Neee, it's been a while, huh? Hey people! Remember me?

Sorry to thrust this chapter upon you, but I really couldn't make it any more intelligible than it was already and I couldn't fit any more story in...

Just face it, nothing makes sense in this story. It's the principle of my work. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and I apologize for the 3 month wait. 3 MONTHS.

And it's a short chapter.

Damn, I'm despicable.

--

"Romano, are you alright?" Ludwig asked Lovino, and Antonio could see the strain of his fear beginning to show through the cracks of his stoic façade.

"I'm fine, you stupid potato..." Spain sighed at that, Romano was tinged slightly blue and was shivering, but he probably didn't even notice.

Antonio was ready to give Lovino another half hour if he felt up to it, but the Italian's eyes suddenly fluttered shut and he tipped over on his feet and fell face-first into the sand.

--

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Lost and Found

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Antonio rubbed his eyes and looked tiredly to the clock beside the bed; the bright red display read 1:37 AM and gave him a headache looking at it. He turned his gaze back to Lovino, whose hand he hadn't let go of for the past five hours.

Germany had stayed behind to search for the missing Italian, and Spain had run home as fast as he could; the other Italian in tow. Lovino's skin had been clammy to the touch, and Antonio's heart seemed to fall into his stomach, the frantic beating against his chest making him feel as though he would throw up.

Somehow, though, everything was alright. Lovino had a pulse again and was sleeping quietly, regaining body heat through the five quilts layered over his body. As he had been hurriedly taking Lovino's temperature, the Italian had come to for a moment; eyes blurry. He spoke a sentence and drifted back into unconsciousness. The question he had asked turned Antonio's stomach.

"Chi è Lei?"

--

33.6˚C.

Lovino's temperature had dropped to a nearly fatal low while he was under Antonio's supervision. Not only that, but Feliciano had also disappeared under his watch, and his safety was likely compromised. Antonio was understandably distraught. Medical texts were now strewn across the living room; and those with treatments for hypothermia were thoroughly scrutinized while Lovino slept.

36.9˚C.

Now if only he'd open his eyes.

--

He must have fallen asleep beside Lovino's, because all at once he was being shaken awake as the Italian demanded sustenance and that he open a window because it was "too fucking hot in here".

Spain was too busy squeezing the life out of Romano to open a window, though.

--

Antonio was still worried though. The books had mentioned lethargy as a result of hypothermia, but Lovino hadn't gotten out of bed for a good five days. Spain was more than happy to take care of Romano for as long as his unwillingness to move anywhere on his own persisted, but in doing so, he was unable to search for Italy. Which brought him to a more disturbing component of this all.

Lovino couldn't remember Feliciano.

Romano would have normally bolted out of bed in search of his missing brother as soon as he'd woken from his slumber, but the thought hadn't occurred to him. When Spain had brought it up, the other simply tilted his head and looked at him strangely.

"What are you talking about, Spain? I'm an only child."

--

The doctor said that Lovino's lethargy was a result of his exposure to the freezing water for so long, but should pass soon because he had been cared for so quickly.

"The amnesia, however," the doctor had said, was "most likely caused by trauma." The overpowering fear that he had lost his brother had wiped his memories of ever having a brother completely from his mind. Everything else seemed intact, however; which Spain was grateful for.

There remained the question though- where is Feliciano?

--

While Spain, England, France and America were playing cards; the answer came about unintentionally almost a month later in the form of a frantic Poland.

"Like, America, I totally need your help!"

Feliks was leaning against a support on Alfred's porch, gasping for breath; and the American stood up like the hero he was, immediately asking what was wrong.

"Liet's been kidnapped!"

There were only two people in the world that America could think of who would kidnap a nation on a whim, and one of those people was in this room, denying it with every bit of his romantic French soul. There was no other suspect.

Russia.

--

"Me? Have Lithuania? Well, if he wants to become one with Russia, I cannot stop him, da?" Spain could see Poland visibly shiver at the childlike tonality with which Russia expressed his desire to have Lithuania a part of him. "But sadly, Toris has shown no such interest. Now, if any of you wish to become one with Russia..."

"No thank you, Ivan; none of us will be pursuing that path today," came a clipped reply from England, and the door closed. So where was Lithuania?

America patted Poland's shoulder apologetically, and the mood was admittedly overcast as they turned away from Russia's doorstep. "I'm really sorry about this, Feliks..."

A long skirt fluttered past following a woman approaching Russia's residence, and Poland's eyes widened. His head whipped around to follow Belarus as she approached her brother's abode and he sniffed at the air. "Kurwa..." He bit his lip and then turned to England. "I'm totally going to kill Natasha..."

--

Not even a half hour later, America had broken down the door to Belarus' house, revealing nothing out of the ordinary. Poland was in the building almost before the door was ripped from its hinges. "Like, Liet? Where are you?"

Poland basically motioned for everybody to shut the hell up as he listened.

Thump.

"Toris, I'm coming!" Feliks shot up the stairs faster than Vash could shoot a trespasser between the eyes. Spain and America followed him up; nobody knew what kind of freaky assassins Belarus could hire to protect her home.

They were in her bedroom, which was plastered with pictures of Russia, the Russian flag, lyrics to the Russian national anthem, pictures of Russia's house, the blueprints to Russia's house... Poland lifted his head, looked around and bolted towards the closet. He threw it open, and there was Lithuania. Gagged and tied up like a Christmas present.

--

"Liet, I was like, sooo worried about you; and I knew that Belarus had you because she totally smelled just like duona, and you're, like, the only person that I know that smells like duona, seriously, and..." Poland babbled on and on as he tried to cut through the ropes tying Lithuania's wrists and ankles together with one of Belarus' spare knives that she had hidden under her pillow. At the same time, Spain and America worked at the gag with a Swiss army knife.

The fabric of the gag tore apart seconds before the rope came undone, and Toris quickly spat it out, looking panicky.

"She's got Italy locked in the basement!"

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//End Chapter 21

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"Chi è Lei?" – Italian, "Who are you?"

33.6˚C is roughly 92.5˚F; not a very safe body temperature unless you're an icicle.

36.9˚C is roughly 98.4˚F; a pretty safe body temperature unless you're an icicle.

"Kurwa" – Polish... kinda hard to explain. Whore or bitch, but is also used as an interjection, like "Fuck!" in English? But I was going for the "bitch" translation, so...

duona – a kind of dark rye bread that is a staple food in Lithuania. Smells good~

'kay, so I'm obviously off my nut for continuing to write this, much more so for having the cojones to post it, but whatever.

Review Rangers, you know who you are.