CHAPTER FIVE IS LATE AND SILENCE IS SO SORRY. I'm also sorry for the length; I really would have cut it shorter, but I figured you guys would like the scenes near the end, so... yeah. Tell me what you think, please? I'm not so sure I like how I wrote most of this, so some feedback would be really appreciated. Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews so far, they warm my heart like you wouldn't believe! Enjoy!

Warnings: Err, language, I guess? Well, that and the continued butchering of the original Hunger Games. For those who care, I deeply apologize.

Disclaimer: APH. Not mine. HG. Not mine either. I'm kind of poor, guys. It just isn't gonna happen.

...

"F-Francis, help–! Gah!"

"I know it hurts Arthur, but you've got to hold o – augh!"

"Francis!"

"A-Arthur, there's something I n-need to tell you, before the end…"

"Don't talk like that, don't do this to me now—!"

"Non, you must listen! I… Arthur, I've always…"

"Yes?"

"I've always thought your special scones tasted like shit!"

"You bastard!" Arthur leapt from the table with a cry of rage, and seeing that he was free, made a dash for the exit – only to be dragged back by the prep team that was currently waxing every reachable part of him to make him presentable. Every. Reachable. Part.

"Unhand me, you sodding fools! I will not be subject to this humiliation!"

The prep team apologized profusely as they forcibly held him down and ripped a strip of paper from his leg, and he howled in pain.

Francis, on the table next to him, sighed with pity as he twitched from a similar treatment. "Ah, my poor Sourcils, you were so close…"

An hour earlier, after being kicked from the train, they had been ushered here to the Remake Center for 'Emergency Treatment'. Which apparently consisted of scrubbing every iota of dirt from his body, hair, and fingernails. When he was raw, red, stark naked and utterly humiliated, they were taken to this room, where his and Francis' prep team, who they had gotten to know disturbingly well by this point, then proceeded to wrestle them both down and begin tearing hair from legs, arms, and everywhere else.

It wasn't so much the nude part that bothered him – he'd known Francis his entire life, and had long since gotten used to his lewd comments – it was the scrutinizing looks he was given by the prep team, as though he were a science experiment, as though he weren't even human.

In the back of his mind he knew they were genuinely trying to help; they often made encouraging comments and reassuring statements that were generally more hurtful than comforting, but it was the thought that counted. This logic, however, was overrun by sheer panic when they began to move to his eyebrows.

"N-No! Stay away, you bloody Hetalian brutes!"

One worker stepped forward with a smile, holding out the waxing strip. "Don't worry now, the Head Stylist is coming soon and she'll make you perfect. This is just the finishing touch before the Head gets here!" At the mention of the Head Stylist (Arthur just hoped they meant the boss of the prep team, not a disembodied cranium. Not because he put it past Hetalians to have something like that, because he didn't, but more because he was dead certain that if he saw a floating head coming for him he'd cry.) all the staff paused, starry looks in their eyes at the thought of their boss, and Francis' and Arthur's eyes met in mirrored looks of mortification.

"Well," Arthur cleared his throat, willing himself not to punch one of them in the face and make a break for it, "Actually, I would prefer not to meet this 'Head Stylist' of yours, no offense. I think I'm perfectly ready to go now, thank you for all the hard work – whoa!"

With eager hands the Prep Team held him down, giggling and chuckling at his wild escape attempts. They had practically forgotten Francis, who was looking on in mild horror. He held up a hand when Arthur yelped, "Help me, Frog! For the love of God, help me!"

"Um, excuse me? I believe Arthur's right on this one," – the glares were murderous – "I-I mean, don't get me wrong, they are heinous crimes against humanity—"

"I hate you sometimes."

"—But he wouldn't be Arthur without them! He'd be like a bald rat, and those are hideous."

Francis was silenced by a particularly malicious waxing strip.

After another minute of struggle, the Prep Team had successfully immobilized him. The woman from before emerged, a grin on her face and a glint in her eyes that Arthur did not trust as she advanced with the wax.

"C-Come now, let's be reasonable,"

She was inches away and getting closer, and Arthur couldn't get away. "N-Not the brows, please, anything else! Can I at least say goodbye?"

There was a giggle, the strip centimeters from his forehead, he screwed his eyes shut—

"No, leave them."

The hand before his face froze, the wax dripping onto his cheek slowly. There in the doorway, eyes wide and curious but not surprised, was a young girl.

Arthur and Francis stared in shock. She couldn't have been out of her teens, and when she walked her movements held pride and confidence, but were humble at the same time. Her hair was a natural dark chestnut brown, eyes a matching hue, skin tanned evenly. Unlike any of the citizens of Hetalia they'd seen so far, her clothes were simple; no more than a plain sky blue dress and red ribbons tying her hair into two ponytails. The simplicity of the ensemble was flattering.

"Leave them be," She said again, and approached with a smile, the Prep Team parting immediately. "They give him character. Something good and distinguishable."

And Arthur was suddenly very aware that he was naked.

He colored to the roots of his hair, spluttering uselessly as his hands flew to cover himself. He had been expecting (read: fearing) many things as the Head Stylist, but a pretty young girl was not one of them.

She laughed loudly, a warm sound, and held out her hand to him. "It's all right, at least you had the decency to try. I'm Michelle, your Stylist."

Still flushing and with his legs folded in embarrassment, he shook her hand with the most dignity he could manage. "Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleasure, miss."

She opened her mouth to speak gain, but then Francis was just there at her side, on one knee, fully exposed, and kissing her other hand. Arthur was fairly certain the man had never been so happy to be nude in his life ('fairly' because it was hard to tell with Francis – he always liked being nude). "Mon belle fleur," He began in a silky voice, "Mon ange. Où avez-vous été toute ma vie?"

Michelle, to say the least, was not impressed. It showed partially through the deadpan stare she gave him, but mainly through the wet fish she whipped out and whacked him in the face with.

From virtually nowhere.

As Arthur literally fell to the floor laughing, Francis wide-eyed and staring in awe at the chuckling girl that might have been the only one to reject him so completely, the Englishman was certain he and his Stylist were going to get along just fine.

…

Alfred and his Stylist were not going to get along just fine.

After being scrubbed and trimmed in all the wrong places by perhaps the stupidest prep team the world had yet to see, the big Cuban came barging in wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and with a tub of ice cream under one arm. Alfred's first thought was, inevitably, 'how can he be a Stylist when he can't even dress himself properly?' These sentiments may have come across clearer than he intended when he leaned over to Matthew next to him, also stark naked and looking properly mortified by it, and whispered a little too loudly, "That's our Stylist? This is some kind of joke, right?"

He vaguely realized the Cuban had overheard him when a fist came barreling for his face.

'On the wrong foot' didn't even begin to cover it.

The two could barely be in the same room, which was incredibly unfortunate given that they had to work with each other. Somehow Matthew had become the mediator, seeing as he seemed to get along fine with both Alfred and Mr. Ramon Carlos-Famosa Fernández García, Ray to friends and Matthew, Sir to Alfred. (Alfred wasn't sure he could say and pronounce the mouthful of alphabet vomit anyway.)

The other reason they seemed to stop fighting when Matthew asked was more or less out of guilt – in the tussle that followed their first encounter (after the brothers had been properly clothed, of course) the quiet Canadian had gotten pulled into the fray in his efforts to separate them. He also ended up taking the brunt of the damage, given that Alfred was throwing his punches blindly and Ramon mistook him for his brother.

And, as guilty as Matthew himself felt for using his injuries to stop the two from fighting, it was doing a damn good job of keeping them in line.

Currently, the three were sat down in Ramon's office, looking at and discussing designs for their first public appearance – a dinner to be held in two hours. It was held so that the Gamemakers and the President could fully explain the Hunger Games and the rules. It also happened to be the first time the tributes saw and met each other in person, which added to the importance of how they presented.

"The real reason," Ray began, folding his hands across his stomach, "this is held is for the press – they'll be standing in the wings the whole time, getting footage and photos of the new tributes live; what clothes you'll be wearing, your mannerisms, as well as your interactions with each other."

Alfred opened his mouth to comment, but Ray overrode him, reading his mind with an eye roll. "Your appearance is important here because first impressions are always the most meaningful, especially in your case. The better your impression at this meeting, the more sponsors you're likely to add up."

"And who manages those?"

"Me." Ray shrugged at the skeptical looks, "I'm more or less also your manager. The Stylists for the other tributes are the same."

Matthew fingered one of the designs lightly, trailing a finger down the detailed sketch. "These are amazing," He said quietly, hands fluttering over the pictures one by one; Ray beamed. Alfred, in turn, scowled, but even he had to admit the designs were pretty impressive. They were all fairly simple, mainly one solid color each, but with little touches and details that caught the eye and stood out. There was one thing that confused him.

"How come me and Matt's outfits are all the same?" He pointed at a cream outfit with scarlet and gold trimmings. "Each of these has two designs – one for me, one for Matt, I'm guessing – but they're all the identical."

Ray nodded, a grin forming. "Yeah, I did that specifically. This is your introduction to your viewers and competitors – given that your nearly identical already, matching outfits would be both pleasing to the eye and daunting to the tributes."

"But we're not the same person," Matthew muttered. Alfred frowned; ever since they were little, he knew, Matt hadn't liked being mistaken for his brother, no matter how well he hid it. The American gave his hand a small, comforting squeeze before turning back to their Stylist, mouth opened to add to Matthew's protest, only to falter in surprise at the softened expression on Ray's face as he eyed the two.

"I know you're not. And believe me, there will be a time for individuality soon. But for now, focusing on your similarities is your best bet."

He reached over and, in a rare show of compassion, ruffled both brothers' hair with a sad smile. "And don't worry – I'm not asking you to be the same person or talk in sync with that freaky twin telepathy thing. Just keep quiet during the meeting, observe, and dress the same. It'll exude an air of mystery and maybe rustle some other tribute's feathers. And then we'll show everyone who you really are."

Alfred looked to Matthew for confirmation. Personally, he had no problem with the plan; in fact, he thought it was pretty smart, not that he would ever give Ray the satisfaction of knowing that. But if Matt was uncomfortable with it, then that was that, hands down.

Matthew nodded, smile strained. Alfred's brow furrowed in concern, and he ignored Ray's inquisitive gaze boring into them during the exchange. "Are you sure? If you don't want to…"

His brother's eyes warmed, smile a little more genuine and relaxed. "I'm sure, Al. It's okay."

After a moment, Alfred returned the gesture, beaming at full force. They turned back to their Stylist, both sets of eyes glinting with determination. Seeing this, Ray cracked a grin of his own, spreading the papers across the table.

"Alright. Time to get down to business, sí?"

…

Well.

This was awkward.

Toris crossed his legs tighter, face burning, as he contemplated jumping out the window to escape his humiliation. Certainly a twenty five foot drop was better than this.

The prep team circled him like vultures, eyes beady and ravenous, taking in every inch of his pale form. He curled further in on himself, willing his being to just disappear. Ivan sat on the table beside him, fully clothed, expression a rare one of sympathy. Toris; current situation was partially his fault after all.

Apparently each tribute had a similar treatment – a brutal rubdown to make them 'presentable'. Truthfully, Toris could respect this; he was grateful for it, really. He hadn't realized just how filthy he was until then, and the feeling of being clean for once was both foreign and wonderful, so it wasn't this that he minded. It wasn't even that, besides a quick, ginger hair wash, Ivan came away from the whole ordeal scott-free since he liked to keep up his personal hygiene anyway (in reality, everyone was just too frightened to approach the Russian; Toris didn't blame them, he'd known Ivan long enough to be able to tell when his smile was genuinely kind or if it was conveying the message 'say the wrong thing and I will beat you down with a metal pipe'. In this case, it was the latter).

No, what landed him in this predicament was that, because the second half of the prep team no longer had another tribute to work on, all attention was focused on him.

He was now twice as red, raw, embarrassed and in pain than the average tribute, and the prep team still seemed to be searching for more flaws, be they existent or not (because really after washing his hair in what he firmly decided was acid four times consecutively, there was no way it could still be greasy). One of them patted his head patronizingly, and he internally winced at the instant pain that flared in his scalp.

"You're doing very well," One of them encouraged in a piping voice, "No whining at all. Really, we absolutely hate whiners."

He forced a smile and nodded, not trusting his voice. As it turned out, he didn't have to.

"Surely you're almost done? You've been working on him for an hour and a half now,"

The prep team shot the speaker identical withering looks, but in the far corner of the room Eduard stood defiant, glaring back. As long as it wasn't Ivan, the Estonian could be quite confident, and Toris admired this. He sent a grateful smile his way, which Eduard returned with a small quirk of the lips. Emboldened by his comment, a smaller voice piped quietly, "Y-Yes, the meeting's in a few hours now, and we n-need to get both of them ready,"

Dear lord, Toris had almost forgotten Raivis was there. He'd been cowering beside Eduard for so long now, looking properly mortified on Toris' behalf, that he almost wondered if the boy wasn't trying to claw his way through the wall. Raivis shifted nervously, blushing and clearly uncomfortable, but remained standing; really, Toris was touched by his efforts.

The prep team, however, was not. They shot the two purely acidic glares, which Eduard returned with an indignant look and Raivis received by shrinking back again into his corner. The prep team was clearly bitter about the duo's presence there – the thought that two amateur district-goers would be performing the distinguished job of Head Stylist while they all felt they could do better.

It was perfectly legal, Toris knew for a fact; tributes were allowed to bring friends and family to be their official Stylist – manager – Toris still wasn't sure what the difference was – if they wanted to, as long as they didn't mind the risk of putting such an important job on inexperienced shoulders. But Toris trusted those two; they were both smart and clever, and he knew they would try their best to keep him and Ivan safe in the Arena during the Hunger Games.

He was broken rather rudely from his thoughts by a painful scrubbing brush tearing at his back as one of the Hetalians snapped back, "Yes, yes, we're just finishing up. Be patient."

By that point, his back was searing, but Toris said nothing. His friends looked on in pity, and Ivan offered an apologetic smile. He cautiously returned it, glad that at the very least none of the prep team had mentioned—

"Oh dear, these marks on your back just won't come off! Go get the bleach; perhaps that will help."

Toris froze.

Across the room, Both Eduard and Raivis had gone rigid, Eduard's cocksure aura all but vanishing while the younger tried to melt into the wall. And Ivan…

Toris didn't even feel it as the brush bit into his skin, scraping off at least two more layers from his back. At the mention of the marks, Ivan – who had been humming quietly to himself and observing, a smile on his face that genuinely lacked all malice – had flashed though a myriad of emotions almost too fast for Toris to catch.

First had been shock; his entire body had gone rigid at the mention of them, violet eyes wide. Then, if Toris was reading it correctly, a quick flash of guilt – a very rare emotion, but it was there, etched into his face and stature. Then fury, boiling, his whole frame swelling with it as he raised his head again. But that wasn't what frightened the Lithuanian the most; he recognized each phase Ivan had gone through, and each time he dreaded the last more than everything before.

Because then all traces of anger were gone from his face, and he was smiling again. And Toris swore the temperature dropped ten degrees.

The man with the bleach returned, and at the sight he felt a swirl of anxiety. "A-Ah… That's…" His weak protests were waved off as one of them soaked the liquid into a rough bush. "Hush, it'll be over before you know it. Besides, it'll be worth it just to get those hideous marks from your skin!"

They came closer, and Toris was positive the brush was hissing with solution. He was known for his kindness, but really, were these people that stupid? No, perhaps not – further reflection on the matter brought him to the conclusion that they'd never had to deal with marks such as these before, what with all the ways they had of fixing and erasing and repackaging just like new, so perhaps they wouldn't recognize the things when they saw them. He supposed it was plausible. Idiotic still, but plausible, seeing as these people were equally stupid. He forced his mouth to work.

"Th-They're not…"

The brush paused inches from his back, "Hm? What was that?"

"They're scars,"

Ivan snapped.

No, snapped wasn't the right word. In fact, he was frighteningly in control as he clamped down on a man's shoulder with one powerful hand, squeezing with a force that caused him to yelp and drop the brush. The rest of the prep team whirled to face him in terror, Toris included, to be met with a calm smiling face and the most frightening look in his eyes any of the Hetalians had ever seen. He squeezed the man's shoulder again, who gave a small cry. Ivan paid it no heed.

"I believe Eduard made himself clear, but perhaps I shall be clearer. You will let Toris go, we have work to do." He grabbed the coat from the man he'd been scaring the shit out of and let him fall the other floor and stumble away, placing the garment gently over Toris' shoulders. He smiled down at the smaller man.

"Shall we go? Do not worry, we are done here."

Even as Toris nodded and scrambled to his feet, drawing the coat around him, one of them behind him made a noise of protest.

Ivan stiffened, and barely turned to look over his shoulder, jet black aura rolling from him dangerously, the look in his eyes nothing short of murderous. He masked it well, but Ivan was furious. His voice was a pure, icy hiss, the threat so blatantly thick and there in the air between them it was tangible.

"I said we are done here, da?"

The prep team didn't move, too afraid to even nod or stutter. Instantly the atmosphere lightened, and Ivan was smiling happily again. "Da. Goodbye for now, then."

And without another word he strode from the room – humming, to top it all off – a stunned Toris quick to follow, Eduard and Raivis scuttling after.

…

The meeting room was a grand one, but Ray was glad they'd gone simple. It seemed all the other Stylists had done the same, and it wouldn't have done well to stand out too much. He smirked to himself from the corner of the room with the other Stylists. Still, he saw his instincts had been correct; while too much attention would be unwelcome, the twins were garnering just the right amount. Alfred had seemed like someone who would enjoy basking in the limelight, but he was doing 'low key' just as well as his brother, and the two harnessed an aura of mystery. The boys were naturals.

He stole a glance at the other Stylists. Some of them he recognized – Michelle, a young girl from the districts but with a lot of promise and a loyal following. He wasn't surprised, the down-to-earth girl was very likeable.

To Michelle's right, she chatted with a young man. Ram rod posture, aristocratic air and a strong sense of fashion – none other than the prestigious Roderich Edelstein. Ray quirked a brow in surprise. There had been rumors that the talented, if not snooty, Stylist would be participating in the Games this year, but the Cuban hadn't honestly believed it. The Gamemakers had been trying to recruit him for years (a Stylist with his talent and popularity would bring ratings through the roof) but he had refused each time.

There were many different theories as to why; Ray found he believed the one where the former district man didn't want to take part in killing his fellows. So what had changed? What had made this year different? If the rumors were true, then it was the Tributes this year – apparently, Edelstein knew a few of them, and had agreed only with the promise that he would get to be their Stylist. Ray couldn't help but wonder which of the arriving Tributes were his.

On the far side of the room was another familiar face – very familiar. He leaned against the wall, coolly smoking a long pipe, calculating eyes drinking in everything he saw. Wound around his neck was his trademark scarf. Lars was, perhaps, the most well known of any of them. Years ago, he himself had been in the Hunger Games, and clearly, he had won. At the time, Lars had been a favorite – strong, handsome, cool and likeable – but he hadn't been expected to win. When he made it to the final five, it had been chalked up to luck, and against his monstrously strong opponents, people were already mourning his imminent death.

So it had been a huge shock when he suddenly revealed his unmatchable skills as a strategist. Upon closer inspection after his victory, Hetalia had been baffled to find out that he had been utilizing these skills expertly throughout all of the Games, every move planned to precision and with undeniable genius. Immediately the army had tried to recruit him, the government – a man with his skills was invaluable. And he had turned them all down.

The Games had, undeniably, changed him, and the resentment and hatred he felt for Hetalia and its government was both immensely strong and completely justified. He had fallen off the face of the earth – until now, as he stood silently in the corner, the Stylist for a pair of lucky (if that was the right word) tributes in the room at that very moment.

Exuding an aura of both intimidation and mystery, no one dared approach Lars. In fact, there was only one other person near him at all, although the small man himself seemed like he couldn't care less that he was standing next to a man who was practically a ghost. This calm, collected indifference was probably what allowed him to stand there in the first place, and it was definitely what both Ray and Lars respected about the man.

Gupta Muhummad Hasaan was the final Stylist Ray knew. The petite man was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and Ray himself had never even seen the guy talk. While he was excellent at his job, he had refused, like Roderich, to ever be part of the Game. Only when, also like Roderich, he saw familiar faces among the tributes did he agree to join.

If Ray's sources were correct, then the two Gupta represented and apparently knew were a laid back Greek man, who was clearly gaining popularity among the press for his good looks, and the mysterious – if not eccentric – Turkish man beside him. The two glared daggers at each other, and Ray couldn't help but wonder if the 'enemy' act was just a ruse. Hasaan didn't seem like that type of guy, though. From what he gathered, the Egyptian was a man who valued family and such classic morals, honesty included. Which led him instead to believe that the display of Hasaan's tributes was completely true. Regardless, the duo seemed to be gaining good publicity, and Gupta as well.

Aside from them, Ray didn't recognize anyone. They were all fresh from the districts, brought to the capital by their friends and family who had been unlucky enough to be chosen as tributes. It was a risk each tribute ran, choosing a loved one to be their Stylist over a professional, but sometimes the comfort and trust of a familiar face in such a dark time outweighed such dangers.

There were many of them this year, most notably a young boy with incredibly huge eyebrows that stood next to Michelle, and a large group of Asians, all representing the same two tributes together.

The buzz of noise was collectively growing and swelling as the room filled, and in the other corner of the room the press was growing restless. By now all the tributes were seated and talking amongst themselves quietly or not speaking at all; his own two tributes were only speaking to each other, keeping a low profile as instructed. At the same time they both began to size up the other tributes, only to be interrupted by the entrance of several suits, followed by chefs with steaming trays heaped with food.

Immediately the conversation peaked as the food was set down, and ray smirked – it seemed to be taking every ounce of self restraint in Alfred's being not to dive into a platter of hamburgers a foot or two away. Somehow none of the famished tributes attacked the meal, although Ray was unsure how much longer they would have lasted had the President not entered at that moment.

All talk died away instantly.

Alfred, who had been firmly telling his belly to stop yelling at him when the man entered, felt his entire stomach drop cold like a stone in water at once, appetite vanished. Not even the irritating reporters behind him dared to snap a picture of the man as he entered. Matthew's hands shook in his lap. Whatever the brothers had expected of the president of Hetalia, a man neither of them had seen before, it wasn't this.

The man that swept in then had dark, unkempt and natural black hair, and a bright, white toothed grin. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he lilted in coolly, a long stick of tobacco in his lips. His eyes were hidden by a pair of dark glasses, and he wore a tasteful, all black suit, the jacket open and tie loose. He couldn't have been over thirty, and even that was a stretch – he looked to be twenty five, expression and posture giving no hint to his true age.

Compared to the plastic faces and neon outfits and outlandish accessories that made up most of Hetalia, the man was refreshingly natural and striking. He looked more like a male model than a ruler.

"A-Alfred," Matthew's expression was calm, his voice even softer to ensure it didn't go beyond Alfred's ears (it probably wouldn't have anyway, given Matthew's normal speaking voice) but he gripped his brother's hand until his own began to cramp. Alfred didn't blame him – it wasn't the man's appearance that silenced the room, it was his presence. A cold dread had filled him from head to toe, and his palms were getting clammy. He was on edge, Matthew too, but hell if they'd ever show it.

"Welcome, tributes,"

The man's voice was smooth and glossy, cool, like water. His smile was affable; charming was the word, but there was still something in the air Alfred didn't trust. He swept an elegant hand, gesturing around him in general. "To our city. We're glad to have you here. And,"

Alfred was not the only one to gasp as the President himself bowed to them, bowed for christ's sake, to a handful of district members, tributes no less. The President spoke to his shoes, head still down as the crowd buzzed in shock.

"I'm deeply sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. For both my city and myself, I apologize to you brave souls."

No one moved, no one spoke – what were you supposed to say to that? The President didn't seem too keen on finding out, because then he was up again, grinning brilliantly and clapping his hands.

"Now then! I suppose you all know my title, President Faust, but that is way too formal. My name is Elijah Rin Faust, and to you I'm just Eli. I won't answer to anything else now, y'hear?"

Alfred could only stare, bewildered. The man's entire demeanor had shifted in four seconds flat, and he couldn't help but think that this was not how Presidents were supposed to behave. Elijah, however, didn't seem to give a shit about being proper (as proven by his blatant ignoring of the fidgeting and fussing Gamemakers and officials). By the looks of exasperation on their faces, Alfred would guess the man threw protocol out the window like this often.

"A complete disregard for the rules." Alfred blinked, and looked over at his brother, who was smirking quietly. "That's one thing you have in common, at least."

He grinned back, feigning hurt and leaning in to whisper, "Aw, right in the heart Mattie, you cold bastard,"

They snickered to themselves before Alfred nodded up to Elijah who was busily not caring about what the government officials were fervently saying to him. "So, what do you think of him? Is he really sorry, or something else—"

"Something else. Without a doubt."

The American raised a brow, but said nothing. He trusted Matthew on this sort of thing – he had always been a better, gifted judge of character; something about his empathy (not that Alfred couldn't read a situation if he tried – he himself could be pretty damn empathetic when he wanted to, he just chose not to most of the time). And given the conviction in Matthew's voice as he answered, the President was not, ever, one to be trusted.

"Why do you think so?" he asked, purely out of curiosity. There was a pause as Matt considered it, sizing up the President again. The man laughed, loud and clear, and Matthew shivered.

"He's cold," He said hesitantly, searching the air for the proper words. "Smooth and clear, but sharp and cold. Like…"

"Water?"

It was the first thing that came to Alfred's mind when he'd seen the man, but Matthew shook his head.

"No," He said, "Like ice."

Faust turned around at that moment, grinning from ear to ear. The brothers tensed as the room went quiet again. "Well now! Shall we get on to the rules?" A clear laugh, "Don't worry, I'll be fast. I know you're all dying to dig into this magnificent feast, courtesy of our fine chefs."

He gestured to where the cooks stood shuffling, nodding nervously at the praise. The President continued.

"I'm sure you all know the general rules – last man or woman standing is the victor. We'll get to those changes at the end." This caused a ripple of disturbance through the crowd; they all well knew that the President could change the rules of the Hunger Games at any moment, but this rule was the staple, the heart of the Hunger Games. It hadn't crossed anyone's mind that it might be changed. Alfred knew without looking what the thoughts were of the other tributes at that moment – perhaps, just maybe, they might survive. He had apologized, right? He didn't want them all to die, right? So maybe…

Alfred looked to his brother when he felt the minute squeeze of his hand. Matthew's eyes were flashing behind their frames, violet irises warning him not to get his hopes up. At the front of the room, Faust plowed on, commanding instant silence once again.

"For the next month, you shall stay here in the lovely Hetalia. Here you will be primed, propered, and trained. At the end of the month, all of you will be sent to the Arena. Until then, please enjoy your stay; all preparations have been made, and if you have anything to add, all you need to do is ask.

"You will attend mandatory public appearances, interviews, photo shoots, and the Parade, all of which you'll be prepared for by your prep team. You'll want to be your best here, seeing as those events are how you'll rack up sponsors."

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd; they all knew the importance of sponsors. In the Arena they often meant the difference between life and death; and if you were in a tight spot, a sponsor's money might get you out of it. Good sponsors nearly guaranteed a tribute a better chance in the Games.

"That said, you'll want to treat your Stylists well – they organize all the previously mentioned events, what you'll wear, what you'll say, and will be in charge of gathering and accepting all your sponsors. They are, more or less, your lifeline in the Arena. You would do well to stay on their good side.

"After that, you will have to prove yourselves before our panels of Gamemakers," He gestured to the suits behind him, "And be judged and scored, based upon your abilities. Your Stylist will train you. Lastly, the day before the Games, you are to have the final interview with our lovely hostess, Bella. Save the best for last, because most people tune in for that one. And then there's nothing but the big day! Any questions?"

If there were, no one voiced them. The tributes shifted nervously in their seats, but said nothing. The President gave an approving nod before a grin settled over his handsome features. Alfred immediately felt dread sink into his stomach.

"Excellent. Then there's only one last order of business before I leave you to this delicious meal. I believe Bella mentioned a few rule changes, right?"

Alfred frowned; now that he mentioned it, that did sound vaguely familiar. Some sort of special 'surprise'; he'd dismissed it at the time. Now thinking back on Elijah's words, he kind of whished he hadn't. At least he might be a little prepared for the words Elijah said next.

"This year, to shake it up, we're allowing more than one winner. The stance of yet is two tributes – although the number is liable to change at any time."

The room erupted in sound, most of the faces that flitted across Alfred's vision mirroring how he felt. Since the moment their names had been drawn, Jones had been at peace with how, inevitably, the Hunger Games would end. He and Matthew had never spoken of it; resolved silently, a wordless agreement not to mention just that one, haunting rule. But Alfred had been sure of how it would end since the very beginning, with or without his brother's approval – there was no way he'd let Matthew die. He would fight beside him, protect him from the other tributes, and should it come to he and Matt being the final two, he would be damned it his twin wasn't the one to walk away from it. He, since the beginning had been resolved to die for his brother. He had been okay with it.

Until now.

The only thing that kept him from jumping up and howling for joy was Matthew's hand on his arm, silently reminding him of Ray's instructions. But beneath the warning look was a joy and relief barely containable; violet eyes were glistening with tears, for once from an emotion other than sadness. It briefly crossed Alfred's mind that Matthew had been planning the same thing, but he forced the thought from his mind before it could upset him. It didn't matter now – now they could both go home, together. It didn't occur to him as odd that so many other tributes – if not all of them – felt the same way. Tributes weren't supposed to know each other; the chance that he and Matthew got chosen together had been hundreds to one. But they all seemed to know at least one person, and were celebrating amongst themselves.

In the center of the room Elijah observed the reactions, smiling. Alfred watched skeptically; perhaps Matthew was wrong. Maybe Elijah really did feel bad, and wanted to change things. The man's grin widened and he spoke calmly, voice carrying with ease above the noise.

"There's a few more surprised in store for you, but those will be revealed along the way. For now, eat – you've got a busy day tomorrow. Mingle, make new friends," He removed his glasses and cleaned them on his hsirt, head down as he spoke so that his features were shadowed by his hair. "And meet with some old. You might find some familiar faces among the crowd."

He lifted his head, and Alfred's blood ran cold as he stared into sharp, icy, sinister pale blue eyes. Matthew's words rang in his skull.

Like ice.

His smile was suddenly a sneer, and he bowed again – mocking. "Good day, tributes."

And then he was gone, leaving stunned tributes in his wake. The joy Alfred had so recently harbored had all but disappeared, leaving a cold, slimy something in his chest. He knew Matthew felt the same way – Faust was plotting something; he knew something they didn't. Matt had been spot on about him – but then why give them hope, why increase the number of survivors? What could he be planning?

Frowning, he reached for a burger, resolving not to let it get to him and focusing on the food instead. He'd only ever had a burger once – when he was young, a tribute from his district had won the Hunger Games, and in his merriment he threw a feast for the whole district, with every food imaginable. He had fallen in love with hamburgers right then and there, and they were just as good as he remembered.

To his right, Matthew hummed in pleasure; in his hands was a bowl of… something, that looked vaguely familiar but not enough to try.

"What's that?" He asked, staring cautiously at the concoction. Matthew smiled and popped some of it in his mouth. "Poutine," He answered around his mouthful, "It was there a few years ago—"

"During the district feast." Alfred finished. He remembered now – the four of them, he Matthew, Arthur and Francis, had attended the feast and each had picked a different food.

"Arthur and his scones," Alfred laughed at the memory, "And Francis… what did he have?"

Matthew thought about it for a moment. "Escargot," He said finally, and then at Alfred's look of confusion, "Snails."

"Of course. Francis and… ew. I'd prefer one of Arthur's scones to that gross stuff."

There was a devious glint in Matt's eyes that told Alfred he shouldn't have said anything. "Oh, really? You'd be willing to have scones again? After all of Arthur's failed attempts?"

Alfred shuddered at the memory of edible death, but held his ground. He was the hero, damn it, and no way in hell was he getting scared off by a smirking Canuck and his scones. "Of course."

"Well then." Matthew, grinning way too brightly, gestured to a platter near the center of the table. "Go right ahead."

Damn it. "Damn it." But, with a defiant glare at his violent eyed twin, he stood and reached for a scone, hand closing around one of the hard pastries.

At the same time that someone else did.

Alfred released it, watching the other smaller and paler hand do the same. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the other beat him to it.

"Ah, sorry lad. Here, you take—"

The words faltered.

Alfred looked up.

And the world stopped.

Emerald eyes were just as he remembered them. No, even clearer, more vivid; his memory was nothing to them. Hair a sandy blond disarray, eyebrows, just as bushy and thick as ever, were shot up in shock. Skin pale, familiar thin scars across his right cheekbone and the edge of his jaw, a few new here and there – one just above his left brow, another running along his neck down into his collar.

Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Slowly the talk around the table died as eyes landed upon them, sensing something was amiss, but neither cared.

It was Alfred – of course it was Alfred, impulsive, cocky, wonderful Alfred – who moved first. His eyes were misty behind their frames, and his smile took up his entire face. It lit up the room, and Arthur had to refrain from closing his eyes and losing himself in the familiar warmth of it.

"Arthur…" Alfred sniffled, and reached one hand to cup his cheek. He unconsciously leaned into the touch, "Arthur. Damn… Your eyebrows are just as fugly as I remember."

And then time resumed, and Arthur was diving clear across the table and tackling him to the ground in a flurry of tears and laughter and cursing and he swore, over and over, that he'd never let him go again.

From behind him, Francis stood, still frozen in surprise. And then his eyes locked on Matthew, and the next thing he knew he was scrambling around the table, knocking down chairs and glasses in his haste but he didn't care because Matthew was there, eyes wide in shock and crying silently, and Francis had to get to him or he might just disappear.

Time seemed to move torturously slow just to spite him, but at last he made it and wrapped the trembling boy in a fierce embrace, and he couldn't really tell who was shaking and crying anymore but he had a feeling it was both of them.

"Mathieu, Mathieu, thank God, mon petit, my precious little boy, thank God…"

Slowly Matthew's arms rose and wrapped around him, then held tighter, desperately, as if he feared Francis would vanish beneath his fingers. "Francis… Oh G-God, it's really you, Francis…!"

"Shh, it's alright… don't cry, it's okay, please don't cry…"

Alfred had managed to right himself and Arthur, both still clinging to each other. Alfred's smile, impossibly, brightened at the sight of his brothers, and without warning he launched the surprised Brit and himself at the pair. The group hug was awkward and slightly painful with limbs flailing and everyone trying to get a hold on some part of everyone else, but none of them seemed to care. They were here, they were together, they were alive.

The only ones seeming fit to move were the press, cheering and snapping pictures wildly; both the tributes and the Stylists were too stunned to do anything but stare.

The near hypnotic stillness was shattered by a cry.

"Lovi! Lovi, over here!"

All heads turned to see another tribute, a Spaniard, waving frantically across the table and pushing desperately through the crowd. "Lovi!"

A crash on the other end of the room caught everyone's attention; there a boy trembled on the floor, chair overturned and forgotten, green eyes wide as they stared at the approaching young man. He shook his head, starting to scrabble away.

"No. There's no way. No fucking way in hell."

The Spaniard laughed, tears in his eyes, and sped up. "Lovi, Lovino, I thought…"

Lovino bolted, but the other tribute was fast. He dove and caught his hand, spiraled him back and locked him in a bear hug.

The smaller tribute seemed to be cursing in fluent Italian, blushing furiously and squirming, but the hold he found himself in was iron. "L-Let me go, Antonio, you bastard! Shit, you hug like a fucking bear—!"

"Lovi, my little tomato, mi lindo pequeño tomate, I thought I'd never see you again,"

"I told you to stop calling me that—!"

Lovino resorted to restricted headbutting, still cursing colorfully, but his arms had come around Antonio as well, holding him close. Antonio smiled and buried his face in his hair as the Italian began to wail, loud, gasping sobs, and the two sunk to the floor.

That had to be the trigger.

Suddenly the entire room was alive with shouting and crying and laughing as old friends and family reunited; the elegance of only minutes before shattered completely. A group of five young men were laughing and clapping each other on the back, speaking in swift separate Nordic tongues and each understanding perfectly. A loud silverette was shouting and shoving through the throng – "Elizaveta! Where'd you go, psycho? I know I saw you!" – only to get punched in the jaw by the girl he was looking for, and then, still stunned by the blow, swept into her crushing embrace.

An exxentric young blond was on tiptoes, also looking for someone desperately. A quiet brunette came up behind him, smiling softly and not bothering to wipe his tears of joy s he tapped the blonde's shoulder. Turning and seeing it was clearly the one he'd been searching for, he shrieked, "Toris! Liet, oh my God!" before shamelessly tackle-hugging him to the ground.

In the background, the press were practically having seizures. Notepads and recorders and cameras were out and being abused furiously as they drank in the drama greedily.

In the Stylists part of the room, half were still stunned and rigid, while the other half were joining in the fray. The Asians had rejoined their tributes, and the young bushy-browed boy was being introduced to Alfred and Matthew by Arthur. Roderich had given a quick, flustered hug to Elizaveta, and was currently arguing with the silverette – who had planted himself firmly between Elizaveta and Ludwig, intent on sticking close to both of them – in a half-friendly, half-hostile manner. Michelle and Ray remained where they were, wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

No one noticed as another Stylist slipped from the room into the hall where a young blond waited. Green eyes flicked up as he approached. "Lars."

"Bella. I trust you've been well."

"And you – whereveryou've been hiding. You made it an incredible hassle to find you, you know.

You made it an incredible hassle to find you, you know. I'm already regretting it." She frowned up at him, arms crossed and expression sour. There was no one in the hall but them, the cameras had been temporarily taken care of, and around Lars, at least, she could let down her guard. Well, to a degree – at least she didn't have to pretend to be so damn happy all the time.

Lars scoffed. "I didn't want to be found. I was trying to forget all this." He gestured to the room behind him, clearly meaning the Hunger Games.

Bella frowned softly. "And have you?"

A sigh. "What do you think?"

Bella offered a tentative smile, but let it drop quickly. For a while they said nothing, both staring somberly at the door that separated them from the chaotic reunions.

"Well?" Bella said at last. "What do you think?"

Lars didn't take his eyes from the door, but Bella could see the minute tightening of his jaw, around his eyes. "There's families in there. Old friends, meeting for the first time in years."

Bella nodded, watching him carefully. "Yes."

"And Faust is going to have them kill each other."

"Yes."

Without warning, Lars' fist shot out and slammed into the wall with such force that a frame shuddered and fell. Bella didn't flinch.

Lars' deep gray gaze was dark and glinting. "He's gone too far this time."

Bella brightened, a spark lighting her previously neutral green eyes. "Then you'll help me? It won't be easy,"

For the first time since Bella had seen him in all those years, a familiar wolfish grin flashed across Lars' handsome features.

"Hell yeah. Let's give them a revolution worth dying for."

...

So first, for those who actually read the Hunger Games series, I woulnd't blame you for being mad at me for switching the antagonist. Truth is, I didn't trust my characterization of President Snow, so I figured this guy (ugh an OC no less normally I hate resorting to those) would be easier to mold and make the antagonist. I'm really sorry about it, and hopefully you won't hate me for it.

I'm not sure how this chapter is. I have mixed feelings about it. I really hope you guys enjoyed it, though. The reunion scene ended up being much fluffier than I was going for, having been stuck between a happy reunion or an angry/hurt reunion, which probably would have been more realistic given how jaded about it all Alfred had been earlier, but my justification is that they've JUST SEEN EACH OTHER AFTER SEVEN YEARS. The natural first emotion would be elation, right? But don't worry, as they get more time to think and the story goes on, I'm sure angst and such will follow.

All your reviews are extrememly appreciated and loved, they make me feel way too good about myself. Please keep those up; I won't be able to keep updating without them! (Am I trying to blackmail you guys into reviews? Why yes. Yes I am. I'm just that horrible of a person.)

There was a silence