hetalia_kink

To be continued from here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13943.html?thread=37461111#t37461111

*stalks placeholder :3 *

Holy ninja stalker!anon. XD



“I do not understand… This… How…? He’s real…?” Francis sits up slowly, cradling Alfred, and places a hand against his cheek. “Not a trick?” England moves away from the wall, about to try again to explain, but stops short when France snarls and shoots him that glare that Arthur hasn’t seen since Joan of Arc.

“Lay off, Francis. He’s not him. Can’t be. He doesn’t have the limp.” Gilbert stalks forward and scrutinizes England intently, much to the island Nation’s discomfort. “So who exactly are you?”

“He’s England.” Colombia tells them, crouching next to Francis and taking Alfred’s unconscious form from him. “Just... not from here. They appeared in the living room last night.”

“Which means that he-“ Prussia points at England. “-isn’t the one you hate, Francis.”

“What does that mean, ‘not from here’?”

“No idea.” Gilbert grins down at Francis, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And the front hallway isn’t the best place for this conversation, ja?”

Prussia holds his hand out and pulls France to his feet. Colombia scoops America up and follows the others toward the living room, with England trailing behind them, feeling more out of place than ever.

= =

Canada feels bad for calling Mexico in the middle of the night, but France is right, and if... If it is that, she deserves to know.

“Hijo de puta, why are you calling me in the middle of the night? America, if this is you and you have scared yourself with one of your stupid movies again, so help me, I will end you. Violently.”

“Uh... It’s Canada, actually.” Matthew winces at the flood of Spanish profanity that blares from his phone’s speaker. He’d forgotten how irritable Mexico could be when she was woken up.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.. Yes, I know what time it is. Yes, it’s important, I don’t just wake people up in the middle of the night for no reason!”

“Well then, spit it out already!” Canada suspects that if she could, Mexico would hit him upside the head with something rather heavy.

Taking a deep breath, Matthew tells her. “My brother... America’s missing.”

That gets Mexico’s attention. “Missing how?” All the bluster and irritation is gone from her voice; she sounds genuinely concerned now. And that only makes Canada feel worse.

“Like, normally I can feel him, but now I can’t and he’s never been gone like this, ever.”

“Wait, back up. You mean your weird twins-sharing-a-brain thing? You are getting nothing from it?”

Matthew struggles with himself, trying not to break down again. “It’s like it was never there at all.”

“Mierda! There is absolutely no way that is good. Canada, do you have any idea why?”

“No, I have no idea. I need to- Would you- Mexico, could you help me with Al’s boss? I have no idea how... How do you tell someone that the country they lead could be about to collapse?”

“Yes, yes sure. Do that conference call thing; I will help you explain if you need it.”

Canada dials the White House and hits the three way call button. Alfred’s boss picks up just after the fifth ring. “Mm... ‘ello?” The President’s voice is slurred slightly with sleep.

“Um. I- Well- Th-this is Canada-“

“And Mexico.”

“Right, yeah. And Mexico.” Matthew makes an agitated sound and runs his hand through his hair. “Listen Mr. President, I- There’s- Something’s- Mexico, help.”

Mexico speaks slowly and evenly, explaining to America’s President about the twins’ connection and how Alfred is missing. Canada’s stomach clenches miserably and he tries not to listen; instead focusing his attention on praying to every divinity his people believe in for America to be safe.

Everyone is silent after England finishes explaining as best he can how he and America had landed themselves in an alternate world. France is still glaring at England, and Colombia is still cradling America with a distant look in his eyes. The only one visibly perturbed by what England has told them is Prussia.

Gilbert has the strangest expression on his face. If he didn’t know better, Arthur would suspect that Gilbert was staring straight at a situation he’d seen before. Or experienced himself.

“Since he got here... Has he tried to do anything... Nation-y?”

England hears in Prussia’s voice the same emotion that shows in the albino’s eyes, and his blood runs cold as he recognizes it.

Fear, or something very similar.

France and Colombia must hear it as well, because they both turn to Prussia in near perfect unison.

“Gil? Gil, what’s wrong?”

Gilbert looks up from where his hand rest in his lap and meets Matthew frightened gaze. “Just answer the question.” He bites out, his voice crackling with pent up tension. “Has he used his powers as a Nation since he got here?”

England feels dread begin to form a knot at the bottom of his stomach and he doesn’t know why.

“He was- Last night he was trying to connect with his people and he tore his mind up pretty bad when he couldn’t find them.”

“Does your Amérique also posses super human strength?” France’s question is directed at England.

“Yes, he always has.”

“I suspect he was trying to use it in the hallway, to hold me back.” As France shares this information Prussia leans forward, looking thoroughly ill, one hand pressed over his mouth. “What? What is wrong, Gilbert?”

Arthur jumps when Gilbert’s blood red eyes snap up to meet his.

“And you, can you feel a connection to your citizens?”

“I...” Arthur pauses, realizing he hasn’t even checked. “Ah, yes, I can feel my people. It’s muted, but they are there.”

“So then you’ll be okay...”

“...What? What do you mean he’ll be okay? What about Al?!”

Gilbert’s refusal to look Matthew in the eye gives them all the answer they need.

= =

My god, I’m so sorry this took so long. orz I’d love to promise it won’t happen again, but alas, you all probably know how it is. RL = epic bastard

Notes:
Hijo de puta – I hope that roughly translates into ‘son of a bitch’. *language!fail* Tell me if it doesn’t, okay? >.>;;

This chapter is short I'm sorry. OTL

Q: Why does Prussia have such a grasp of what you can’t see happening?

A: Think about it for a moment. He’s been there, you know. And isn’t it interesting that the German word for ‘fear’ is ‘angst’?

*little squeal* Author-anon! You're back! OP would like to scatter confetti in the wake of your return but the only paper on hand is my final projects for this semester so I can't. I do however understand that RL can be one helluvabitch.

Still, for as short a chapter as this was, I'm glad to see it. Poor America, and Colombia and Canada; this makes my lip wibble. But it also makes me excited because I know their need to get America home before his non-nation-ness gets him in trouble will raise the tension in the rest of the story to something awesome. ^_^

Paitently waiting for the next update as always.

y u do dis

Anyway, YGO-anon is so happy to see you! :D Yeah, RL is teh suck.

D: Aww, crap. Al's definitely in trouble... And I bet France is still not going to trust England...

Was doing the happydance to see this on the list this morning. Yay! So happy to see it continue!
I was wondering why he passed out a second time.
You're gonna make me draw Prussia now. :D

Mini-update that refused stubbornly refused to fit into another chapter. -_-;;;


“He’s dying?!” Colombia all but screams. Prussia continues to avoid looking directly at him, and Matthew’s heart jumps to his throat and sticks there.

Across the room, England surges to his feet, face flushed with fury. “What gives you- How can you say that?! How would you even know?!”

“Because I’ve been there.” Gilbert hisses, stalking across the room. “Our people give us life; they give us our strength. They are our life force. Without them, we are nothing. Nothing.” He turns away, breathing hard.

Oh. Gilbert is so alive and present that sometimes Matthew forgets that Prussia as a country no longer exists, and that Gilbert himself barely held on long enough to become East Germany. It’s a painful subject for a painful time period that none of them broach often.

Much the way the topic of Colombia’s twin brother dying is rarely brought up.

And now it’s happening again.

“How long?” Matthew asks, and his voice sounds as broken as he feels.

“I don’t know.” Prussia says softly. “A few months, maybe? It depends on how his country was doing when he was cut off, and how much energy he’s already used.”

“But... But you held on for years!”

“I had people who still considered themselves Prussian! There are no people here who think of themselves as American! He’s completely cut off.”

England sits back down abruptly, drawing Colombia’s attention.

“You- You brought him here. You can take him back, right?!”

Matthew feels physically ill as he registers the uncertainty and horror etched on Arthur’s face.

“I... I don’t know.” Arthur murmurs. “I don’t know what parts of the sigil were changed, or what it was changed to mean. Bloody hell, I don’t even have my books to reference.” He buries his head in his hands. Matthew is vividly reminded of the British Empire’s behaviour immediately after Alfred’s lone rebellion was crushed.

It suddenly hits him that despite certain key differences, this other England and the Great Britain he knows are very close to the same person.


“You’re the same.” Colombia snarls, centuries of anger suddenly boiling over.

France shifts sideways on the sofa, away from Colombia, as he senses the shift in the young man who was once his colony. In all the time he’s known Matthew, he’s only seen him well and truly angry a handful of times, and the large majority of that handful of times where during wars.

“I thought you were different.”

Because Francis knows Matthew as well as he does, he can hear the undercurrent of power beneath the ice of the younger Nation’s words.

And while he may have chosen to no longer be the superpower he once was after the Second World War ended and the Soviet Union was growing stronger, Colombia is still easily one of the strongest nations in the world.

“But no, you’re exactly the same. You get yourself in over your head and when reality catches up with you, you can’t face up to what you’ve done. So you just shove the blame onto someone else, someone innocent, and you just keep on living in your fantasies and your delusions!”

And despite his hatred for Great Britain and his distrust of this stranger wearing the same face, France admits to himself that he feels vaguely sorry for this other England. He’s only been on the receiving end of Matthew’s rage once, but he knows how much it stings to be the target of the young man’s fury.

“You’re a coward, Britain. Nothing more than a coward who can’t face up to his mistakes.”

“Belt up.” England’s voice is hard and sharp as a sword’s edge. Francis has never seen anyone stop talking as abruptly as abruptly as Matthew does then.

“Belt. Up.” Arthur says again, more firmly, even though no one speaks. Francis is suddenly aware that he is, for all intents and purposes caught between Colombia and England, and that is not a comfortable feeling. Across the room, Prussia subtlety slides into a position where he can intercept an attack if one of the furious Nations decides they’ve had enough.

“Just because I don’t know right now, don’t you dare think I’m going to just sit back and let. Him. Die.”

The room starts to smell of ozone and Arthur’s eyes all but glow, the way they do when magic is building around the island Nation. Francis is powerfully reminded of the days when another version of the same man, the same Nation, was a pirate and an Empire.


“Your Arthur-“ He snarls at the three Nations watching him. “-he may be deluded and a coward, but I’m. Not. Him. I will find a way to fix this.”

And in spite of everything, France finds that he believes him.

= =


Out of curiosity, did anyone see this coming?

How is this chapter so SHORT despite all the exposition? *headdesk* And argh, the drama. What is this, a soap opera? *shot*

But I got this up faster, so that makes up for the shortness, maybe? orz I swear the next chapter will be longer.

Heck yeah Arthur! >:D You tell them you aren't that bastard!!

Oh, Al... ;A;

(applauds England) That was wonderfully done. ^_^ I couldn't help but cheer England there for suddenly being so kick-ass. Though poor Alfred...this is going to be tough on everybody involved.

<3
Anxiously awaiting more!

I'm so glad that this is continued! It really WOULD be interesting if England was to meet... how would I call him, Britannia?

I like your concept with the people and their nations, too. :)

Thanks so much for updating! I'm eagerly awaiting more. :D

WHOO, YEAH! No pity parades for our Arthur. He's got epicness to perform. ♥

Even if this ends up being like a soap opera (which it's not), it's freaking awesome.
AS LONG AS MY NATION DOESN'T DIE (again)! D':

I have a feeling there's gonna be a field trip to London later for the purposes of retrieving spell books. Is my hunch correct? :3

I am totally rocking out to Disney songs in Canadian French right now. As a result, I am rather hyper and my family thinks I’m insane. And I finally got the ‘All My Nations’ thing. Took me a while. XD Anywho, ONWARDS~!

Matthew grew up hearing fairytales and stories of magical beings and people with magical powers. Once upon a time, Great Britain had told him stories of his fae friends. Matthew never did see the magical creatures Arthur would speak to from time to time, but occasionally he would hear a soft rushing sound like waves breaking on the shore emanating from the air around his guardian as he conversed with his invisible friends.

While he watches England and the magical aurora dancing in the other’s eyes, Colombia hears that same sound. He hasn’t heard the whispered song of Great Britain’s fae in years and years, but he known it when he hears it. His own fae creatures make very different sounds, from the shriek of wild cats, to the whisper of wind through the trees and the trill of small wooden flutes.

England looks around in surprise; he can obviously hear them as well. Kumajirou appears from somewhere behind the couch and clambers onto Colombia’s shoulder as he watches Arthur focus on empty space in front of him, bringing his hands in front of him to cup them beneath something Colombia cannot see.

“You look just like him.” Kumajirou murmurs into Matthew’s ear, translating the worlds of the unseen fae. “But you are different.”

“I... Well, I’m not from here, you know.”

“We are aware. We can smell it on you. The other world.”

“You can? Could you help me get back?” Arthur holds his cupped palms up close to his face, staring intently at the figure or figures perched on his hands.

“We could.” Kumajirou translates, and Colombia almost chokes on the ensuing surge of hope. “Your power is a mirror of ours. If you so choose, we can send you on your way.”


“Wait...” Arthur must hear something in those words that Matthew doesn’t, because he frowns slightly. “What about him?” He nods to where Alfred is lying across Colombia’s lap.

“To send him back under his own power would drain him. He would unravel.” Matthew feels the blood drain out of his face and sees Arthur turn white as a sheet. Kumajirou growls softly before continuing. “To send you both back together using your combined power... Would destroy you both.”

“Wait... Wait a minute.” Colombia interjects, the proverbial light bulb going on over his head. “Can the fae tell how much time he’s got left? I mean, if they can tell how much energy someone has...”

There is a short pause, during which the sound of waves is the only thing Colombia hears. England’s expression falls.

“Twenty nine days.” England says finally. “If all goes well.”

“Well, there’s still the problem of how you’re gonna get him home before then if these three can’t help you.” Gilbert says suddenly, leaning over the back of the chair Arthur is sitting in, staring at the Brit’s hands and staring at the same point in space. England stares up at the albino in surprise.

“Wha... Can you...?”

“See them? Vaguely. They look like little balls of light to me. One red, one green, one blue. Can’t hear a thing though.” Prussia shrugs. “Anyway, how do you plan on getting home?”

“Perhaps...” England looks back to the fae perched on his palm. “Does my counterpart here have any reference tomes?”

“We do not visit him. Not since he killed the boy. It changed him, and we dislike that change. But for you and this other child, we shall see.” Kumajirou translates as England and Prussia’s eyes follow the departing fae.

“But... They said that even with the strength Al still has added to the equation, the trip back would be fatal for both of you...” Colombia trails off, staring at America, who’s relaxed, peaceful expression is so at odds with the tense and sober atmosphere that is once again settling over the room.

“That’s because of the type of magic they wield.” Arthur gets three utterly uncomprehending stares. Sighing, he elaborates, sounding for all the world like an exasperated teacher.

“There are three basic ways to power a spell. With life force, which is how the fae do it, with ambient energy drawn from one’s surroundings or forces of nature, or with the energy generated by powerful emotions and faith.

“Magic drawing on a being’s life force is the simplest to cast. It requires no sigil or complex incantation. Generally, it’s the kind used in emergencies or for small tasks, as there is a strict limit to how much energy you can expend. Use too much, and the drain on your life force and cripple or kill you.”

“Could you use the life force of another to power a large spell?” France asks. Colombia thinks there might be something there, but England shakes his head emphatically.

“Using someone else’s energy when they are not going to be touched by the spell’s effects is a type of black magic. Black magic is forbidden for a reason. It has a nasty tendency to kill the source of energy and drive the wielder insane. If they survive.”

“So then what?” Prussia asks, still leaned over the back of the armchair.

“I need a sigil. I need to rebuild the sigil that sent us here and basically put it in reverse. Once I have that, I can use a blend of all three energy origins to get the two of us safely home.”

“Which is why you need the books.” Francis surmises. “To create the sigil to channel the energy.”

“Essentially, yes.”

Gilbert says what they’re all thinking. “Let’s hope Great Britain has those books.”

= =

Pick up, pick up, come on, pick up... Gilbert repeats to himself as he leans against the kitchen counter, listening to the phone ring.

“Guten Tag.” Ludwig sounds as gruff and formal as ever.

“Hiya West, guess who?” Germany says nothing for such a long time that Prussia double checks to make sure the cordless phone is still turned on. “West, you still there?”

“Please tell me you don’t need bail money.” Prussia blinks.

“Wait, what? No! For the love of Ol’ Fritz, no! I’m at Matt’s!”

“Ah, Colombia. It was his birthday yesterday, wasn’t it? How is he?” Ludwig doesn’t know exactly what the sixteenth means for Matthew, nor is he entirely aware of why Gilbert crosses the ocean to see him every year to see him, but he understands that it’s important to his brother to be there. It took wars to keep him away.

He’s... Well. That’s actually why I’m calling. Something’s happening here- Don’t get your panties in a twist, it’s not one of those somethings; there’s not gonna be an international incident or anything. Anyway, I wanna stay here for a while, just for support, y’know?”

“Well that’s fine. I can handle things here. Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”

“I... I don’t know.” Gilbert says quietly, rubbing his temples. “If... If this goes badly it could be devastating for him, personally.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Ludwig says eventually. “And... good luck.”

“Yeah... Thanks.” Prussia hangs up with a sigh.

I am officially gonna find a way to murder the character limit.



“I can’t do this.” Colombia cradles his head in his hand and groans. “I can’t watch him just waste away and die again.”

France has nothing to say to that. There was nothing he could do or say to comfort Matthew in 1815 when the reality of his twin’s death caught up with him, and there is still nothing now.

“He’s not gonna make it, Francis. Twenty nine days can’t possibly be enough for England to completely recreate the spell from scratch. We don’t even know if he’ll get the books he needs! Great Britain used to tell us how complex large acts of magic are, and how everything has to be perfect. If you don’t get it one hundred percent right, you could end up as a bloody smear on the wall! This couldn’t be any worse!”

“It could be much worse, cher. He could have appeared in unfriendly territory, he could have been alone. He could have less time left.”

“If I’d rebelled with him the first time, none of that would matter!”

“You cannot be certain. You could have both been lost. And Matthieu, you cannot change what has already happened.” Francis places his hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

“I know... I just... I just wish...” The younger Nation heaves a shaking sigh and leans against his only remaining father figure’s shoulder. “I hate this.” He murmurs quietly. “All of it.”

“I know, cher.” Francis hums, stroking Matthew’s hair the same way he had hundreds of years in the past, when Matthew was a child frightened by the sounds in the night. “I know.”

= =

From where he’s sitting on the porch, England hears most of Colombia’s rant thanks to a partially open window. And no matter how much he wishes differently, the other Nation is right. There are simply too many variables; too many tiny details and an enormous multitude of potential combinations. Despite his determination, Arthur knows that his chances of stumbling across the right formula in less than twenty nine days with time still left to set up the spell are impossibly remote.

Arthur scowls at the sky. He refuses to consider what will happen if he fails to reconstruct the spell; and he didn’t get to be an Empire and then survive the eventual collapse by letting ‘impossible’ stop him. Spain’s army had been ‘impossible’ to destroy, and he’d managed that, hadn’t he? He can do this too.

He just needs a little help.

And an idea begins to take shape in the back of England’s mind.

Two heads are better than one, after all.
= =


Twice as long as the last one, hell yeah. I think I need to thank Kuma-chan for being an excellent plot device.

And it suddenly occurred to me why it bugs me that the English anime refers to Iggy as ‘Britain’. Because of this business right here.

Notes:
I apologize for Iggy’s lecture/ramble thing. That got rewritten so many times and I still think it drags. Uuugh. *headdesk* Dialogue, you are hate.

Guten Tag – literally ‘good day’ in German. Generally a more formal way of saying ‘hello’. Most people would answer their home phone with ‘Hallo’, which is more like ‘hi’. And yes, the ‘T’ is supposed to be capitalized. Because the first letter of all German nouns are capitalized, and ‘Tag’ means ‘day’. /language lesson

For the record, the entire phone call would have been in German. I just didn’t feel like translating it, cuz I’m lazy. And most, if not all of you, would have been like ‘WTF are they saying? O.o?’. That, and my German grammar is... well, terrible. ^^;;

So, New Years was awesome. Fireworks, Dutch food, an utterly adorable baby who didn’t randomly fear me at first sight and, to my everlasting glee, utterly delicious potatoes. <3

*looks at planning page* Oh, fuck me, this is turning into an epic fic. I SWORE I WOULDN’T DO THAT. GOTTVERDAMMT.
= =

“Hello?” France mashes his finger rapidly against England’s doorbell. “Angleterre, if you do not open this door immédiatement I am going to open it for you.” He slowly counts out a minute, still pressing the doorbell, completely expecting an enraged and possibly hung over Englishman to appear in the doorway and give him hell. When sixty seconds pass and there is no sign of life from inside the old house, the small knot of worry that has been lurking at the back of his mind since Matthew’s early morning phone call begins to grow.

Wasting no more time, Francis reaches up under the low hanging eaves trough and fishes out Arthur’s spare key. The lock slides open and he pokes his head inside, still expecting Arthur to appear at any moment.

Inside, all the lights are off and it is eerily quiet. Francis gets the bizarre impression that the entire building is holding its breath. Shuddering, he turns on the entryway lights and ventures into Arthur’s home.

Francis finds no one in the kitchen or the living room. The bedrooms on the second floor are also empty. It’s unnerving, and the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand upright. Francis swears that someone is watching him.

With the rest of the house obviously deserted, the only place left to check is the basement. The feeling of being watched intensifies as France descends the stairs. He almost leaves without turning on the light; the emptiness of the house has frayed his nerves so badly he expects some sort of monstrosity to be waiting for him.

When he does pull the string and turn on the light, it is not a scene of unspeakable horror that greets him, rather, a complex pattern that seems to be burned into the floor.

France kneels at the edge of the circle, cautiously placing the pads of his fingers against the black lines. He frowns. The intricate lines and carefully drawn symbols are burned at least a few centimeters into the floorboards. One section in particular catches his attention. The scorched runes in this one spot look like they were smudged. He may not be magically inclined, but France has seen enough botched spell work to know the signs when he sees them. Grimly, he pulls out his cellular phone and calls the only other magically inclined Nation he can think of; Norway.
= =

England sits on the porch turning the idea over in his mind for nearly an hour. When he goes back into the house, Colombia and America are no longer in the living room, and France is the only one he can see. Arthur pauses in the doorway, watching the other Nation carefully. He doesn’t seem to be angry, simply tired, so Arthur comes into the room, moving slowly and being careful not to sneak up on France. France’s eyes follow England as he makes his way back to the armchair he’d occupied earlier. His expression is guarded and wary, but not outwardly hostile.

“Can you do it?” France demands suddenly. England freezes, unnerved by the Frenchman’s tone and not entirely sure what the man is asking. “The spell.” France clarifies. “Can you do it in time?”

“God, I hope so.” Arthur groans, dropping gracelessly into the armchair. “I wanted to talk to one of you about that, actually.” He tries not to fidget under the sudden intensity of the French Nation’s stare.

“I, uh. That is, Colombia has a point. By myself, finding the formula I need will be… hard. Almost impossible.” England gulps; something unpleasant is burning in France’s eyes now. “I’m not saying it’s impossible! Just that I… Well. Need help. From someone who already knows how my style of spell works.”

“Neither Gilbert nor I are mages, Kirkland.” France states flatly. “Matthieu cannot aid you, either.”

“How hard would it be to get me across the Atlantic?” The realization that crosses France’s face as he connects the dots is quickly replaced by horrified fury and disgust.

“Are you serious? You wish to seek the help of that butcher?!”


“Do you have a better idea?” England retorts. “If you do, I would love to hear it. No? Brilliant. Then kindly shut your trap or answer my bloody question.”

France says nothing; Arthur nearly gives up to go ask Prussia instead. “It could be arranged.” He concedes, grudgingly. “But first tell me this. Why go to him?”

“Because his magic is the same as mine, and even if he doesn’t have to books, his input will increase our odds significantly.” Arthur meets and matches France’s gaze. “I can’t do this on my own, Francis. Not in time. Please.”

France starts when England uses his human name, but he doesn’t speak when Arthur is finished; he holds the Brit’s gaze, green on blue, and Arthur swears to himself that this is one point he will not let slip past. The intensity of France’s gaze does not lessen, but it shifts from something ugly to something approaching respect.

“Very well. I shall make the arrangements.” Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Respect isn’t trust, not even close, but neither is it hatred, and even grudging respect is something.
= =

It’s Prussia’s turn on unofficial guard detail, monitoring the uninvited visitor when the fae return at sundown. They come in a horde, dozens of them coming in through the nooks and crannies of Matthew’s house and swarming around England. To Gilbert’s partial Sight the individual twinkles merge into ribbons of light that twine continually around the Englishman until he pleads with them to stay still and take turns speaking, as their continuous chittering is giving him a headache. The glowing ribbons disperse and form a nebula of little coloured lights hanging in the air with Kirkland at the center. Three familiar points of light separate from the cloud and settle on England’s outstretched hands. Colombia appears at the door, magical bear clinging to his shoulder, murmuring in his ear. England meets Colombia’s eyes.

“He has them. The books.”

“And you want to go to Great Britain.” Says Colombia. His voice is flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “I don’t know if I should let you.” Matthew’s eyes were burning with the fury of a thousand suns when Francis had explained to him what England wanted, but now they are twin pools of violet ice.

Prussia knows from observation and experience that when it comes to Colombia, his cold fury is much worse than his outright explosive rage. Kirkland stiffens.

“Do you understand why I require his aid specifically?”

The cold wall of fury Colombia had built around himself abruptly crumbles to dust, and suddenly his rage is gone and he’s simply a man whose brother is dying and has no idea what to do.

“Maybe I can trust you. You seem to actually care what happens to him. But… But he… He killed Al once before. How can I just assume he won’t try to do it again?”

Prussia can see in the set of his shoulders and the way he is no longer holding the fae, but rather clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides that England is barely resisting the urge to move to Colombia’s side to comfort him, and as that would be a rather bad idea, Gilbert does it for him. Ignoring how awkward he feels showing affection in front of a mostly-stranger, Gilbert pulls Matthew into a one-armed hug, much like he used to when Ludwig was young and upset by half remembered dreams.

“Common, kiddo.” He says softly, ruffling Matthew’s hair with his free hand. “This guy here-“ he points to England through the cloud of fae around him. “-is only suggesting what he is out of necessity.” Colombia opens his mouth to interject, possibly to protest. Prussia doesn’t give him the chance. “I don’t like it either. In fact, I strongly dislike it. But he’s right. Short of a miracle, this is the only chance Alfred has. There’s just not enough time.”


Captcha gave me Danish letters. WTF.

“I know.” Matthew whispers brokenly. “There never is. I couldn’t save him then and I can’t save him now. There’s nothing I can do~” Slowly, Colombia sinks to the floor. Prussia crouches down beside him.

“You can be there for him.” England seems so very small, standing alone in the middle of the cloud of faerie lights. “Even if he’s not quite the Alfred you knew, you still know him better than anyone here. Even me.”

“And Francis’ll be going with him, so it’s not like they’ll be unsupervised or anything.”

Matthew takes a shaky breath. “Just… You have to get him home. It can’t happen agai-“ His eyes blow wide and he turns very pale. “Oh God, he’s waking up. I- I can’t… I-“ Colombia stands and moves out of the room so quickly that his bear is left behind on the floor with pieces of his shirt in its claws. The front door opens and closes with a crash.

The white fuzz ball makes an irritated sound, then looks Prussia in the eye before pointedly jerking his head in the direction of the front door.

Gilbert gets the message and hurriedly follows Matthew outside.
= =

Arthur is there when Alfred wakes up. Colombia’s bear had to start growing before France would leave the two other-worlders alone, but leave he did.

Alfred wakes up slowly. He spends some time rolling back and forth in Colombia’s bed, as if he’s having a nightmare, or is having trouble getting comfortable. When he does open his eyes, he doesn’t look at anything; he stares blankly at the ceiling. His breathing becomes more and more laboured, and his eyes glaze over, slowly starting to fill with tears.

“Alfred?” Arthur inquires cautiously, unsure what Alfred is reacting to. “Alfred, tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“Hurts...” The superpower moans, rolling his head from side to side, causing a single tear to escape.

“What hurts, love?” Arthur presses, slipping into old parental patterns as he sits beside Alfred on the bed.

“My head. Where my people should be. It hurts.”

Arthur feels his heart constrict in that specific way that means he’ll either drink himself into oblivion later or lock himself in a washroom and cry.

“Oh, Alfred...”

Alfred, who makes being oblivious an art, catches the tone in Arthur’s voice. His gaze, unfocused without Texas, finds Arthur’s. Fear starts to creep into America’s eyes.

“Iggy..? Why’re you looking at me like that..?” He struggles upright, grasping weakly at England’s arm. England knows America expects him to rage at the nickname, but he can’t bring himself to fall into those old routines, not right now.

“I’m sorry.” Not the best choice of words, Arthur muses as Alfred gulps and pulls his hand away.

“Cut it out, Iggy. You’re scaring me.” Alfred gives a shaky laugh, misty blue eyes brimming with anxiety. “Seriously, you okay? You’re not sick or hurt or something?”

“I’m... alright. Listen, Alfred...” Arthur pauses, unsure how best to word what he has to say. “I’m going across the Atlantic, so I can work with this world’s me, to get us home as soon as possible. You’ll be staying here, with Matthew and Gilbert.”

“Uh... Okay. When?” America is obviously confused, as he only has half the story. Not even that, really.

“If all goes well, tomorrow morning. The sooner the better.”

“I... don’t understand. Why such a hurry? It’s not like our bosses can’t cope without us for a while.”

And there it is. The awful truth that Alfred is doomed without the citizens of the U.S.A. behind him. And Arthur is going to have to tell him. He takes a deep breath.

“Do you know what happens to us when we lose our people?”

“Uh... We get weaker and feel crappy?”

To all you anons who made teary eyes at me, I offer you tissues. And hugs, if you want.
Warnings for YMMV, tooth-rotting sappiness in this first section.
= =

I can’t do this. Colombia thinks to himself for the umpteenth time in the last twenty four-odd hours. Once again, his brother is dying. Once again, there is nothing Matthew can do to save him. This first time had been quick, at the end. This time won’t be. He remembers, in retrospect, how Gilbert had grown weaker and weaker after the Second World War ended. Once, when they were both rather drunk, Germany had confided in Colombia that Prussia had, in fact, been weakening throughout the entire war. The official dissolution of Gilbert’s country by the Allies had only sped it up. As unfortunate as the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain had been, there had been the unexpected positive of allowing Germany to give his brother a population to represent. And just in time, too. Gilbert came closer than any of his friends will admit to fading away into nothing.

Colombia looks down at America. He’d taken England’s revelation better than Colombia had expected. He’d expected the same panic as when he’d discovered he couldn’t feel his people. Surprisingly, Alfred had been calm, eerily so. After whispering ‘I don’t want to die’ he’d been very silent, staring at the bed sheets, then his hands, then the far wall. Eventually, Alfred had turned to England and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You should get some sleep before your flight, Iggy. You bein’ totally out of it cuz you stayed up with me won’t do any good.” He’d said. Eventually, England had given in and retired to the guest room.

Which left Colombia in his present situation; America lying on his side with his back to his twin, pretending to be asleep. Occasionally, Alfred will shake, take a deep shuddering breath before going back to feigning slumber. From the mental link they share, Matthew feels wave after wave of emotion; fear, anger, regret and sorrow, to name a few.

“Mattie?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Matthew shifts, trying to see Alfred’s face. No such luck, his brother’s face is mostly buried in the pillow.

“How long?”

“Eh?”

Alfred rolls slowly onto his back. Dried tear tracts run down his cheeks. He opens his eyes to look at Matthew, and a single tear escapes the corner of his eye.

“How long do I have left?”

“About twenty eight days, now.”

“Oh...” America closes his eyes, and another tear rolls down his cheek before he hides his face against the pillow again. Colombia stands, intending to get himself ready for bed, but stops when America squeaks, “Don’t leave! ...Please.” He adds, sounding embarrassed.

“I won’t.” Colombia replies softly, ruffling America’s hair, the way his brother used to hate so much when they were younger. “I’m just gonna get some pyjamas on. Want me to grab you a pair?”

“Yes please.” Alfred says meekly. Abruptly, he pulls the other pillow on the bed over his head. “Promise not to peek.” The words are muffles by a mouthful of pillow case. Despite everything, Matthew laughs. Alfred peeks out from under the pillow, grinning sheepishly, a light in hie eyes that wasn’t there moments before.

“You are a nut.” Matthew decides out loud, pulling a pair of PJs from his dresser and tossing them in the general direction of his bed and his brother. “You can change here, I’ll use the bathroom.”

When Colombia comes back from changing and washing up, he finds America is already under the covers, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. He looks so much younger without his glasses. Again, he looks like he’s sleeping, but Colombia can feel that he’s not. Sighing, he drops his clothes on the floor near Alfred’s before turning off the light and crawling into bed next to his brother. Alfred slides closer, snuggling up against him. Matthew jumps, not expecting the contact. Alfred freezes as well.

“Sorry.” He murmurs, shifting and rolling away. Matthew sighs. A new wave of anxiety and sadness, joined by loneliness, emanates from Alfred. “Dun wanna be alone.” He says sadly, his back still to Matthew, who now feels like a first rate asshole.

“Come ‘ere.” Matthew tugs the sleeve of the shirt he lent Alfred, coaxing the other to roll back towards him. “Ya just surprised me, is all.” Alfred curls up, snuggling into Matthew’s chest, who rests his chin atop his brother’s head. “You’re not alone, Al. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” Alfred whispers, nuzzling against Matthew’s chest like an oversized puppy. Matthew sighs in contentment. He hadn’t truly realized how much he’d missed having his brother to sleep beside. “Matt?” The inquiry interrupts his musing.

“Mmm?” He hums vaguely in response.

“I’m scared.”

Matthew can’t find anything to say, so rather than speak, he pulls Alfred closer, humming half remembered songs the America Revolutionaries used to sing all those years ago. He feels something begin to soak the front of his shirt. A similar wetness slides down Matthew’s cheeks into Alfred’s hair. “He’ll get you home in time.” He whispers. “He has to.”


Outside the bedroom door, Francis sits with his back against the wall, listening to the small, broken sounds the brothers make as they cry themselves to sleep. He hates to see Matthew sad and in pain, and he hated to see Alfred suffer. When Francis finally goes downstairs to sleep on the couch, he falls asleep longing for simpler days.


Before returning to the guest room to sleep, Arthur creeps into the downstairs bathroom and locks the door. The three small fae who had first greeted him here and a small handful of others flutter around him, murmuring small comforts and petting his hair as he cries silently. When he crawls into bed, the three fae settle onto the pillow around his head. One of them wipes the crystalline teardrops from his eyelashes as he drifts to sleep.


Gilbert sits for a long time on the porch, shivering in the night time cold, trying to bury the memories from a time when he was stripped of his citizens and as good as dead. He tries not to think about the things he knows will eventually happen to Alfred. He fails on both counts. When he finally returns to the warmth of Matthew’s house and falls asleep, dark thoughts are still running around inside his head.
= =

Norway is almost unnaturally calm when France meets him on England’s front doorstep. The Nordic Nation doesn’t tend to be openly friendly, even at the best of times, and two Nations gone missing in what appears to be a magical accident is serious business indeed. France doesn’t know Norway particularly well, so he can’t even begin to tell what the other is thinking or feeling.

“Where did you say the circle was?” Norway asks curtly. France motions for him to follow and leads the way to the basement.

When Norway sees the burns in the floor, he frowns. France actually sees Norway’s eyes widen when he notices the smudged section of runes.

“How bad?” France asks, shocked and numb inside from witnessing such an unusually visible reaction from the normally stoic Nation.

“Do you see how there are six different rings containing the runes? The most simple way to build a spell like this uses two rings to contain the energy and direct it. To need six... Whatever England was trying to do, it was complex and likely very dangerous.”

“Did England do it wrong?”

Norway shakes his head, kneeling to place his hands against the deep burn grooves in the floor. His hair and clothing shift in a gentle breeze that France doesn’t feel.

“The spell was active when it was damaged. He would have been standing at the center, and these runes were smudged inwards.”

“Amérique.” France whispers.

“Probably.” Norway agrees, running his hands along the symbols in the floor. He makes a small sound. “I don’t know these runes very well. Perhaps... “ He looks around the room, speaking softly in a language that France almost recognizes.

Another localized breeze ruffles Norway’s hair. He turns, looking back up the staircase. After a seemingly one-sided conversation, Norway sighs and looks back to France. “This will take time, Frankrike. England’s magic is strange to me. His Fair Folk have agreed to assist me, but it will still take time.” France understands the unsaid dismissal. He lurks around on the upper floors, reading the newspaper and pacing aimlessly between furtive trips back to the basement. Every time, he sees Norway sitting cross legged, peering intently at the huge book hovering above his lap, the pages turning themselves. Sighing, France makes his way back up stairs to call Canada again and tell him he still has no news.
= =

Alfred doesn’t wake up until nearly noon. Arthur and Francis have long since left. Gilbert is still there, staring intently at the kitchen table, lost in thought. That’s where America finds him when he finally manages to stagger down the stairs and into the kitchen. The lights are all far too bright and some of them seem to be making an obnoxious buzzing sound. Even with Texas perched firmly on his nose, his vision slides in and out of focus. He hasn’t had a migraine this bad in years.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” America looks to see what Prussia wants and promptly walks into the counter. Apparently it was actually a good foot in front of where he’d though it was. “Watch the counter.” Prussia’s warning is comically late. If his head and hip wasn’t throbbing quite so much, Alfred would have a snappy comeback to that. “Thing’s got pointy corners.” Gilbert adds as he gently takes Alfred’s arm and guides him to the table.

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.” He snarks, rubbing his hip. His hand is placed on the back of the chair and America lowers himself into it gladly, pillowing his head on his arms and closing his eyes.

“The migraines started already?” Gilbert asks softly. Alfred nods miserably. “Some days’ll be worse than others. How’s your vision?”

“Blurry. Depth perception is shot. ‘m gonna kill these lights soon. Hey… Where’s Matt?”

“Out back, I think. Had to call his boss. He should be back in a moment.” As if on cue, the door opens and closes. Moments later, Matthew comes into the kitchen.

“Oh! Al! I didn’t realize you’d come downstairs.”

“Just got up. My head hurts like crazy.”

“Migraine.” Gilbert supplies. “There’ll probably be some that are worse than this. Eventually.”

“Seriously?” Prussia nods. America groans and flops against the table again. “This sucks.”

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