him have his way when his way clearly isn't working. Damn his pride. If I have to hunt him down and put him in a straitjacket to get him the help he needs then I will."

"Ah," Francis chuckled ruefully. "My idea is not so violent. But it will definitely require some of that willpower. Namely in getting him here…because he's not going to want to do this."

"He has no choice in the matter," Arthur decided. "I'm not going to allow this illness to puppet him around anymore."

It'd been two weeks since what was now being called The Incident. The man responsible for it, according to the investigation, was some kind of international pseudo-anarchist criminal known only under the alias of 'Argent Crowe'. His men had been an unaligned mercenary group staffed with the sort of people that governments liked to make lists about.

Most importantly, no innocent lives were lost. Alfred hadn't been able to sleep until he read that for himself in the report.

Crowe was in prison; In Europe's highest security facility…and also in a wheelchair. But despite his being apprehended, the President had still responded as any Nation's boss would: A total conniption followed immediately by stern (technically unenforceable) orders to stay in the White House.

But supposed house arrest was the last thing on Alfred's mind right now.

Investigators had made their own assumptions as to most of the mercenaries' fates. Human government officials around the world seemed to think that the average Nation was more massacre-inclined than they actually were, and that the bloodshed was some sort of unspoken group effort…ah, well. He figured that it would only be a matter of time before someone spilled the beans. No less than six Nations were now aware of his…problem. Not to mention the fact that he had heard absolutely nothing from any of them.

'Because they saw me in action. They're planning to lock me up underground in fucking Antarctica or something. And they'll be right to do so. It's what I would do if I wasn't so fucking selfish.'

He was just waiting for his phone to ring, and for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did, though not in the way he'd expected. He woke up one morning to find a single text message from his brother.

To: Alfred F. Jones
From: Matthew Williams

Come to my property in Saskatchewan. We need to talk. Bring clothes and a toothbrush.

Alfred studied his phone, hoping to somehow glean some further information from the simple message, but none was forthcoming. He sighed, dreading what was to come.

'Don't lie to me, Mattie. I know this isn't just a talk.'

Canada put the final lock on his toolshed, and set the alarm. If anyone tried to break into it, his phone would alert him immediately...just in case.

He turned and headed back towards the house. His ears picked up the faint sound of tires crunching on gravel, which meant that the Germanic brothers had arrived.

By the time he entered his house from the back door, they were already waiting for him in the living room. Which begged the idle question, 'How did they get into my house without a key?'

Gilbert looked around and immediately asked, "Hey, is Killer here, yet?"

Canada winced slightly at the new nickname. "Er, no."

Germany immediately hit his older brother upside the head. "Don't call him that. It won't help matters."

The albino rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. But seriously, when is Alfred getting here?"

"I texted him yesterday," Matthew answered. "He said he'd be here, and he never takes long even if he drives in, so he'll be here soon."

"If he's even willing to come," Germany pointed out. "America's silence on the matter has made it all too clear that he doesn't want anyone involved."

"It's not just about him, anymore," Matthew said, though he sorely wished it were otherwise. This thought surprised him, as he was the one who had spent decades extolling the potential benefits of receiving help for what had become such a massive obstruction in his brother's life and mental health.

But now he was beginning to understand Alfred's hesitance. It was so much simpler when it was just the two of them. But regardless-"It's getting worse, and our options are limited. I'm sure Alfred realizes this."

As if to prove his point, the familiar rumbling sound of a motorcycle echoed down the secluded road, followed by crunching gravel in Matthew's driveway before its engine was cut off.

"That would be him," Gilbert guessed. He smirked and added, "Anyone in a fifty mile radius would hear that damned machine."

Alfred didn't bother knocking when he used his key to open the door. He blinked, not having expected the Germanic brothers to be there. His already wavering smile faded, as his expression morphed into something like dread. He looked about two seconds from getting right back on his bike and driving away as fast as possible.

'Oh, no. You're not getting out of this.' Matthew pulled his reluctant brother inside, and made a point of locking the door behind him. "We'll start in the dining room."

Alfred sighed with quiet resignation. "Right…let me just put my stuff away." He gestured vaguely to the overnight backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Your room is the first one on the left," Matthew reminded him.

"I remember," the southernmost twin said. He turned and retreated up the stairs as quickly as he could.

Germany frowned. "I'm surprised he came at all."

"Maybe he's finally realizing that this problem is too big for just him," Gilbert hypothesized, "or is at least willing to pretend for our sakes. Either way, the boy is learning. Bathroom's upstairs, right?" He didn't even wait for an answer as he disappeared up the stairs as well.

Matthew watched him go, thinking. He truly appreciated their willingness to help his brother. But the worry persisted.

Because if this didn't work, they were all in danger.

Alfred felt very much like he was on trial, sitting at one end of the dining room table, fiddling nervously with a stray paper napkin as three of his peers faced him from the other side, who were acting the part of judge, jury, and executioner all at once. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and said, "So…just us?"

"It's just us," Ludwig agreed, his tone neutral.

"Like babysitters," America queried under his breath, "or prison guards?"

"A bit of both," Prussia answered way too brightly for his own good. "A solid support network, and a whole lot of negative reinforcement. My specialty. The best a Nation with homicidal tendencies could ask for."

Alfred flinched at 'homicidal tendencies'.

Matthew sighed. "Gil's making this sound worse than it's going to be. We're here to help you learn to control this. Without drugs."

"We've tried that before."

"This time there won't be people around."

"Except for my friends and family," Alfred concluded flatly. "Great plan."

Germany gave his sternest look. "Your chemicals are becoming less effective by the year. At a certain point, they'll stop working. And then—well, then there's nothing you can do about it, because you can't control it. This is the only option."

Alfred looked down at his now-unfolded napkin, unable to think of anything but the worst case scenario. 'Something'll go wrong, someone'll get hurt, I'll lose control, I won't be able to stop, I won't want to stop, and then they'll wake up and I'll do it again and again and again…'

"America."

Mattie's voice brought him back into reality. The napkin was now a neat little pile of pieces on the table that Alfred didn't remember shredding. He shook his head. "This is a horrible idea. I need to deal with this alone."

"You've been alone in this for far too long," Prussia retorted. "This isn't just about you, Alfred. We can't have you losing control in public."

"That won't ha—"

"Oh, yes it will." Prussia leaned forward over the table intently. "The medicine is going to stop working entirely. And it will happen at the worst. Time. Possible. A meeting. Your local grocery store. A charity benefit for homeless veteran three-legged hamsters. The White House."

Alfred's mouth was open to argue, but nothing came out. Gil was seeking eye contact and…he couldn't give it.

"You don't have a choice in the matter," Matthew said firmly. "We've been doing it your way for years and barely scrape by a catastrophe every time. This is happening now."

Then Matthew went into his pocket and drew something out that made Alfred's throat tighten. His stomach rolled with sudden anger. 'Nononothat'sminehetookitI'llhurthimI'LL—'

He flinched and screwed his eyes shut, unable to completely stifle a growl as he struggled to shove those feelings away again. "…You weren't supposed to find that." 'Not Mattie. Never Mattie.'

His brother's expression remained steadily neutral. He'd seen this behavior from Alfred before, and while it clearly still bothered him, it no longer scared him. He laid the object gingerly on the table. "This has to stop, Al."

A plain black strand of cord, with teeth hanging off of it that varied in age, species, and condition. It was something he started a long time ago, and never left home without (though he'd deny it vehemently).

It was a necklace…for his trophies.

Alfred put his head in his hands, anger quickly giving way to self-loathing. 'Trophies…God, I shouldn't even have trophies.'

Germany looked the most uncomfortable to witness this, but he was the one to ask, "Am—er, Alfred. Are you alright?"

"No, Ludwig," the western Nation bit out shamefully. "I'm not alright."

Thanks for reading, please review if you've got the time!

Later dudes. ^J^