A/N: Before you read, please note that this story contains graphic depictions of torture and rape. If it is something you are uncomfortable with I strongly suggest that you don't read it. This was written in response to a request on the kink meme. Please leave a review when you have finished reading, constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms. :)

'Close every door to me, hide all the world from me, bar all the windows and shut out the light.'

The room is old but dustless, the normally cluttered area straightened out and tidied. The different knick-knacks and souvenirs of the past, both painfully and lovingly acquired, are arranged in neat rows and stacks on the sides of the badly stripped walls. A single naked bulb hangs by a thin wire, flickering and casting eerie shadows against the objects in the room. The air is stale and quiet.

The rattle of chains breaks the silence, and the sole occupant of the room shifts uneasily on the thin mattress- no bed frame or headboard- that he has been provided with. Green eyes open slowly, confused and disoriented. England can't really remember what happened the night before- it was a blur of sharp smells and alcohol and hazy silhouettes. His head throbs and his throat burns with dryness, but he struggles to sit up. He slowly begins to recognise where he is, and he reaches out to touch a box beside his mattress. His eyes widen in confusion and panic as he notices a shackle on his wrist, and a chain on that connecting to the wall.

The sounds of boots approaching from the other side of the door are magnified by the migraine, and England gazes anxiously at the wooden separator, half-hoping that it was all just a big mistake, a joke, a misunderstanding.

The doorknob turns with a squeak, and England holds his breath.

He enters fluidly but not silently, and every clink of metal and groan of old leather against old leather rings in England's head.

"Good morning, England."

The tone is light and cheerful, deceptively innocent. England looks defiantly at his captor, or as defiantly as he can with the chains and the throbbing headache.

"I see you've been drinking again." He makes a disappointed noise, reaching out a hand to stroke through ash blond hair. England tries to pull away, but the fingers in his hair tighten like a vise, and he has to hold back a whimper of pain. "When will you ever learn?"

His head is wrenched backwards, and England gasps out, "I wasn't drinking. I know I wasn't."

"Oh, poor England, so confused. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"Like hell you will," England spits out. "Let me go!"

He is thrown against the mattress, body pinned down by a solid weight. "First lesson, darling- obedience." The whisper is delighted, depraved, and England shudders and closes his eyes, but not before catching a glint of steel swooping down toward him.

The pain isn't entirely unexpected, but England fights not to scream anyway, as the knife is forced deeper into his shoulder. The metal scrapes against bone, and tears start forming in his eyes, but he won't let them fall. Not for this.

"Come on, England. Scream for me."

He shakes his head violently, cursing as the knife is twisted back and forth. He's in agony, he can't think, he can't think- but he can't scream; he won't give the satisfaction. The knife is twisted with more force- with a sickening crack and a blinding pain he feels the bones in his shoulder break, and a cry escapes his lips.

"That's it, England, let go," are the cooed words of encouragement. He draws the knife in and out, slowly at first, making England think he had given up, but then forcing it back in over and over, increasing the speed and power with every thrust. "Scream for help, for mercy. You're always so uptight. Scream my name so everyone knows who you belong to."

England cannot stop the cries and yelps anymore, and the tears flow freely from his eyes as he fights back pitifully. The knife, slick with blood, slips and rips his flesh, from the shoulder down his ribs, and this time he opens his mouth and screams.

"America!"

.o.o.o.o.o.

France hummed a little tune as he unlocked England's door, an old English folk song that he couldn't quite recall the title of. He grinned to himself as he thought about the trick he would play on his favourite rival today- hopefully he would be surprised to death.

Closing the door behind him, he looked around in confusion. The house was oddly silent- usually England would be blaring out some sort of punk rock cacophony from his stereo as he read Shakespeare.

But the rocking chair by the window was empty. France goes to check the kitchen- God help him if he would find England there- when he noticed something out of place. The bookshelf labelled 'S' was in disarray. Granted, there was only one extra book that was lying on top of the others, but France knew England was meticulous, borderline obsessive, about the order of his books. Everything was alphabetised, everything had a place, and most importantly, everything fit.

Curious, he picked up the book that was lying horizontally and checked the title. Titus Andronicus. He checked the titles of the others and tried to place the stray book in the correct position, but it wouldn't fit. Even more intrigued, he looked through the shelf- there was the culprit. The dog-eared, almost ruined book of Sonnets that England never kept with the others, but on the rocking chair for easy access. With a sigh, France lifted it to make space for the tragedy, but a piece of paper fell slightly from between its pages and fluttered to the floor.

How very strange. Replacing Titus Andronicus, he flipped the Sonnets open to where the paper was sticking out. The page of Sonnet CXVI was completely ruined, stains that looked suspiciously like dried tea covering it. The loose paper was in Arthur's handwriting. It looked as if he had been trying to write down the sonnet to replace the ruined page. Francis scanned the paper, laughing a little at his rival's obsession.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remov-

There was a diagonal slash of ink across the paper, violently made, as if the pen had been released in a rush. Francis' eyes narrowed. What was England playing at?

He dropped the book onto the rocking chair where it belonged, and made his way further into the house. There was no England in the kitchen, no England in the bedroom, no England in the bathroom. He pressed his ear against the locked door leading to the basement, but he couldn't hear maniacal laughter or eerie chanting. It was as if England had simply vanished.

He checked the time, and furrowed his brows in confusion. It was tea time. England wouldn't miss it for the world.

Picking up his mobile, he dialled a familiar number.

"Yo. Supreme king of awesomeness here."

"Hello Prussia," France said, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice.

There was a fumbling on the other end of the line. "Aw, shit, it's you- look, dude, we're best buds and all, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't always ask for phone sex in the afternoon, because that's just wei-"

"No, no, no. Have you seen England around lately? He appears to be missing."

Prussia gave a small 'hmm'. "Nope. Fuck if I know where he is. He didn't turn up for our drinking contest last night, and he was talking about it for weeks!"

"He keeps to his schedules all the time, doesn't he?" France was beginning to grow a little suspicious. "I'm in his house right now and he-"

"Dude, that's fucking scary. You broke into his house when he wasn't there? Good God, man, what are you, Pedo Bear? Didn't you used to take care of him or something?"

France ignored the teasing that sounded all too sincere. "Perhaps I'm just overreacting. Perhaps he just went to the store." But the refrigerator had been fully stocked, and England wasn't the type to just go out to buy needlessly.

"I think you are. Maybe your head's finally messed up your other head." Prussia let out a loud guffaw. "Get it?"

"Oh, shush, that's vulgar. Never mind, perhaps I am not thinking clearly."

Prussia sighed. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask around more, if you're worried. Personally I think he just pulled the stick out of his ass and got a life. Get back to me when you find him- I want that drinking contest sometime next week."

France hung up, thinking to himself. It was possible that England had gotten into another of his rebellious moods and just left for a few days, or, more likely, taken out his old punk clothes and roamed the back streets to drown himself in memories. It was nothing to worry about.

France turned and left the house, leaving his suspicions behind him.

II

'Do what you want with me, hate me and laugh at me, darken my daytime and torture my nights.'

England awakens from a nightmare he cannot remember.

His sense of time has fallen away. There is nothing he can use to tell whether he has been here for hours, days, or even weeks. He marks his days by the number of times America comes into this room, and his weakened, scarring body becomes an unholy calendar. If it is accurate, he thinks, he has been here for six days.

Six days, and already America has done so much damage to him that England shudders at the thought, shudders and closes his eyes and prays that nothing is true. He is naked and limp. His broken wrist hangs from the shackle, unable to heal as it is jerked around mercilessly by America, as if it were a child's favourite toy; his body is burned and bruised and starved, with too many broken ribs to count; his unshackled arm has nearly been cut through completely, the sickly pink of the humerus exposed to the air. The wound is horribly infected, and the burning pain brands itself into England's mind, making him scream even without America there to urge him on. The room smells permanently of blood and leather.

The only thing left untouched is England's face.

The door opens, and England whimpers, trying to curl into himself as much as possible. He does not want to show America his weakness, no, but he cannot help but flinch as a gloved hand touches his thigh, travelling until it is tracing circles on his hip. What bones will America break today?

He does not realise he is trembling until America tells him so.

"Darling, stop shaking," he breathes over England's face, smirking at the flinch he receives for his efforts. "It's only me."

"Don't tell me what to do," he rasps out. He is not broken yet.

"Oh, but don't you want this, baby?" America holds up a small, round wrapped package, and the smell of hamburger wafts up to England's nose and makes him want to vomit. America is the same as ever, the same person he had called idiot and mocked time and time again, why are you doing this to me, I thought we were friends, please, please stop-

America leans even closer, holding the hamburger up to England's face. "I thought you were hungry, but I guess not." He takes a small bite, and juice drips down his chin, and before he can control himself England surges forward and licks it up.

"Give it to me," England tries to demand, but it comes out as a breathy whisper that sounds more like begging to America's ears, and England hates himself for it.

"Honey, I'd love to, but you've got to do something for me first," America murmurs in his ear before drawing back and sitting on his heels.

"Don't call me that," England shoots back weakly, but he is afraid- afraid of what America will have him do. "What do you want?"

America grins darkly, and England shudders. "Hurt yourself," he breathes, tracing a hand down England's calf and pinching at a scabbing wound. "Make yourself scream. Make yourself cry."

England chokes on the protests that try to bubble out of his throat. His body hurts, he is too weak, he doesn't want to cause himself more pain, he cannot possibly give America the satisfaction- but God his stomach is burning and empty, and he can feel the acid eating away at him from the inside, and the gnawing agony of starvation is enough to convince him.

He trails his fingers down his body, unable to suppress a whimper of pain as his cut arm is stretched almost unbearably. His fingers pass over the rough surfaces of scabs and dried blood and tender burns until he comes to a gaping wound just above his hip. Biting his lip, he digs his nails into it.

The sound that leaves his mouth is not a scream, but it is more than a cry, so it seems to be enough for America as his eyes darken in excitement and his grin widens until England thinks hazily that he will split his face in two. The food is still held away, so England digs his fingers further, scissoring and stretching the flesh until he is sobbing with agony, toes curled and lip bitten all the way through.

He heard the sound of a zipper being undone, and suddenly America was breathing harshly. "Yeah, baby," he panted. "Just like that."

England feels his teeth clack together through his torn lip and pulls his fingers out with a whimper, staring in horror at America. The other nation continues stroking himself languidly, gazing with half-lidded eyes at England, motioning for him to continue.

"You... You sick bastard," England chokes out, averting his burning face. "You're insane."

"Keep going, darling," America says lowly, threateningly, and England reluctantly obeys.

He brings his fingers up to his chest, leaving a thick trail of bright red, fresh blood in their wake, and touches the edge of one broken rib. It is jutting out so far, England can feel the jagged edge resting just against his skin, held in place only by a thin layer of tissue. He pushes down and screams.

"Oh God, England," America breathes, a slight hitch in his words, and England sobs in fear and pain and revulsion. A warm hand encircles his own, a thumb rubbing soothing circles on his palm, and England sighs in relief. His suffering was over, he would get to eat- but the hand only pushes down harder.

"Oh f-fuck, oh God no, America, please please no, America!" England shrieks, tears streaming down his face as he is torn from the inside. America, still holding England's hand, pushes the bone up and down faster and faster, in time with the stroking of his cock. And soon England can't even scream anymore, can only cry and gasp hoarsely, because his chest is compressing too much, his body ripped too much, and he can't breathe, can't see-

And suddenly it stops with a rush of stale air into his lungs and the disgusting splatter of warm liquid on his ankle, seeping into his wounds and burns. England collapses into a shuddering pile on the mattress.

"Leave me alone," he croaks, his breath hitching with sobs. "Please, no more, I can't take any more."

America runs a disgustingly wet hand down England's cheeks, tenderly, softly. "Oh, but baby, you were so good," he croons, caressing England's face. "And don't you want your reward?"

There is a rustle of wax paper and the damned hamburger is back in front of England's face again. Through the tears and agony he realises he is still hungry, because he hasn't eaten in what feels like days and if he doesn't regain strength he doesn't have a chance of escaping. So he opens his mouth and tries to take a bite, but the food is held just too far away from him. So, cringing, he strains forward, lips opening and closing in search of the tantalising food, because he is too blinded by sweat and tears to really see it. He looks like a desperate, ravenous man- and he is, he realises with a pang of panic, he is- and he doesn't want to look so pitiful in front of his former best friend, but God, he can't help himself.

"Look at you, England," America sighs, and England is repulsed by the adoration he hears in the tone, because he has lost all respect for himself. "So needy, so desperate. Only I can give you what you want, yes?" The hand is back to stroking his cheek, but England ignores it to take more bites out of the hamburger. "You don't need the others. You don't need Europe, you don't need the world. Just me. The two of us against everyone, right?"

And God, England remembers America promising that what seems like a lifetime ago, when it had just been the two of them sitting out in England's rose garden and counting shooting stars. He cries silently as he finishes the food, and licks America's fingers for the last taste.

.o.o.o.o.o.

The meeting was more subdued than any they had ever had before, and Japan was worried. It had been a week and two days since anyone had last seen England, and in desperation they had called an emergency meeting after reporting him as missing to Interpol.

The United Kingdom was a mess. Scotland had taken over for time being, and even if he acted like he didn't care, Japan could see the worry in his eyes. Not to mention, the newly-elected government was floundering. With a hung parliament, the looming Olympics event, and a missing nation, the people were close to rebellion.

America was a wreck, Japan noticed from the corner of his eye. Of course- the States had just said that it had "no closer friend and ally than the United Kingdom", so Japan imagined that America was taking it much harder than the rest of the world. The superpower seemed haggard these days, always tired but always offering up a smile when spoken to. Japan had to admire his brave face- his own impassive mask was cracking and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it together for long.

He had to speak. He had to break the quiet that had settled over all the world somehow. He couldn't take this for much longer.

"I think we should look for England-san ourselves," he said, not softly, but firmly, with conviction. He looked around at the other nations, seeing them perk up and sit at attention, and he smiled a little. "Interpol will be more concerned about other things, seeing as nations are near immortal and will be reborn unless the country is dissolved. England-san will not be their first priority. I propose to form an investigation party of a few of us, so that the rest will be able to keep an eye out for other important events."

"A very good suggestion. I second the motion," Germany said, nodding, and he too looked around the table. "Who would like to be part of the investigation?"

America's hand shot up. A few people raised theirs more slowly, but not lacking the conviction of the first. Russia, China, Portugal, India, Canada, France, Spain, and Prussia- how had he gotten into the meeting again? Japan raised his own hand.

"Good. Who would like to be the head of the investigation?"

"I will," America spoke through a clenched jaw, setting his untouched cup of coffee on the table loudly.

"I think America-san deserves the position, Germany-san," Japan said, casting a glance at the superpower and seeing a small but delighted smile. He smiled in turn.

No one disagreed.

III

'Just give me a number instead of my name, forget all about me and let me decay.'

Today England is woken by a kiss.

He tries to pull away, but America holds him in place with his hands, forcing his tongue into his mouth and gripping his head so tightly England can see stars. England chokes on the tongue, screams into the kiss, but he can do nothing but lie back as America takes what he wants without mercy.

"Good morning," America greets breathily as he pulls away, and England cannot bear to look at his sunny smile. "Guess what?" England stays silent, and America pouts at this, but continues cheerily. "Interpol's marked you as 16th priority! Lots of stuff have been happening so you've been shunted down their list. And that means, baby," America nuzzled against England's neck. "They're not looking for you. We've got all the time in the world!"

A sob threatens to spill from England's throat, but he closes his mouth and does not make a sound. He has lost so much of his pride that every ounce given up is even more of a sacrifice.

"Oh, and the nations are looking for you," America adds. England doesn't dare to voice the hope in his heart, but it must show in his eyes because America throws back his head and laughs. "Ten nations, England. Ten out of how many?" He kisses England's unresponsive lips again, gently this time. "They don't care about you, Iggy. Not the way I do. They've all forgotten you, my darling, and I'm the only one you can trust."

England doesn't believe.

When he is pulled up tenderly to rest with his back against the wall, he feels every trickle of warm life that courses down from himself to spread on the mattress. For the first time England wonders how it would be to die.

"What will you do to me today?" he asks harshly, because if there is one thing he hates more than the pain, it is the uncertainty. He does not expect an answer and does not receive one. Instead America stands up and begins to remove his jacket and shirt. England shudders at the sight and averts his eyes, panic rising in him, because the only times America ever takes off clothing are when he doesn't want to get bloodstains on them.

"Fucker," he snarls, as viciously as he can manage with his burning throat. "There is nothing you know of honour, is there? What kind of man are you?"

America pulls something from a hook on his belt- it is a whip, and England shivers when his blood runs cold in his veins. America turns around, his broad, scarred back facing England, and he walks to the other side of the room, his hands moving along the length of the whip lovingly.

"Remember when we bought this, Iggy?" he says softly. "Ten-fifteen in the morning, on a pretty summer's day in California. It was such a surprise, wasn't it, finding the costume shop? I bought the Indiana Jones whip, and you called me an idiot and asked when I could ever use it. As you can see now, I've made some alterations just for you." His finger stops dancing over the whip and England's eyes widen in fright when he notices the thickness of the braided leather and the glint of small silver hooks. "It's to show you how much you need me, baby. Nothing to be afraid of."

America turns on his heel to face England, snapping the whip against the floor, a depraved grin on his face. With every step he takes, he cracks the whip again, and England struggles against his chain, forcing his exhausted body to move while staring up at his captor in terror. The combined force of America's strength and the strength of the heavy whip sends spider-thin cracks all through the tiles, and England whimpers.

Then he screams as America brings the whip down on his feet, tearing through healing skin and tender muscle to the bone beneath. Tears spill from his eyes as America goes for a second round, this time lashing at his thighs. It does not go through to the bone but the silver hooks catch onto his flesh and rip it apart, and he shrieks in pain and his mouth babbles incoherent words that turn into pleads for mercy.

"America, please, please don't do this to me! Please stop, oh God it hurts, it hurts, no more, I'm begging you America, please no..."

The whip is coming down on him again, this time aiming for his chest, and in desperation England throws up his free arm in an attempt to block it. His hand collides with the leather and he fears it will be torn off, but America seems to have changed his mind at the last minute and the hooks are embedded in his palm.

He is still muttering incoherent, agonized sounds when America crouches down in front of him, thighs on either side of his hips. America's eyes are wild and unhinged, and England does not have to look between his knees to know his reaction to the torture. But surprisingly America takes England's hand and gently removes each hook, pressing his lips against the wounds left behind one by one.

"See, darling?" he murmurs between kisses. "I take care of you. What will it take to make you see that we deserve each other?"

England closes his eyes, still wet with pain, and offers no resistance against the affection shown to him as he is moved like a doll in America's hands. But the moment is short-lived, and soon America is rocking his hips against England's nakedness. The pain returns again but England can barely concentrate on the harsh friction of America's jeans against his injuries. He is tired, too tired to protest as America takes his pleasure from him, too tired to register the words of adoration whispered in his ear.

He is almost lost, and that frightens England more than any torture.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Sometimes Russia remembered the old days and smiled. He recalled those days when he was huge and terrifying, and all nations bowed to him or were crushed (and crush them he did, gleefully and without remorse). He remembered the loneliness and stolen moments of guilt, but also there swam within his memories an indescribable exhilaration, an incomparable adrenaline rush at the feeling of owning others so wholly they were a part of him.

Sometimes Russia looked into America's eyes and saw himself.

He did not yet mention this to anyone, no, but he suspected. The search for England was still fruitless after one and a half months, and every clue they got drove America into a frenzy. Yet every lead was false, every raid a wild goose chase, and though everyone patted America's back and comforted him, Russia kept his distance.

Russia remembered the Cold War. He remembered the acts that America was capable of, the atrocities promised but never committed. But Russia was sure that America only lacked the right trigger, the right victims, and that there was a monster lurking in the depths of the bright mirror eyes and film star smile that he had always envied. There was something wrong with the way America said England's name. Russia was the only one who noticed, of course- though Canada had also looked uncomfortable for a second before wiping the thought out of his mind- because Russia had memorised America's face, actions and inflections long ago, when his spies still roamed the States and deceived his people.

He needed to tell someone. One voice out of ten did not count for much unless you were America. Spotting India walking past, he grabbed her by the wrist and flashed her a smile. She shuddered and pulled her head away.

"What do you want, Russia?" Her voice was cold.

"There is something wrong, da?" He wore his childlike smile but his tone was serious. "England is still nowhere to be found, though we have been working for a long time. I think America is acting very suspicious-"

"Oh stop it," she snapped, losing all pretence of respect for him. "I don't have time for your petty rivalry-"

"I am speaking the truth!" he protested. "I believe America is hiding England!"

Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over the bright sari she wore. "And why should I believe you? Nothing you have ever done has shown you can be trusted. Go home, Russia. I don't have time for your silly games." She walked away without a backward glance.

Russia, not for the first time, remembered the old days and regretted.

Behind him, hidden from view, America smiled.