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countryshitposts · 4 years

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You’re Shooting Your Bullet the Wrong Way

One Night and One More Time, Thanks for the Memories

Trigger Warnings: child abuse, mentions of rape and assault, violence and gore, suicidal thoughts and mentions of a suicide attempt

AO3 Link

First

Name Guide:

Nippon Koku- Japan

Nippon Teikoku- Japan Empire

Ost- East Germany

Osterreich- Austria

It was a rainy day when our first encounter with Him happened. I was silently examining our files for Teikoku, the rain pouring down on our office slowly but surely. I was smoking on a pipe, smoke coming out from it, the curtains drawn as I am plunged into a dark setting-

"Australia!", Kiwi's voice shatters the tone of Aussie's voice, and his brother glares at him. "You weren't smoking a pipe when Britain called us! You don't even smoke a pipe at all!"

"Psh, Kiwi, let me narrate the story since your sheepfucker brain couldn't start one sentence!"

Kiwi looks offended, clutching his heart dramatically. "I am not a sheepfucker, how many times do I have to tell you! Fine then. Go on with how we got a call from Britain!"

The door opens, and I raise my head up from the documents to find my sheepfucker of a brother enter the doors, coffee in one hand and carrying a tired expression on his face. His eyes show as if he didn't sleep for a few days, wrinkles underneath his eyes. I raise a brow as he steps forward and gives me the cup of coffee I've yearned for the entire morning.

"So what's the news?", I ask, puffing up smoke to white billows in the office, and he sighs.

"Nothing", Kiwi replies with a small sigh. "America's been working me off and I really need a break."

I nod agreeably, also releasing an exhausted sigh. We love our sister very much but sometimes... she's overbearing. "Is it about those mafia mobs running around the whole city?"

"Apparently so", Kiwi nods, as I sip on my coffee. "America is getting restless."

"It's because she's the head of the police", I reply, "she has to do a good job y'know."

Kiwi shrugs, "Yeah..."

Suddenly, my phone starts ringing, and I look at the name of the person who called before my heart starts to beat out loud, even louder than the rain pouring.

With a deep breath, I pick up.

"Hi!", the beautiful French accent speaks from the speaker of my phone, and I immediately sigh as the entire world around me becomes as warm as the feeling I am feeling in my heart. I wish I could see her again in real life and not in my phone, but her voice is melodious.

I can feel Kiwi rolling his eyes from in front of me, but I don't care, since I'm talking to Villers, the love of my life, the angel to my heaven, the moon to my sun, the French to my English-

"The 'French to my English'?", Canada mimicks Aussie's voice while the others snicker, and the narrator glares at them.

"Oh shut up", he grumbles, crossing his arms and looking the other way, before smiling mischievously, "you just don't have any girlfriend or boyfriends yet."

America glares at him with malice and envy, the same way she's glared at him when he said he and Villers are a thing; Canada crosses his arms and raises a brow, not really hindered about how Australia keeps taking jabs at their status, while Kiwi rolls his eyes tiredly, already knowing his antics.

"Can you just go back to the story?", Kiwi asks, "or I'll continue it myself."

Australia's eyes flare as he goes back to the main plot.

"Are you done with work?", Villers' sweet voice asks me again, and I find myself smiling stupidly and my heart beating once again, fiddling with my pipe.

"Unfortunately, no", I say dejectedly, looking at the downpour at the windows. I hear her let out a breath of longing that made me want to find her and tell her that I'm free for her, always.

"Alright", she says, sounding despondent and I now want to cuddle her up in the fluffiest of pillows and coziest of blankets, showering her with kisses as my arms envelop around her like a swan. "Tell me if you're free. Au revoir!" She hangs up and I can find myself missing her already, expecting myself to run across the rain towards her home.

"So", I turn back to my brother, "what's the news?"

"Surprisingly, no major news except a few more mobs clashed once again", Kiwi replies in a professional accent, as if he's professional or older. "Like France and Reich had a shootout again. This time Netherlands' mob got into this crossfire."

"Netherlands?", I repeat, "isn't she the mob boss that has a vendetta against us?"

Kiwi shrugs, "Yeah, I guess."

Just then, when lightning streaks the sky and lights up the gray surroundings for a bit, the power in the office turns off, and Kiwi shrieks a womanly shriek while I caress the gun hidden in my coat-

"First of all", Kiwi interjects, a red tinge on his cheeks, "I did not scream; you did. Second, we both don't have our guns at the time, and third you were the one saying we're gonna die."

"Leave it to tell New Zealand the truth", Canada sniggers to America.

"Don't worry Kiwi, I'll save the both of us-", but before I can continue, the lights turn back on and the fan on my desk starts to twirl, as if nothing happened. Then I look onto the wall, and I gasp, almost dropping the gun to the floor.

Because there was something on the wall.

Something written on it with cursive handwriting, as if they had time in the world for such a thing.

It was in crimson red, a message haunting me to this very day,

"The first step is for your love to surprise you, the next is to look at the edge of her dress."

Me and Kiwi glance at each other with wide eyes before going back to inspect the writing on the walls. I approach it while my coward of a brother is shaking and telling me to be cautious, believing it's booby-trapped. I examine the handwriting once again; how can anyone have time to write such a message just seconds after the power went out? I put out a finger and smear the message, blinking once it smudges with the wall.

"It looks like our vandal used lipstick", I mumble before going back to Kiwi, who was silent, meaning he was thinking of something. I reread the message again, still quite confused to what the vandal means.

"I think I know what it means", Kiwi says with realization striking in his glittering eyes. "Maybe we need to plan a surprise party for someone we both love! And then- oh."

"Disgusting!", I bellow, my eyes flaring. "We are not surprising America and checking underneath her skirt!"

"I have no idea who really said that, but I'd beat you both to Sunday if you do that", America pipes up, crossing her arms while glaring at her brothers. "Also, it means wait for your love to surprise you, meaning they'll be the one bringing the note to you."

"Yeah, that's where I was getting at", Aussie replies, "until you manage to interrupt us."

"I don't know", Kiwi says with a thoughtful look in his eyes, staring and examining the message once again, "maybe it's your love, Aussie."

I blink, processing what my brother just said before blushing red and ruffling my brother. "I am not going to look under her skirts Kiwi!"

"You say that but you've been watching her whenever she bends down to pick something up", Kiwi states with an emotionless look in his eyes. "So maybe, just maybe, Villers is going to surprise you."

"Now that's absurd!", my voice slaps, "a message couldn't tell the future!"

"Not if the future is happening now", Kiwi replies ominously, pointing to the windows.

I follow his finger and, there she is, my soon-to-be-wife, engagement ring and all, holding an umbrella over her head while on her other hand she was holding a picnic basket despite the despondent weather. Her beautiful and striking dark eyes roam each window, before meeting my eyes.

My arms go slack and my legs turn to jelly once again, as I hold her loving stare as she smiles warmly.

Not even the rain can get rid of my sunshine.

"I'm just really worried for you, mon amour", Villers says as her arms wrap around me like a loving embrace. "And I was lonely in my home all alone."

"But I'm here now", I say, soothing her nerves like she was doing with me. "You don't have to be lonely."

"I love you", she says softly, and the whole world implodes and creates the Milky Way between the both of us.

I tilt her chin up, our eyes shining bright like diamonds. "I love you too."

I kiss her right then and there, feeling nothing but her body and warm lips on mine, time standing still and not moving on as I can feel the both of us floating, floating to the skies then to the cosmics, no space between us. She runs her hands over my back as she leans in for more, and my hands roam her light hair with my fingers as my hand reaches the edge of her skirt, hearing her gasp as I touch what was beyond her clothing.

"Disgusting", Kiwi says, face souring as his mind replays the scene without his permission, while Aussie looks so enamoured at the fact that he almost had the chance of doing something with his fianceè.

"Please just, censor the explicit scenes, Aussie?", America asks with a sigh.

Then I feel something with my other hand, which had stopped at the edge of her dress. Puzzled, I kiss her deeply once again before letting go, a piece of paper I extracted from her skirts in my hand.

Meanwhile, Villers was still looking dazed and love struck from the touch and kiss we shared, until her eyes land on the card on my hands.

"Did that come from...?" I nod awkwardly, biting my lip as my love's face turns bright red and inspects her dress for more stray particles. "I am so sorry!"

I kiss her forehead reassuringly, "It's fine." I glance at the card again as I read the entirety of the message, still written in the enthralling cursive from the walls.

"Let the birds come to you once you are at the highest peak of The City."

"What?", Kiwi says from behind me; he must've also been reading the message. "What does that mean?"

"I don't even know Kiwi", I reply, rereading the message again. "Maybe it really means what it means?"

Kiwi meets my eyes, "And what does it mean?"

I shrug, my brain coming up empty. "Maybe we need to find the highest peak in this land? Like climbing a mountain and let the birds do the rest?"

Kiwi scoffs as he rolls his eyes at my answer. "And what are they gonna do? Fly us towards our destination? And why a mountain? We're in the middle of a City, Aussie."

"Maybe it means the birds will point us to our next target!", I give out another suggestion. "Or they'll crap on us like the barbaric birds they are and not give us any clue to where or who this message leads to."

"Maybe they're trained", Kiwi muses as my mind launches off to new theories on what this all means.

Perhaps it means that the 'birds' are aeroplanes?, my mind processes, or maybe this is all a big prank from some asshole who think it'd be funny to prank people doing their job...

Meanwhile, Villers was silently reading the message with her big eyes, moving on from how the card got into its destination the first place, before looking at me with those big eyes I get lost in every time. "Well, the messenger said 'highest peak of The City', right? Maybe it means you two have to scale the highest building here."

Me and Kiwi exchange looks, before my face morphs into a huge smile before hugging my beautiful and smart future wife. I shower her forehead with kisses once again, emitting a beautiful laugh from her mouth as she looks at me with joy.

Kiwi's eyes light up, "Maybe that's it! I think we need to scale the tallest building in The City!"

"Which is?" I think for a moment; there are tonnes of tall buildings in this City.

"Deutsche Towers", Villers responds with a breath, and I know what it means- she was reminiscing the times where she had been caught in a crossfire between two rival gangs; mostly against the Deutsches Family. Her eyes had a clouded look, as if controlling those horrid memories surging in her, but I couldn't help but remember how I had saved the girl who would become my future wife. The event was awful, of course, but it made the both of us responsible and more in love with one another.

"Please don't tell me you were going to tell the story of how you met her", America interrupts surly, "because we were there when you both met."

Aussie rolls his eyes, "Okay, okay, I won't. Although the readers might be disappointed at the lack of a love tale."

America blinks, confused, "Readers?”

Aussie ignores the question and continues,

Kiwi breaks the silence by saying, dejectedly, "Looks like we're gonna have to ask those stingy rich upper class men entrance to the Towers, huh?"

I nod with a look of exhaustion on my face, "Yep." I look at Villers once again, "are you coming with us?"

Villers fidgets on her place, looking from left to right then back at me with those beautiful eyes I always see in my dreams. "Maybe it would be better for me as a lookout."

I grin at her, "You bet."

"Oh come on!", I cry out to one of the guards in the area, pacing back and forth until I glare at their faceless beings underneath their uniforms, "you guys are always open!"

"Sir, I understand your confusion", says one of the guards, not breaking out of their stride, "but Mister Reich ordered us not to let anyone onto the top of the building."

"And why?", I pry, raising a demanding brow at the both of them, who both sneak furtive glances before playing stoic guards. "Even his father of all people let strangers into the top of the Towers!"

The guard shakes his head, still straight-faced, but there was a glint of sadness in his eyes. "His father is dearly departed."

Me and Kiwi's eyes widen in shock, and we both know what we were thinking: Deutsches Reich? Dead? Shouldn't this be on the news?

"Shouldn't we know that Deutsches Reich died?", I ask the guards. "Why are we only hearing this now?"

"Because, gentlemen", a new, frigid voice adjourns my and the guard's conversation, and me and my brother turn the other way to find a man with messy blonde curls posing in front of a painting. His dark green eyes stare right into our souls, as if we were the jewels he has been looking for and he has succeeded. He smiles at us in a peculiar manner, as if he was a serial killer finally meeting his target. "I ordered them to keep my father's... tragic death a secret."

Once again, Weimar stares at me, his grin growing larger. I swallow down the feeling that something is very wrong with the man that had once been afraid of his own shadow.

I give him a smile in return (although it was nervous and awkward, and I hope he’d never make eye contact with me again), and saying, “Mister Weimar, please let us pass. And your secret will never reach the public's ears.”

Weimar only smiles as a reply, a breeze sweeping into the room, telling me oh, how wrong I was to even ask him such a pathetic request. He takes a step forward, slow and calculated, as if he is teasing his prey step by step until he jumps to them and gnash his teeth. I try to move backwards, but my feet were stuck in the ground, not cooperating with me.

He was a few inches from my face, lips curled into an off grin, his emerald green eyes a vision of my death. There was a cold and dark air enveloping him while he embraces it with a haunting sigh.

“You’re ordering me?”, he says with gritted teeth, still in a smile that I will not shake off, even in my nightmares. “I’m not your slave. I’m not someone to step on. I’m nothing like him anymore. I’m not that coward you know.”

We have a silent stare off for God knows how long, Weimar poised for the kill as his emerald green eyes glimmer with intent, intent to see my dead body, as Kiwi looks on to the both of us.

“Papa!”, a voice breaks through the air, and the whole room turns to the source; a young boy holding a girl’s hand who resembles him. A taller, older figure stands behind them, grey eyes tracking the room, strawberry blonde curls concealing his eyes before he fiddles with it.

Weimar’s smile slowly loosens as he turns to glare at the newcomers, specifically the elder. His green eyes bore hatred towards the twins’ guardian, but instead of shivering like I am now, he stares back at him with an unreadable expression.

“I told you to keep them confined in their rooms, Österreich”, he says with a slight snarl.

Österreich shrugs, “They wanted to play, Weimar. And who can deny them? I can’t.” He chuckles as West and Ost gossip to each other, naive children in the world.

Weimar scowls at his children, which makes me confused because everyone knows that Weimar loves his children to hell and back. I clear my throat, and once again everyone looks back at me, Weimar’s glare redirected towards me.

“You’re still here?”, he asks, looking at my form, then forming a smile on his face once again. Jesus Christ, I’m a little intimidated by this new Weimar. “Why the rush to go up my towers, dummkopf? Is it to make you feel like you scare me? But I’m not scared of you anymore. Never. Never again will I be scared of gun-wielding hooligans.”

“Please, sir”, Kiwi speaks up, voice small, “we just needed to see something on top of the Towers.”

Weimar stares at him, a grin still plastered across his face like a mask, not saying anything as if he was considering his request. He shrugs playfully, “Well then, since you asked so nicely-” his eyes glint to me for a second, “I will let you to the top of my towers.”

“Oh my god thank you so much Sir!”, Kiwi says with a look of relief.

“But”, his voice is abrupt, static jumping upon static, “you will have to take the stairs.”

My jaw drops, “Wait… are you serious?”

Weimar just smiles in reply, his eyes looking towards the stairs as me and Kiwi stare at it for a bit, before finally noting that he is - indeed - telling us to take the stairs.

So, with our feet raised, we take the first step to heaven. Before that, however, there was something on Weimar’s hand that almost escaped my eyes: a necklace of pearls that I know belonged to his mother.

“Let’s just say that climbing thirty-one floors wasn’t a dream”, Aussie says, sighing, as Kiwi nods. “I’ll skip to only the important details.”

I heave an exhausted sigh as I unbutton my shirt and fan myself with it, while I hear Kiwi panting from behind me and I can’t blame him- we were only three floors high and I feel my lungs starting to collapse underneath the pressure. Once we reach the fourth floor, we both spot Teikoku and Koku lounging around the lounge, hearing them speak, before moving on.

“Jesus this place loves spirals”, Kiwi says between pants as he takes of his silver fern jacket to fan himself with.

“Yep”, I agree, Teikoku and Koku’s voices already fading now-

“Wait”, America interrupts Aussie’s tale, much to his irritation. “Teikoku and Koku were there? Did you hear them say anything?

“Alright, fine, I’ll go back to it”, he says.

[RECORD SCRATCH, FREEZE FRAME, REWIND THREE SECONDS]

“Isn’t that Koku and Teikoku? In Weimar’s building?”, Kiwi points out, voice a soft whisper to not attract their attention.

“Let’s get closer”, I whisper back to him, as we break away from the steps and into close distance with one mafia mob boss and his brother.

Koku was leaning on the sofa, messy dark hair covering one of his grey eyes like he was a popstar emo goth boy model while he checks his phone. Teikoku, on the other hand, was sitting on the sofas with an imperious way, as if he owns the place. He was biting his lip, muttering something in Japanese as he looks around with his crimson red eyes, searching for someone.

Koku spots him impulsively sitting on his ‘throne’ and sighs, “Look, I knew this was going to be a bad idea.”

Teikoku’s piercing gaze redirects to Koku, “You don’t have a say in this matter, okosama.”

Koku’s eyes flare up in anger at the last word, “I’m not a child, Teikoku. If anyone’s the ‘child’ here, it’d be the girl you’re forcing ME to marry!”

I blink, not knowing that Koku would have the courage to even look at his brother with anger in his eyes, but Teikoku abruptly stands from his seat, looking forward to murder someone with his words. “You dare talk back to me?” His shadow looms over Koku, whose eyes are now tinged with fear and regret for speaking up against his brother. Before Koku opens his mouth once again to answer that no, he wasn’t disrespecting him, Teikoku pins him to the wall with a sound resonating from it.

“Were you questioning my authority?”, he seethes, his fingers digging deep into Koku’s skull, who was looking choked and suffocated.

I was watching this with an ignited fury in me, I raise from my hiding place before Kiwi pulls me back down, shaking his head. We only came here for one thing and it was to know who was sending us these messages.

“At last”, I breathe, fresh and moist air from rain colliding with my face like a soft blanket. “We’re free!”

“And look!”, Kiwi points at something on the dark grey skies, “a flock of birds are coming!”

I glance up in the sky, and Kiwi was right: dark-colored specs were dancing across the sky, growing larger and larger, until they were above us. I let out a gasp of joy as I see what kind of birds they were: robins, with one of them having a slip of paper in its beak, opening it and letting the slip of paper drop into my open palm, before pivoting to one corner and soaring to the direction in where they came from, with Kiwi waving back at them.

Meanwhile, I was already reading the slip of paper:

“The trains might show you the way, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to get on it, because the houses near the railways are watching you. Be smart and follow the signs.”

“Okay, now this is bullshit”, I say, back in my office, as Kiwi paces back and forth, muttering possible interpretations of the messages.

“Maybe the signs mean the train station signs?”, I can hear one of his murmurs, “And the ‘houses near the railways’ watching us are just other mob bosses… maybe.”

Meanwhile, Villers was snacking on one of the foods she brought in her picnic basket, also lost in thought. I siddle up next to her and she cozies herself on my body, and we both share warmth.

“So”, I whisper, lips on her ear, making her shudder as she holds on to me, “what are you thinking, hm?”

“À propos de vous, bien sûr”, she whispers, red lips staining my face, her voice making my insides heated and red. “And the message to help you too.”

“Of course, but first…” I kiss her once again, exploring the caves of her mouth, her arms swinging around my neck as I hoist her up to sit on my lap, my hands roaming every single part of her body, loving the way she gasps and shudders once I touch what was meant to be sacred, my arousal growing-

“Australia!”, America says, glaring at Aussie, “I said censor the inappropriate parts! That wasn’t appropriate!”

“Alright alright!”, Aussie says, arms up in surrender, “I’m just going to continue…”

“I get it now!”, Villers says as she reads the message once again, “the trains won’t give us the signs, the sender of these messages is going to be the one giving us! But we still have to watch out for the houses near the railways, maybe they’ll give us a hard time getting to our destination.”

“Alright”, I say, getting up, “let’s not waste anymore time and meet our sender.”

“We wasted time”, Kiwi deadpans as he tries to struggle against his binds, glaring up at Belgium, his captor. Me and Villers, on the other hand, were tied up together by Luxembourg, who wasn’t looking at us and was rather looking at his reflection in the mirror, rambling about how he won’t look ‘pleasant’ in his date.

“Mon Dieu, Luxembourg”, Belgium spits at his direction and he scowls right back at his sister, “quit your egotistical self-care routine and help me take these klootzakken to Moeder!”

Luxembourg glances away from his mirror and replies, “Fine, fine, whatever.” He pushes me and Villers away from the railways, and we hear a train coming into the tracks like it was nothing. I hold Villers’ hand when we finally felt our touch next to each other, our pulses becoming one as our heartbeats only call for each other. I fell in love with the right woman, and she fell in love with the wrong man.

We were forced to follow Netherlands’ kids into their hideout, their men looking at us with dark eyes full of intent, and I see some of them staring and sneering maliciously towards my love, and I glare back at them. One wrong move, my eyes say, there will be a bullet through all of your heads. No one will touch my wife the wrong way, no one.

“Op je knieën!”, Lux orders, voice hard and low, and we all follow because we are not sparing a bullet in our heads. I can feel Villers shivering and fearing her death, and I soothe her by rubbing discreet and unseen circles on her back.

“Moeder”, Belgium says as she approaches a swivel chair, concealed by the dark, but I can see smoke forming, and a pale hand holding the cigarette with two fingers. “We hebben Britse zonen gevangen genomen.”

“Ik kan dat België zien”, comes her mother’s reply, a voice of reason and peace, yet I’m not feeling peaceful now. She turns around to face us, blonde hair and stormy grey eyes highlighted into the dark room, and her two kids stand right beside her, her lieges in battle.

“So”, she speaks once again, puffing out more smoke, but I can see her arms shaking and eyes looking as if she had too much cannabis to snort. “Looking for the bastard, hm?”

I sigh, signalling the start of a fight with her once again, “Netherlands, we aren’t here to fight. And who’s to say we were looking for our Dad who left us to our devices?”

It’s not like my dad would come back for me, though, a horrible thought enters my mind, as I stare at the ground once again, feeling Villers’ body warming me.

Netherlands laughs, her voice unstable and shaking for some reason, as if there was a quake happening on her seat. “You boys are idioten if you don’t believe your father isn’t the one sending you messages.”

“He’s the one… sending the clues to us?”, I ask, disbelief evident in my face, a cold feeling now lying in me. “But why? He left us!”

“Oh ik weet het niet!”, Netherlands says exaggerated, throwing her arms up as she shoves her now dim-lit cigarette into Luxembourg’s hands, who was busily checking his hair for stray strands in his reflection.

Kiwi sighs, and I hear him slip into his native language, “Ka patu ahau ki a ratou.” I remembered that back in the old days when we were still living under Britain, he had taught himself how to read, write, and speak Maori, in which Britain retaliated by burning his books and hitting him repeatedly. I can’t ever get it over with.

“Mom, why do we have them?”, Luxembourg asks as he fixes his dark blonde curls, “we don’t care about them anymore, don’t we?”

Suddenly, Netherlands’ hazy grey eyes respond with fear, as she grips onto her chair even more. “Because he needs them.”

“‘He?’”, I repeat, “who’s he?”

Netherlands didn’t reply, and only stared into the distance, before her gaze hardens once again as she looks back at us with hatred.

“Luxembourg, take them to the cells”, she says, and with one pause from Lux, he nods before pulling at our binds. “Belgium, stay here while I go check outside.”

Belgium looks at her mother, bewildered by her sudden anxiety and paranoia. “But… why?”

Netherlands glares back at her, “You know why.”

Belgium’s face clouds over as she nods, disappearing into the curtains behind the throne. I didn’t really have a say in anything, since I was literally being pulled into a stinking cell, but then I feel the tight binds around us loosen, as if someone had snipped it all away.

“Alright, you’re free to go”, Luxembourg says with a huge flirtatious smile on his face, not at me and Villers but at Kiwi, who was grinning back at him as well, but there was fear in his dark blue eyes. I catch his stare and he looks back at me, eyes screaming HELP before smirking back at Lux, meeting his seductive gaze.

“So, when are you free?”, Kiwi asks in the least awkward voice he could muster.

“Eight on Saturday, lieveling”, Lux says as he kisses Kiwi on the cheek before stalking off, “also, secret exit’s that way.” He points to the right, an open door waiting for us. Then he meets Kiwi’s eyes again, seemingly never moving on from New Zealand’s body. “And I assure you that I’d bring my ‘lucky ring’.” He winks at Kiwi before stalking off and leaving us to our own devices.

“Are you saying our baby brother here bribed to be freed by asking Lux out on a date?”, America guffaws, and Canada snickers. Meanwhile, Aussie was smirking triumphantly and New Zealand was blushing red.

“How was the date with Lux, though?”, Canada asks Kiwi, leaning in, “was it good?”

“B-better than a one-night stand”, he says as he looks back at Canada, who raises a brow at his defiance. His eyes target America’s. “Better than the guys you had tried to do.”

Aussie clears his throat, already wanting to get back to his story since he can feel everyone’s eyes on each other,

“So what’re the signs Britain left for us?”, I ask, huffing a breath as a gust of cold air whispers strange sounds into my ear, knowing all about my damned desires. My eyes were roaming anywhere near the trains, reading the signs with my eyes but there was nothing outstanding with them. “I don’t see anything.”

“What if it’s going to come to us?”, Villers hypothesizes once again, a thoughtful look on her face. “What if Britain himself is going to be the one to deliver perhaps the final message to us, hinting on where to go first?”

Kiwi adds on to this, “Maybe you’re right, since it’s almost sundown.”

“We wait”, I say, nodding, looking towards the sky with wonder. When I was a young boy, me and my siblings would watch the sun set, pink, orange, purple and blue colliding with each other in perfect harmony to create a web of colours that would turn the sky to a massive garden of them. I feel Villers once again pressing into me, hands brushing mine before we both clasp our hands together, the great warmth surging towards us.

We wait.

Then we wait for some more, the pink and orange fading and giving into the dark blue and purple, the last traces of the sun dying out and giving way for dusk to transition to night.

The stars appear, one by one, signalling the reign of the moon is supreme for the night, no more, no less. Some were even free falling from the evening sky like they were tears being washed away by Nyx herself, as if they didn’t belong to hers, just insignificant tiny dots in the sky.

Insignificant like me.

But those falling stars were replaced by brand new rising stars, only they were bigger, then I realize they weren’t stars at all: they were fireworks.

Maybe this was Britain’s final message.

Or maybe this was just a fireworks display.

Then the fireworks, with its whistling and popping, starts to form words, and my eyes flare like the firecrackers Britain is firing.

“One last message to you all; meet a man with auburn hair with a black car… he will find you for me.”

“Olá”, a new voice, deep yet soothing sounds behind us, and we see a man with auburn hair and a single green eye, his other eye concealed with an eye patch. He smiles at us like a father would, “meu nome é Portugal, and I’m here to escort you all to your pai.”

It was a silent car ride, none of us really talking while Portugal was humming to the music in the radio. I, however, did not enjoy silent car rides, and so I ask the first question in my head.

“So, what are you to Dad? Are you his personal butler, slave, friend-”

“I’m his boyfriend”, Portugal says, face now clouded with dreams as his eye fogs over. Kiwi and I widen our eyes, giving each other glances of shock. Our father, who smacked Canada twice for being caught in bed with boys, is now in love with a man as well?

“I don’t understand”, I say- there was something wrong with me, there was something wrong with my insides as they give me memories of an awful father who would train his children to become master assassins, who is merciless with the gun and hands, whose judgement is never for us.

Portugal looks back at me in the rear view mirror, face full of pity, but I don’t want that pity. I don’t need that.

“We were rivals, you see”, he says in a soft voice, but it still had a paternal instinct hidden within. “When he escaped from your City and went into ours, he ransacked towns and almost risked me and my men from his hands. And then, only when we met in a civil manner, did we actually learn to like each other, then love each other. Some say it was a bond of best friends and, well… they weren’t wrong.”

“What did Dad do after he escaped from jail, aside from meeting you and ransacking cities and endangering mobs?”, I can feel my throat straining, as if the world doesn’t want me to not display my weaknesses out in the open.

“Well, he created a brand new company on his own, which impressed me”, Portugal replies, “well, not really, perhaps; he robbed his own money from the company he used to own.”

“Ah”, Kiwi deadpans, “no wonder all that money Dad supposedly ‘left’ to us suddenly disappeared one day.”

“He also aspired to be a musician”, Portugal muses, “always rambling on about his song ideas to me, and even learning how to play some instruments himself.”

I have no more questions left in me, my body going slack, the day draining me as we come nearer to the home of the man who is supposedly dead.

Or maybe I’m dead, and he was alive.

Canada frowns, “What’s with the self-deprecating comments, Aussie?”

“Self-deprecation? Me?”, Aussie scoffs, shaking his head. “You all need to know about sarcasm and how it saves a story from disruption.

Meanwhile, Kiwi was looking his way, knowing what was about to come and the sudden change in his brother’s demeanor.

We follow Portugal into the hallways, seeing dozens of sculptures staring at us, knowing what our fates were. Villers’ hand tangles with mine, and I love her every second we were here, accompanying me once we are faced with the ghosts of the past, the ghost of Britain becoming physical from my deepest nightmares, toying with me once again.

“It’s okay, je suis là”, she says in a soothing voice, and I wanted her to caress me one more time. “vous êtes si courageux.”

“But I’m not as brave as you”, I tell her softly, cupping her cheeks, “and I’m now paying the price for it.”

“No, stop saying that”, she bites, “you will always be my loving and brave husband.”

I can feel tears touching my eyes, and I try concealing them in the moonlight. “Je t'aime tellement.”

She kisses my forehead. “Je t'aime aussi.”

Portugal stops behind an ominous-looking door, and my brain forced me to recall the days I spent looking at my father’s door with fear, when I was a small child, afraid of my father, and even now I still am, because I am a coward.

“Beyond this door is your father”, he says, staring straight into my soul. “And I wish you good luck.” He leaves us in front of the door, its mahogany woods waiting for our demise.

As the eldest and the one who knew my dad well out of the three, I softly knock on the door a few times, before entering.

The entire room was surprisingly dim-lit, a lamp on a bedside table, as we were face-to-face with a desk, swivel chair behind it.

“We finally meet”, a clear voice says from behind the desk. “After a decade of waiting.”

I swallow the creeping fear in my stomach: I’m not the same person anymore. He’s not the same. We are both older and wiser, as the sayings go.

“It’s nice to meet you again, Dad”, I say, and he turns his chair around, ashen face and light blonde hair disturbed by white strands, his lips curled into a smile. He was stroking a pet corgi, who was comfortably seated and sleeping on his lap. He was wearing a business suit, shoes and all, as his dark blue eyes glinted back at me with a look of rejoice. “And you’re old.”

The smile on Dad’s face fades, replaced with a look of indignance, and I already regret the words coming out from my mouth. “After ten years of not seeing each other again, those are the words you speak to me?”

Kiwi muffles a laughter in his jacket, and Villers elbows me because I was being rude to my own father.

“E Tama, pai ki te kite ano koe”, Kiwi says to Dad in Maori, perhaps to spite him, but Britain gives him a wide smile in return.

“I missed you.” Kiwi blinks; I too expected Dad to scowl at the language, but he didn’t and only looked as if he treasured us.

Then he glances at Villers, who was hiding behind me and looking at her (unfortunately) future father-in-law with shyness. “And congratulations, my dear, you scored a keeper.” I blink at Dad, puzzled as to why he approved of our relationship. When I came home holding an unconscious girl’s body, he had almost shot me in the head.

She blushes hard, looking at me with desire in her eyes, but Dad wasn’t done yet, as his expression morphs into a thoughtful one.

“Although I am quite disappointed with your moves, son”, he tells me, and I can’t help but blink in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen the moves you’ve done on Villers and, quite frankly, I am not impressed.”

“Wh-what moves?”

“All of the messages contain hidden cameras, and I manage to catch quite a scenery in your office.” His eyes glance at me, then back at Villers, as realization strikes within me.

“You… oh my god…” My cheeks colour red as Villers hides behind me even more, quite embarrassed and who can blame her?

“Awkward”, Kiwi mutters underneath his breath, also having second-hand embarrassment.

“Now, I think you are all hungry?”

“Not much after you told me you installed cameras in your messages.”

“So you wish to sleep now?”

I look at Villers, her eyes drooping slightly, trying to stay awake, then at Kiwi, who was staring exhaustedly into the night. Even me, always so full of energy, need time for beauty sleep.

“Yeah.”

Luckily enough, my Dad decided to give me and Villers the furthest guest room, away from most people. Villers was nuzzling against my chest, her breaths giving me warmth, her touch comforting me. I hold her, treasuring the greatest gift of all time. I can't sleep since my mind is plagued with questions. And thoughts about how this will all end.

“You’re scared”, Villers whispers into my chest, and I sigh and kiss her forehead.

“I’m not.” I look into her eyes, the entire galaxy waiting for me. “Believe me.”

She sighs, turning away to face the dim walls, “I still remember waking up in your room, covered in bandages. I was scared and helpless, and when I saw you I thought you were going to… well…”

“I know”, I reply, “I could see it in your eyes. But I can’t blame you.”

“But here we are”, she whispers, “lovers in your father’s house.”

She looks at me once again before leaning up to kiss me, and I kiss her back, levelling her with myself, arms going around with each other’s waists and neck. I can feel lust and desire pooling in me now, wanting to tear that beautiful dress she was wearing to pieces and biting her skin to claim her as mine, mine, mine. I enter my tongue into her mouth, tasting how sweet and warm her insides are, loving every noises she makes as she clings tighter to me. I can once again feel my arousal growing, as I kiss the woman of my dreams more, deeper and deeper, and I untie the laces of her dress, not taking it anymore. I flip her on her back as I unbuckle my belt, kissing her once again.

“Guys, if only you would’ve kept it down I’d have slept peacefully”, a voice wakes the both of us up, and I immediately cover a naked Villers with the sheets. Problem is is that I don’t have anything covering me anymore. Kiwi covers his eyes, “Jesus Christ Aussie, put some clothes on!” I retaliate by covering my region with a pillow and scowling sleepily at my younger brother.

“What’s up, Kiwi?”, I ask civilly. “Or you just want to humiliate your brother?”

“You know ‘what’s up’? Your dick last night”, Kiwi sits down on a chair next to the bed. “Anyway, breakfast is downstairs, me and Dad are going to head out.”

I sit up, still handling the pillow, “Wait what? Why?”

“He said he was going to show me something”, Kiwi shrugs, “also once he’s done showing me something he has something to tell you.”

I nod, “Alright. See you later then.”

I watch as he walks out the door, giving me a cursory glance.

“I’ll tell the rest of the story”, Kiwi volunteers, looking at Australia, who nods approvingly.

As New Zealand closes the door from the nightmare he had just seen, he exhales- there is nothing in this entire world that could comfort him now. Sometimes his mind would wander back to the days when everything was large, tall, and cruel to him, back to the days the eyes glaring down at him could burn him alive, but he cannot scream as he is on thin ice, mouth always shut, mind and body subservient to his father.

Then again, he cannot fight his own father back in his days of youth- all he had to do was to survive and do as he says, only a machine in his eyes, not a child with feelings.

He looks at his hands: back then he had held a gun with his grubby and soft little hands, only supposed to hold dirt and toys and nothing as heavy as metal upon metal. He remembers Britain’s dark blue eyes watching him, daggers piercing his small heart as he gulps and tries shooting his target.

Kiwi puts his hands in his pockets like he was hiding something, something important… but the only thing he is hiding is his fear for his father.

He hears his father’s bedroom door closing behind him, and he glances at Britain buttoning his coat up, and he smiles at Kiwi; such a rare feat back at home, when he only smiles at them during formal events but it is strained, forced, plastic, like he was swimming in the oceans full of contaminated waters and garbage, struggling to find the beauty in it.

“Well then, let’s not waste any time”, Britain says, fixing his blonde locks and puts on a cap on his head. “Let’s go meet someone.”

Kiwi blinks, “Who?”

Britain watches him, eyes full of memory of ghosts beyond, “Your mother.”

Kiwi freezes, staring ahead before swivelling to face his father, who was still lost in thought and memories. It was a familiar gaze, one that Kiwi always sees in his father’s face whenever he thinks he was alone, perched on his small yet intricate table in the gardens, gripping his tea cup so hard Kiwi had feared he will break it and the hot liquid inside of it will drip down to his clothes to scald him.

“You told me my mother was gone”, Kiwi answers, voice strained with emotion, bundles of ropes tying him up, mind clouding over with questions of the ghosts of the past.

“Gone”, Britain repeats, voice also full of reminiscing. “Not dead, my son. And it is time for you to meet her.”

Kiwi can feel his heart beating even more, as he can finally meet the half of his heart, the mystery unraveled like the curtains of a stage part for him to see the entire play that is Britain’s life, from start to finish.

The car ride was silent; only hearing the tires rolling on the road, talking and whispering in a heated conversation. Kiwi was looking out towards the window, but he can feel Britain’s gaze on him, as he drives, making him uncomfortable. The world was moving backwards as they move forward to find their destination, a finale to all. The sun was fighting against the dark clouds huddled around the corner, trying to conquer and annex all souls.

“One day, the sun will die”, Britain muses as he goes back to focusing on the road. “And when that day comes everyone will rejoice.”

“Why would people rejoice when their only life source of energy dies?”, Kiwi asks.

“Not that sun, my boy.” The message was so ominous that Kiwi reminds himself to keep his mouth shut.

Yes, this car ride is as tense and silent as the House at Number 63.

Britain parks the car just below the sweltering heat of the sun, always there, always watching their every move, the giant orb just a giant eye to monitor their every movement. Sometimes Kiwi can see crimson red tinges on it, as if the flares of the sun is its blood and it runs from its veins. Kiwi takes off his jacket to tie it upon his waist, and follows his father who did not wait for him to prepare and was already walking forward like a man who has lost his way.

“Who is my mother?”, Kiwi asks sharply and tentatively, still scared that Britain will reply with a sharp tongue. He levels his steps as he catches up with his father, eyes ahead, shielded with distraction, memories, and the foggy resistance. He was clutching his cane tightly, knuckles turning white, as if he was going through all of the horrible memories and the deepest roots of his nightmares.

“Your mother”, he mutters, “was a woman I wronged a long time ago.”

“What did you do to her? What happened to my mother after I was born?” Kiwi can feel himself becoming even more nervous as the near the establishment Britain claims his mother is working in.

Britain suddenly whirls to him, eyes shining, “You must understand; she was the best of the best, the one who caught my heart too much and she wouldn’t let go. Not even when I vanish every so often. I loved her too much, and you were the product of it.”

Kiwi blinks, not even comprehending what his father is saying and why he must care. “But who is she?”

“A woman who can fight, a woman who had many moves to keep me away from her, until I gained the upper hand…”, he opens the door to the buildings, and Kiwi finds himself face to face with cold metal walls, and the creaking and sliding of other entrances. He can feel himself becoming even more curious, wanting to scream his questions at Britain and deafen his hearing in the process. Oh how much he had wanted to talk of his ills about the man who left him, long ago.

They walk in a straight direction, and Kiwi can hear the growth of voices from a room. He watches his father, who was clasping his palms, lips curling into a thin line as the voices grow louder. They stop near a door, Britain in the position to open them, but he stays to stare at Kiwi with a look of longing.

“Your mother was the famous stuntman, Maori.”

He opens the door, as if he was showing Kiwi the way to the secret garden but instead he is pushed into a set full of movie directors, producers, actors and backdrops onstage. Sometimes he would be puzzled at the fact that the scenes in each movie were not real; that they were made up from blood, sweat and tears of the writers and directors and actors, figments of imagination becoming real with the trick of programs and computers.

It was as if they can fabricate the existence of these characters, that they have the knowledge to exist in the same world as Kiwi does, that they can be touched and they can have the power to exist.

In the end, they are fiction; not real.

While Kiwi was busily making paragraphs and paragraphs of sentences, Britain was talking to one of the producers of the set.

“Miss Maori, our financer needs ya!”, the producer calls out to a woman near the stage, sitting with a group of actors, laughing at their own joke before her smile immediately falls at the sight of Britain, standing so casually like he had done no crime against the woman.

She abruptly stands, excusing herself from her friends as she approaches Britain and New Zealand with a surly expression on her face. Her stance looks as if she was prepared to kick Britain in his most sensitive spot, and they come face to face, with Maori’s arms crossed and Britain giving her a casual expression.

“You may be our financer, Peretana”, Maori says in a slow, calculated voice, narrowed eyes trying to see through Britain’s relaxed aura, “but that doesn’t mean I’m bound to respect you.”

“Yes yes, we all know what you think of me”, Britain yawns, “but I am not here for you.”

Maori scoffs, raising a brow, “Oh? Then why call me?”

“Because”, Britain pushes Kiwi into Maori’s view, and her eyes turn to him. He awkwardly smiles and waves at the stunt woman, “this is our son, New Zealand.”

Maori blinks for a moment, taking her time surveying the boy in front of her, of how he can be her son, when all he had are flabby limbs and nothing resembling the woman in front of him, the woman that he was always so keen to solve, the woman that is the half of her heart. She glares at Britain once she is done scrutinizing Kiwi.

“This prepubescent boy isn’t our son”, she spits acidly, “You’re trying to trick me again!”

Britain stares at her, unaffected by her sniping, “He is our son, Maori, believe it or not. And he’s twenty also, believe it or not.”

“He can’t be my son!”, she snarls at Britain, her eyes kindling fire, “He looks nothing like me! Nothing! Nothing! You’re playing me for fools! You think you can fool me once again? No! Never!”

Kiwi can now see tears forming in her eyes, as her body starts to shake, glaring at Britain with hatred and disgust in her eyes. He swallows his fire against Britain; if he has things to say to the man who claims to be his father, he lets his mother go first. He now has a sudden desire to pull his mother in a hug, hoping that maybe it can calm her down.

So he does, feeling the shock of the older woman, her quivers starting to weaken before they immediately halt, an earthquake stopped by a force that shares her own magnitude. Maori lets out a gasp of surprise, but she returns his embrace, and for the first time in his life, he feels the love of a parent that would cherish, nurture and love him for the rest of his life, something he had wished for when he was little.

Maori break their embrace to cup Kiwi’s cheek, a sad smile on her face, “Ko taku tama… ko koe taku tama.”

“Whaea”, Kiwi chokes out, remembering the words he used to practice to spite his father, “Kei te aroha ahau ki a koe.”

Maori chuckles as the tears come rushing down from her cheeks, “I love you too, Aotearoa.”

They embrace once again, mother and son reunited.

Canada sniffles as he wipes stray tears from his face, obviously quite affected from the story. Kiwi’s face seemed to cloud once again with memories, as America looked quite expressionless but there was something in her eyes. However, Australia was the only one that was not in the mood for this sob story to end, as he had one to tell. He can feel himself shaking, tapping his fingers into the table in a brisk way, eyes darting from left to right, his heart pumping and his voice becoming tangled all of a sudden.

Then his mind screams out to him.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair that Kiwi can see his mom again when he can’t.

It isn’t fair that he can talk to his mother while he is stuck with a picture and a worthless father.

It isn’t fair that he has nothing to question anymore.

It isn’t fair Australia is alive and his mother is-

Australia instantaneously stands up from his chair, perturbing his siblings.

“Aussie?”, America queries, making a motion to stand, “what’s wrong?”

Australia doesn’t answer, only looking straight ahead, at the mirror, and he makes notes of his appearance; ginger hair, freckles that look like stars across the evening sky, dark blue eyes… he trembles, realizing how much he stole from his mother, how she could’ve been alive if he didn’t exist. He gulps, as he turns and runs out the room.

“Australia!”, America calls out, standing up and moving to follow her brother but Kiwi pulls her down, “Kiwi, let me go!”

“Look America”, Kiwi says calmly and professionally, “now isn’t the time for being the hero who comforts the victim; he needs some time to himself after what Britain told him.”

America lets out a breath, “What did Dad tell him?”

Kiwi meets her eyes, serious, stern and slow, “His mother.”

While New Zealand was busily spending time catching up with his dear mother, Australia and Villers were strolling through Britain’s gardens, hand-in-hand, humming tunes to keep each other company. It was a serene scenery, untouched by the war going inside of Australia’s head, as a bullet collides with his skull. One question was swirling around his mind,

What did Britain want to tell him?

Australia lets out a deep breath as he picks a rose from one of the rose bushes, carefully ignoring the thorns because he knows they can penetrate through his skin like a dozen ants trying to bite him. He puts the crimson red rose on Villers’ dark hair, and she blushes profusely, kissing him on the cheek, and he chuckles.

Her legs buckle from underneath her and he acts as her railway, letting her lean into him, strawberry perfume entrancing the man next to her.

“Did I hurt you?”, he asks softy.

“I’m fine”, she replies, “I just didn’t know you had that much pent up frustration last night.”

Australia weakly chuckles, “I’m sorry.”

Villers softly laughs, the sound of the angels from above having a choir in the gardens, the light of the moon shining once more.

Australia kisses her softly, lips on lips, never getting enough of her essence. She sighs a little, closing her eyes as she let him overtake their movements as he presses her up in one of the pillars, slipping his hand from underneath her skirt and undergarments, hearing her gasp once again, her skin growing warm as he steadily enters her with his fingers.

As they were in their moment of passion, they fail to notice a newcomer to the gardens, until he makes his presence known to all.

“Australia, my boy”, the newcomer states, and Australia and Villers squeal in surprise as Australia releases Villers from his grip and exits her, wiping his wet fingers on his shirt, as Villers covers her face with Australia’s discarded coat.

“Dad”, Australia says with a breathy tone, his tone breathy. “What is it?”

“I have something to confess.” There was something in his tone, his tone that sounds quite regretful and remorseful, as if thousands of sins he had kept in a vault are now wishing to be unleashed to thousands. He turns his back to the couple, then glances at Australia again with a saddened look in his eyes, “Come with me, son.”

Australia and Villers share a look, and she nods, supporting him from afar. If she cannot come with him, she shall be in his dreams. He nods towards Britain, and he follows him inside of his home.

“What do you want to tell me, dad?”, he asks, hands on his pockets, trying to break the heavy air around the two of them.

“Your mother”, his father replies, not giving him eye contact. “How we met and how you were born.”

Australia tilts his head, unsure of the fact why Britain thinks ‘how’ he was born was special enough for it to get a segment. He had known one thing and it is that Britain had never liked his appearance ever since his youth. He had always thought he looked more like his mother whenever Britain glared at him with those hateful eyes.

“Who was my mother?”, he asks, staring down at the floors, dreading the answer.

“A lady”, he replies, “a wonderful lady I decided to taint.”

A sense of dread starts to form inside of Australia, “What happened to her?”

“It was my fault, Australia, not hers”, Britain chokes a little, eyes shining with tears, as they stop walking. He was holding Australia’s shoulders now, staggering to meet his height now that he was old and miserable and Australia is not the boy he used to be anymore. He is not afraid of his towering father anymore, since he towers before this miserable man now.

“What did you do?”, Australia hisses softly, clutching his chest as he can feel his heart hammering to be freed from his grasp. “What did you do to her?”

Britain swallows, getting ready to tell a tale that Aussie knows will be full of sorrow and heartache. “She was one of those young ladies down in the streets, believing in the naive concept of true love. I, of course, caught her eye; a strapping young lad strutting through the streets like he owned the place. Truly, she thinks, I am her soulmate.” He meets Australia’s eyes once again, haunted and hollow.

“But there is a consequence to loving me.”

He continues, his heart in these winding speeches, “Yes, we interacted more and more, from small greetings then to conversations, and then we were kissing in the rain like it was nothing and then we were being passionate under the sheets. I had taken advantage of her emotions so easily, that I started to unravel her, no remorse whatsoever. I even planned to marry her! Can you believe that, my boy? I wanted to marry this woman who is unaware of my wrongdoings, who loved me for one layer and that layer only.”

“Of course, I ruined her life one day. Netherlands had me good; she had wounded me in several ways, and wounded me in my heart.”

“Why? What did Netherlands do to you? She’d always had a vendetta against us. And you.”

Britain lets out a shaky breath, looking towards Australia as he did with America: cautious, and all the more critical of her movements. “Because Netherlands was America’s mother.”

“What the fuck?”, America says in the present time, her eyes wild and now clear with translucent tears. “Netherlands… the woman who tried to kill me over and over again… is my mom?” She laughs a little, thinking it would lighten the situation but instead it causes the atmosphere of the entire room to sour. She wipes away the tears on her face (either she got it from crying a while or from forcing herself to laugh). “This has got to be a joke… is it?” She tentatively looks at New Zealand, but his face still hasn’t changed.

America’s plastered smile cracks and falls, as she now realizes that the person who she had hated from the first years of her life was her mother all along. America sits down quietly, biting her lip, as Canada puts a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

Britain continues, his tone becoming even more regretful as they enter his room. Nothing much has changed the last time they were in there, but it was as if the ghosts of Past, Present and Future had swept around the place like a cyclone, their claws turning the Old to New, the New to Old, the old memories that had evaporated from every crevice of the mind comes to haunt everything. The entire room was made to look like his father’s old room, but there was now a spam of picture frames everywhere, and portraits and documents that Australia knows belongs to the past. Britain walks towards his bed, taking a picture frame from the top of his drawers and offering it to Australia.

Australia stares at the photo, vintage and all, of a woman with ginger hair, her freckles spread against her light skin as she smiles into the photo, her hands clasping a small necklace. She was wearing a white, frilly dress, and a sun hat covering most of her head. Her eyes were as green as the grass Australia used to roll on in his youth, her smile rivalling the light of the sun, and her hair as bright as fire. He gingerly touches the photo once again, feeling the glass of the frame, cold and hard, but he wishes for arms to wrap around him, for sweet words to whisper in his ear, for someone to love him.

In the end, it was just a photo of a woman who might have lived a long time ago, who was once real, but now just a figment of imagination. Just a figment of reality that died out and the only thing left was her presence in records and photos.

“She looks a lot like me…”, Australia mutters to himself, staring at the photo with eyes shining, “I look a lot like her…”

“However, her love for me seemed to fade away, over the years.” Britain’s eyes were on the photo of the woman, brilliant and bright, as if not believing that this joyful woman was one of his loves. “Someone had tried to kill her- I saved her but she was not the same ever since, paranoid and never leaving my side. I have had enough of her fear of the unknown; leaving her in our home unattended to come to work, pulling a gun towards her when she comes close, and incessantly never giving her the attention she needed, in hoping she can ‘cope’ herself. Alas, those were horrible ideas, and she spiralled further into insanity.”

“I threatened to leave her if she doesn’t get her act together, and she pleaded with me to stay, no matter how many awful women I’ve slept with, no matter how many times I insulted her and no matter how much I loathed the idea of being with her. So I gave her one condition: she needs to pay me fees for protection, or I’ll put her head on a pike.”

Australia’s eyes dilate for a moment, shaking his head as his hands shake when he stares back at the woman in the photo, years before someone broke her. Years before Britain broke her and crushed her life and sanity to pieces. She is not real anymore; but perhaps her memory is real. He can feel something within him, a pool of lava waiting to burst, but he waits for the right time, letting Britain drone on with the atrocities he’d done to his mother.

“So she works hard, day and night, to keep me by her side, desperately trying to keep me by her side, forever and ever. I took pleasure in seeing her be tortured to death. So I decided to toy with her even more, making her my slave now and for the rest of her life, as she comes in and out of my room, looking utterly more miserable and empty and haunted every time she closes the door. And then one day she comes to me with panicked eyes, handling her stomach, and she confesses to me that she is pregnant and asks me what she should do. I slapped her hard on the face, shouting at her that it was her own fault she had gotten pregnant. So I made her keep the baby; I made her keep you.”

Now the only thing Australia wants to unleash on Britain was the bile working its way up its throat, no way back, but he gulps it down, feeling acid burn his throat and chest. He keeps quiet, eyes still on the picture of his mother.

“She loved me too much”, Britain shakes his head with a small sigh, putting an arm on Australia’s shoulder but his son slaps it away. If Britain was going to comment, he had nothing to say. “So she had you in a night full of stars, almost covering the entire dark sky. Her screams had delighted me back then… sweet and beautiful and all the more melodious. And then you were born, with your ginger curls and skin dotted with freckles like your mother once had, and I knew I would love you.” Britain smiles a little at the ‘happy’ memory, but there was nothing happy about that. Then just like fire burning all too quickly, his smile fades. “Then the day after you were born, your mother killed herself. It seems that she did not want you.”

A teardrop lands on Australia’s mother’s face, as he himself can feel the overwhelming and overbearing sadness his own mother had felt through the remainder of her years. The lava that was over pouring has been replaced by a dark and stormy cloud enveloping his body. Australia shakes, his eyes shining more with tears and he tries not to blink so he could not release such overwhelming emotion. There were too many spurs of emotion inside him, different types of fire kindling and lighting up to try and out flame the other. His vision blurs, and maybe it was not from the tears but from the fact his reality has now shattered into the darkest of places.

Britain’s eyes shine with tears as well, staring ahead, brimming with shame and the wish to repent what he had done. “Maybe that is why I had hit you and insulted you from the very first years of your life… because you looked too much like her and my guilt cannot bear it.”

A memory clicks inside of Australia; when he had asked his father who his mother was, all giddy and excited since he wanted to tell his classmates of his mother. Instead of giving his son a clear answer, he got a grumble and a slap on the cheek, and he stumbled backwards with his stubby little legs. He had covered the mark where he had been slapped, tears of pain tumbling down his cheeks as he started to cry about how much it hurt. Britain had not shown him pity or compassion, however; he had bellowed at him to shut his trap or he will kick him out of the house for the day. The young boy whimpers as he walks to his room, ignoring his worried siblings.

Australia once again looks at his mother, and he chuckles sadly, clutching it closer to his chest, closing his eyes and imagining that it was his mother who was hugging him, not a wooden frame.

At least he had answers from his mother now.

She never loved him.

If she had lived, she would have treated him the same as how Britain had treated him.

She never cared about him.

If he didn’t exist, she would still be alive.

But at what cost?

Tears start to slide down the man’s cheeks, still clutching the frame tightly as he dances with it, remembering the times he’d dance to the beat, thinking everything he is holding is a mother who supports him, but in reality she had died because he merely existed. The tears stain his shirt, but more and more come to replace his damned sadness, overflowing and trying to keep the volcano from erupting. He was smiling stupidly, chuckling a little- the Past is Present and Present is Past.

He should’ve died inside of her stomach; he should’ve been murdered by his own mother; he should’ve been aborted because that’s what he was: a mistake; he should’ve killed himself when he was faced with the noose he tied, the pills he had bought, the gun touching the side of his head.

But why didn’t he do it?

Because there was hope inside him: that somewhere, he will find his mother, who did not want him to die a gruesome death.

So he kept living for her.

But she ended up dead.

And she never loved her.

So what was the point of existing?

Australia starts to sob, heart-wrenching and nerve racking sobs, crawling to a fetal position, his head on his legs as he screams for his mother, as he sobs at the fact he shouldn’t have existed and that she didn’t deserve her fate.

Britain’s voice did not help him, “My dear son, I vehemently apologize-”

The sorrowful river that keeps overflowing is now replaced by a volcano erupting, as Australia bares his teeth and stands up, glaring at Britain, fists clenched around the picture frame and he screams as he hits his father on the head with the frame with all his might, shattering the glass surrounding the photo. Britain made a pained noise, but Australia was not done yet as he kicks Britain’s chest, and he doubles over in pain. Australia glares at the cowardly man in front of him, as he hits him, again and again; he feels nothing but pain, nothing but the pain of his and his mother combined, as he kicks, punches, and hits Britain, until he is a bloodied mess on the floor. Britain chokes out blood, gasping for air, but Australia did not give him more time to breathe as he kicks this miserable man, again and again.

“Australia! Pour l'amour de Dieu, arrêtez!”, he hears someone shout, but he was now in a vengeful haze, continuing to kick his father (he would not even call him his father) harder and repeatedly.

He then feels strong arms wrap around him, pulling him away from Britain who was barely conscious, and he screams in rage, kicking the man behind him, but his knees did not buckle nor did he seem affected by this pathetic man’s attempts to let him go.

“LET ME GO! I’M NOT DONE WITH HIM!”, Australia screams, squirming under the man’s grip.

“I understand why you’re angry at Britain, filho”, comes Portugal’s unhindered and soft voice, still gripping Australia tightly, “but please, don’t beat o bastardo to death.”

“HE DESERVES DEATH! HE DESERVES TO D I E!” Australia replies, and he breaks free from Portugal’s grasp and runs back towards Britain’s mangled body, eyes brimming with tears, as he tries to hit Britain’s face.

He does not hear skin colliding with bone, but a pained gasp and cry. Australia’s blood runs cold, as he opens his eyes to find Villers massaging her cheek, a look of pain evident on her face as she looks at Australia with a poisonous look.

Immediately, all of Australia’s anger vanishes, as his arms go slack.

The entire room was cold, as the two lovers had a standoff.

“Australia, tu sais que je t’aime”, Villers says softly, calmly, steadily, “Mais tu dois de calmer.”

Australia frantically shakes his head, tears sliding down his cheeks once again. “Non ... crois-moi ... je suis vraiment désolé.”

Villers kisses his forehead, giving him a sense of calm, “C’est d’accord, je t’aime encore.”

Australia lets himself be embraced by the shorter woman, the one who had given him the chance to live, the chance to have love. He was crying, ever so silently, holding Villers’ body, as she sings him a lullaby to help him calm down, to help him remember the times that the sun was their friend and not the enemy that burns them alive. And he wonders what would happen to Villers if he didn’t exist.

He puts his lips on her ear, still streaming down tears, “I wish I didn’t exist.”

Villers whispers back, “If you didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have either.”

Australia was staring into space, but he imagines that the vacant space in front of him was his mother, that there were no walls or floors and the both of them were floating in space, with the galaxies looking down on everything and everyone, especially the both of them. His imaginary mother was staring at him, no words to speak but his inevitable doom. If Australia had just killed himself right then and there, he would’ve asked his mother all the questions in his head.

But he was staying alive, once again.

Not for his mother, the one who didn’t want him in the first place.

But for Villers, and his siblings, who were sitting behind those doors, so to speak.

Australia inhales, exhausted at the fact he was sitting here and doing nothing.

But doing nothing was fine.

“Aussie?”, a voice penetrates through the silent air he had created for himself, and with a hum, he raises his eyes at the figures in front of the door, led by his older sister, who was looking as if she had gone through the five stages of grief with him.

Three pairs of arms wrap around his body, which made him feel warm, like Villers’, but their arms were supporting, filial, familial. He closes his eyes as he cozes into their embrace, thinking to himself how lucky he must be to have them.

“We’re grateful you exist”, Canada says in an ‘older brother’ type of voice, and the others nod.

“Don’t beat yourself up ‘cause our asshole dad told you how you were born”, America replies, “I think all of us here didn’t even want to exist.”

“But here we are”, Kiwi continues, smiling at his older brother then at his siblings, who look peaceful at the fact that they were all mistakes, wrong doings their father had committed against the women in his life. “And we’re here to stay.”

Australia smiles at them, a light feeling in his chest that made him soar higher and higher across the skies, until he is ready to burst and pop to be with the others around him.

‘m too tired to put translations screw you this thing’s 12k

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