...If I was to say that this fic is like anything, I would describe it as a combination of Nineteen Eighty-Four and Inception (with Hetalia thrown in, obviously!).

I know. It's a seriously strange, sort-of-accidental mash-up. o.O

Shatter

[1/2]

"Close your eyes." America smiled at him, his fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead. "Close them. I want to show you something. That thing I said I was working on, remember? Go on, shut your eyes. It's a surprise."

"You shouldn't," England replied, looking up at him. "No, you really shouldn't. Please don't do this, Alfr—"

"Sshhh. It'll be alright, I promise. This is still our little secret, Arthur."

"You don't know that. You just think that. You want to think it." England didn't dare touch him but gazed at him pleadingly, riding out their rhythmic rocking with no emotion whatsoever but for his sudden panic. "This is getting out of hand and you know it. Think of Antonio, think of... of Feliciano and Ludwig—"

"Relax, will you? I told you, this frequency is much too low for them to detect."

"Alfred—"

"Close your eyes, Arthur. It'll be better. I'm going to hack you anyway, you know, so you might as well."

"Don't, Alfred, for god's sake! It's too risky! You haven't even tried—"

America simply grinned and then it was too late. It was done. England opened the eyes he had never closed and found himself standing next to America in a wide sunny street, part of the pretty sprawl of Suburbia; they were before a small, beautiful house with lush grass neatly bordered by a white fence like a lace collar. It had a little blue mailbox by the gate and a deep, glossy front door beneath a filigree porch.

"What do you think?" America asked cheerfully, putting his arm around England's shoulders and holding him close. "This is for you, Arthur. I built it for you all by myself. Only the best."

"This…" England slipped out of America's grasp, wide-eyed as he looked around.

It all felt so real, the fresh warmth of the air, the sweet taste of neatly-barbered grass on his tongue, the fine powder-gold of the sun as it fell on everything there was to see. There was an entire street to match the gift-house, homes running down both sides, all with their own breadbin-mailboxes on white poles and twee front doors at the hearts of charming porches. There were cars, too, colours like sky-blue and pale-silver and rocket-red, one, two, even three parked per drive.

"You made this up," England said at length.

America shrugged.

"Well, sure," he agreed good-naturedly. "For you, I guess. For this. I mean, we were just fucking in a hotel room not half a minute ago, under the supervision of our ever-present attendants – in fact, that hasn't changed, babe. We're still fucking in a hotel room and those attendants are still there, watching us uninterestedly, doing their job, blah blah blah. So, yeah, this is made up – I built this on that super-low frequency we use to conduct our little affair and hacked you with it—"

"I know that," England said pithily. "I'm talking about this." He opened out his arms wide. "The way it looks. This is the American Dream, Alfred. This isn't real. This isn't what it really looks like."

America smiled brighter at him.

"Actually," he corrected gleefully, "it does look somewhat like this. So all that screwing we do, right, totally boosts my economy – that's the point, after all. Of course, the war helped out with that too, not gonna lie, but the thing is that the American Dream was built on that money. This is what it looks like, Arthur. If you think it looks too superficial, too man-made, well... this is how millions of Americans live."

"Well, I'm not American," England sighed. "So why this? I was fine before, you know – with your other last-minute simulations. Even just editing out the attendants or other nations so... so we could actually be alone while we're having sex..." He shook his head. "Why this? This is dangerous and you know it, trying to build us some little cutaway life, a damned escape route – so why?"

America blinked at him, appearing confused; he crossed to England again, taking his hands.

"Well, because this is the American Dream," he explained, "and so I dream of it."

(At world meetings, there was a big electronic board which constantly updated the rise and fall of international economies, pulsing them like a heart monitor, and it was the job of the attendants to keep track of their country's position, take note of matches and thus direct them into the appropriate... liaison. There were tables for this, three of them, and additional flat surfaces if really required. The meeting went on as usual, undisturbed by the nations coming and going between one another – there was no embarrassment or privacy about this sex, nothing personal or loving, perhaps a little bit friendly if the nations in question happened to naturally like one another as acquaintances (though nothing more).

This wasn't about sex – this was enforced coupling of nations every time their economies affected one another, governments desperately trying to balance out the global market to avoid another Great Depression; that and bettered international relations, of course, in the hopes of avoiding another world war. With this, there was no favouritism and no resentment, no love and no hate between countries, and it had been decided that this was how the world needed to work.

It had to be tightly controlled.)

Germany was sitting to the side with his attendant – a sour-looking man with a thin moustache by the name of Dreher – patiently awaiting his turn; every now and then Dreher gave an impatient cough and glared at America before turning his gaze on the present attendants of America himself and also England, tapping at his watch. America's attendant, tall and white-haired, had been in the US Army during the war, Colonel Clark, and knew all about the importance of time-keeping; nonetheless, he didn't much care for the German attendant's impatience and only addressed America some minutes later, sounding rather bored.

"Hurry it up, Alfred," he drawled in his lazy Southern twang. "I don't know why you always take your sweet time with Arthur, he ain't got much to offer you besides what Britain owes us."

Hall, the British attendant (a stocky man with his greying hair combed neatly back) harrumphed over his newspaper and America scowled, pausing to glance at Clark.

"Sorry, sir," he bit out. "I guess I'm kinda tired. This is the sixth time this morning."

"Well, we aim to make it seven," Dreher said coolly, "so hurry yourself along."

Germany shot America an apologetic look. America simply glanced at him uninterestedly before turning his attention back to England, who lay beneath him on the table with his hands clasped across his stomach. They were always positioned very regimentally, with no contact allowed but for the penetration itself – no kissing, no touching, no leaning close to whisper – and the most common away of going about it was to have the receiving nation lie on their back on the table, their legs overhanging the edge, and the giving nation stand over them. It was practical and put a lot of distance between them but they were still able to look at one another during the act, which was roughly about half of the point. It was about building bridges, after all, in both economy and relations. Spain had once said, rather loudly and bitterly, that if all they were meant to do was fuck and be done with it, why the hell didn't they just do it from behind; to which the answer had been "Well, we want you all to be friends – just not good friends"—

Not good friends and certainly not lovers.

(Spain wasn't going to be asking things like that anymore.)

"Are you alright?" England asked, looking up at America's exhausted face.

America smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, I'm good," he replied. "Just, you know, tired."

England gave an understanding nod. In the aftermath of the war, the United States had become the richest and most powerful country in the world, making its economy by far the strongest and most dominant player. As such, America himself was, for lack of a better phrase, constantly "in demand", every tiny twitch in his economy constantly having knock-on effects on everyone else's – and countries which had crawled out of WWII in utter ruins were his most common bedmates. England in particular found himself constantly underneath America, owing him millions in US dollars because of Truman's enforcement of the Lend-Lease being repaid in full—

America, nonetheless, always had at least a kind smile for him (and often more).

"It's alright," England sighed, shifting a little. "Just finish. Ludwig has been ever so patient."

He turned his head to look at Germany as America continued to slam diligently against him, sweat beading on his forehead, glasses slipping. Germany met England's eyes only briefly before looking pointedly away. He wasn't embarrassed – nobody was embarrassed, this was the only way they could remember it – but he looked decidedly uninterested, instead scanning the room. His clear blue eyes settled on something but England didn't follow his gaze for fear of giving him away. He knew that Germany was looking at North Italy.

Relationships were utterly forbidden and no two nations were ever allowed to be alone together; in fact, nations were not even allowed to be alone in a group, accompanied by their attendants 24/7. At world meetings, at functions, at dinners, they were not allowed to sit next to one another, interspersed by handlers. They were allowed to talk freely enough between one another but never permitted to whisper anything, constantly having to speak at a level which could be heard by their attendants, and some topics were warningly headed off. They were not allowed to touch one another except for handshakes, not allowed to give one another anything and phone calls were absolutely prohibited.

This total control over the nations was a new thing, decided at the peace talks following the end of the Second World War. There had been too much freedom before. Nations had formed their own private alliances between one another, becoming fast friends and bitter rivals and falling in love, and all too often these relationships had jarred with those of international politics. Sometimes nations didn't want to fight one another – or, rather, sometimes they did, simply out of pure hatred. Emotional responses which mimicked those of human society, it had been agreed, had no place in the new world order.

And so the nations had had their memories prior to 1945 wiped, been fitted with brand new technology which allowed them to enhance and neutralise each others' economies when they coupled physically and been placed under the constant supervision of a chosen attendant from their country. Things had been like this for thirteen years and showed no signs of changing.

(It was just that some memories were harder to eliminate than others.)

—

America was still finishing up with Germany when Spain's attendant, a round, olive-skinned, balding man named García, came up to the podium and cleared his throat. Spain stood at his side, looking out at the gathered crowd of countries and handlers with a new and wary look on his face. At this, a few pairs of eyes turned towards South Italy, who was looking very fixedly at the floor.

Behind him, England heard America panting for breath and Germany muttering that he was sorry; he turned to look and Hall took him firmly by the chin and directed his face back towards the podium.

"I think you will do well to pay some attention to this, Arthur," Hall said coldly. "You're on rather thin ice yourself, old boy."

England pulled his head away with a scowl but didn't dare look back at America. It wasn't worth the risk.

García adjusted the microphone and looked keenly around at his audience.

"Well," he said in his rich accent, "we all know why we are here today – and while it was a lot of time, money and effort we Spanish could have done without wasting, I am pleased to announce on behalf of my country that the emotional mutation in our national economic representative has been dealt with."

There was some polite applause, mostly from the attendants. England felt his stomach sink and looked at France, who was sitting on the other side of Hall. France met his gaze; he looked crestfallen as well. This was the second time that this had happened – the first had been Belarus, whose aggressive affinity for Russia had been present even after her memory had been wiped post-WWII.

García took Spain by the shoulder and pushed him forward.

"The glitch was within his original personality, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," García went on. "I am pleased to announce that, after some work, we were able to completely wipe this personality and, with it, all of his memory and perceived relationships with other nations. Please, you will refer to him by the name of Alonso from now on, for while he remains the same in body, in mind and personality he is an entirely different person – one which has no feelings whatsoever, romantic or otherwise, towards Lovino Vargas."

There was a dreadful hush on the part of the nations; America was done with Germany and they were fixing their clothing in silence, caught up beneath the same horrified spell as everyone else. García gestured towards them, looking at Spain.

"Alonso," he said in a kind voice, "these are your colleagues. You will get to know them better later, of course."

Spain nodded and smiled his exact same vapid, friendly smile.

"Hola," he said pleasantly. "My name is Alonso. I look forward to working with you all."

It sounded so rehearsed, so unnatural, that it was sickening. It had probably been programmed into him alongside his new personality. England tried to catch France's gaze again but France wouldn't look up from his lap, his blonde hair curtaining his face.

García led Spain off the stage and took him to sit down; their presence was replaced by a pale, ruffled-looking Germany, accompanied by Dreher. In his thick accent, his voice sounding a little shaken, Germany began to speak. Over his head, the names and numbers continued to shift and change, bumping about until they found matches.

"France and Poland." Fonteneau, France's attendant, stood up, taking France by the elbow. "14.3 match."

Poland's attendant stood too, ushering Poland along.

"Come, Feliks," he said briskly.

Poland followed obediently, though he looked rather sulky. He and France were taken to the back of the room and the meeting carried on as though nothing had happened. By the time they returned, Poland distractedly smoothing his hair down, Austria had been matched with Belgium, France had been matched again with Norway and America was fast asleep in his seat.

South Italy didn't look up at all.

"Come on, boys, lickety-spit," Hall muttered, folding his arms. "You know you aren't really meant to be enjoying this."

"Ah, but Francis is such a particular creature," Fonteneau said sardonically. "You must understand that he is an artist even in this, Monsieur Hall."

France grinned down at England before rolling his eyes. England nodded agreeably. He was on his back again and had his arms folded because he hadn't known quite what else to do with them; France was riding him, doing most of the work, and of course the natural thing to do would be to put his hands on France's thighs or at his waist to give him some support. That was prohibited, of course, so England just let France get on with it and hoped he didn't lose his balance. They were on a bed in a hotel room but it still wouldn't do for him to fall.

France wasn't like America. Nobody was like America – who was so powerful that he had worked out how to override the matching frequency of the electronic economy systems in their bodies and delve into a lower one, hacking his partner and taking them with him.

—Well, taking England with him. America had sworn that England was the only person he did this to – the only person he shared this coveted privacy with. On that much lower communication level, far too low to be detected by their attendants and their little handheld devices which measured the compatibility of the various couplings and recorded the economy neutralisation effects, America and England could actually have a proper, unmediated conversation.

That was where Spain had made his mistake. He had loved South Italy but he had lacked the privacy to do it in. He had said it out loud.

England, too, didn't know how to do it; and neither did France. Only America, with his leading economy and military strength, was able to secretly override the system and say whatever the hell he wanted. France was, nonetheless, quite talkative during sex, usually pushing as far as he could get away with before being reprimanded by Fonteneau.

"Antonio must have told Lovino that he loved him," he said, holding England's gaze. "That is the only explanation, non?"

England nodded again.

"And of course he was heard," he replied quietly. "He must have forgotten himself and... and said it while they were making love."

"Arthur," Hall said warningly.

England turned his head to look at his attendant, his expression resentful.

"What?" he asked tartly.

Hall snorted.

"Don't use phrases like 'making love'," Hall replied. "You know perfectly well that those sorts of things don't exist for you."

England averted his eyes to the ceiling again and crossed one ankle over the other, making France rock a little bit.

"Perhaps not," he said, "but nonetheless I expect that is what they were doing. That was why they wiped him."

France grinned again.

"So you do not consider this to be love-making, mon ami?" He pretended to sigh. "Even though I am trying so hard to please you."

"Piss off, you disgusting frog."

"Arthur!" Hall looked livid. "If you cannot be civil – or, indeed, appropriate – then keep your mouth shut."

"Oui, Arthur, be nice," France pouted teasingly. "But not too nice, of course. We wouldn't want anyone to think that you liked me."

"Francis," Fonteneau barked.

France simply glanced at England once more and they shared a sour smile.

"I'm pretty amazing, huh?" Lying side-by-side on the bedsheets, America turned his face towards England, his cheek flat against the mattress. "I can't even feel that I'm actually screwing you." He squeezed England's hand tighter. "Feel anything down there?"

England rolled his eyes.

"No, nothing," he replied dryly. "Thank god. You lack finesse."

America laughed.

"I fuckin' shouldn't," he said. "I get the most practice outta everyone. Those damn attendants have always got their countries queuing up for a piece of American pie."

England shuddered.

"That's a hideous mental image," he muttered.

"Yeah? Well, do you like this mental image better?" America gestured around the room. "It's just a plain old hotel room – the same one we were in thirty seconds ago. That we're still in, actually."

England smiled.

"I do like this better," he said. He paused, enjoying the artificial silence. "Because we're completely alone."

"I know, right?" America held up their clasped hands. "Look at this right here. Absolutely scandalous."

"Downright filthy behaviour," England agreed. "Next you'll be wanting to... to go for a walk in the park or visit the museum!"

"Oh, my innocence!" America laughed and threw his free arm over his eyes. "You've utterly ruined me, Mr Kirkland, you shameless fiend, you."

England batted at him.

"Do hush. You're making me sound positively wicked."

"You are positively wicked. You're a criminal – a thief, to be exact."

"Why?" England grimaced. "Don't tell me that I stole your heart."

"Boo." America pouted. "You saw through it."

"I know you too well, I think."

America smiled again.

"Well, that's good," he said happily. "I'm glad. We've got a lot of history, you and I, but of course they fuckin' wiped it – so I'm glad you know a little something about me, at least."

England nodded but didn't reply, looking up at the ceiling. He knew he was looking up at the exact same ceiling in reality, though it was probably a bit obscured by America's shoulder as he thrusted.

"Hey." America rolled onto his side and nudged at England. "What's up? Can you feel the half-assed job I'm doing or something?"

England shook his head.

"No," he sighed. "I was... just thinking about Antoni—ah, I mean Alonso." He frowned. "No, I suppose I was thinking about Antonio. Was he stupid? He must have been rather vocal about it because it seems that Lovino barely reciprocated."

"Mmm. Guess that's why they didn't wipe Lovino too."

"He must feel awful. I've never liked Lovino all that much but I do feel terribly sorry for him. Even if he didn't love Antonio in return, I'm sure he feels that this is his fault."

"Well, jeez, don't say that to him!" America said incredulously. "Have you been matched with him yet?"

"At this meeting?" England shook his head. "No. Have you?"

"Nuh-uh. I was with Alonso this afternoon, though."

"Oh? What's he like?"

America shrugged.

"He's alright, I guess. Kind of similar to Antonio, to be honest. Smiles a lot, stuff like that. I dunno, I guess I was a little disappointed since I was expecting him to be radically different, but then again all I did was give him a quick pounding in his hotel room, so maybe that's not a whole lot to go on. He could still turn out to be a total dickwad or something."

"Mmm." England shifted closer to America and laid his head on his shoulder. "...Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Antonio. Alonso." England sighed. "The whole thing. The way they wiped his personality completely, it's as though... well, as though he's dead."

America was silent for a long moment.

"Are you worried?" he asked at length.

"About what?"

"Us. This." America gave him a squeeze. "Are you worried they'll catch us and wipe us too?"

England didn't answer for a long while.

"...Do you think they will, Alfred?" he asked eventually.

America grinned and shook his head.

"Nah, I'm pretty confident about this. This frequency is so low it's off the chart. You know, the bottom of the chart." He turned his head and kissed England on the cheek. "Do you trust me, babe?"

England sighed.

"I suppose so," he muttered. "There's no denying that you're very good at this."

"Great – because I'm working on a little something."

"What?" England asked suspiciously.

"Haha, you have to wait and see. It's a surprise – but if I can pull it off, I think you'll like it. Might take a while, though, because I'm still messing around with stuff and it's going to take a lot more power than it does to generate this."

England bit at his bottom lip.

"Well," he said defeatedly, "just don't overdo it, alright? This is fine, you know. I'm perfectly happy with this. You don't have to do anything magnificent for me, Alfred."

America merely laughed again and rolled over, gathering England right up in his arms and cuddling him close.

"It's no big deal," he promised. "Nothing's too magnificent for you, Artie. I want to give you the world."

"Are you done bitching now?" America asked cheerfully, pulling England up the steps of the quaint gingerbread porch. "Hot damn, you get worked up sometimes. I told you it would be fine. It's always been fine before – why wouldn't it be now?"

"Well, this... this is different," England replied lamely. "I know you've been working on this but... I didn't want anything to go wrong with the hack. Don't forget that we're not alone in the room, Alfred. All it would take would be one misfire and—"

"Well, hey, seize the day, huh?" America interrupted, opening the front door. "It's now or never."

He turned towards England and grabbed him about the waist, lifting him with ease.

"What are you doing?" England demanded, squirming in his grasp. "Unhand me!"

"Well, duh, I gotta carry you over the threshold." America laughed and stepped through the doorway with one stride, his cargo struggling the entire way.

"That's a bride, you moron!" England was incensed – and even more so when America didn't put him down. "I say, let go!"

"Aww, Arthur, I thought you were a stickler for traditions." America lifted England overhead, still gripping him around the waist. "Want me to spin you around?"

"Want me to kick you in the balls?"

America snickered.

"I don't know if it would hurt all the way down here," he said, shrugging.

"Shall we find out?" England asked dangerously.

"Oh, you," America teased; and he swung England down again, kissing him on the forehead as his feet touched the floorboards. "You're such a darling."

"I'm nothing of the sort."

England was about to fold his arms as haughtily as possible but America seized his hand and tugged at him, bringing him stumbling along after him.

"Come on, grand tour!" America cried gleefully. "This took me a while to put together so I want only positive feedback!"

"What," England said wryly, "are you scared I won't like it?"

America smiled brilliantly at him, leading through to the front room.

"Of course not," he replied. "I know you'll love it."

The house certainly was as beautiful inside as it was out; straight out of a housekeeping magazine, the absolute epitome of the perfect home (as dictated by the American Dream). The front room had plush, square furniture in pristine pastel colours and large windows edged with lace curtains, pretty lamps on prettier side-tables and cream carpet and a glass coffee table; a marble fireplace, too, and that luxury of all luxuries, a television. The next room was the kitchen, done out in white and chrome with mint-green walls and all the appliances money could buy, so modern that it seemed to have an electric buzz about it. Up the stairs (with their handsome carved banister) was the bathroom, black-and-white tiles and modern fittings, of course, not to mention the matching embroidered hand-towels and bath mat; next to this, the bedroom, all deep and rich colours, thick curtains and thicker carpet, matching dresser and wardrobe set and a tall, rectangular mirror bordered with a sharp pattern of frosted glass; oh, and those crisp, perfect sheets—

"Only one bed," England remarked, arching an eyebrow.

"Double bed," America replied.

"Still presumptuous."

"Tch, don't give me that." America tugged at England's hand, pulling him out of the bedroom and down to the last room. "You'll be all over me when you see this."

He pushed open the door to the study, revealing the cream walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, all full to bursting with books; there was a leather armchair next to a reading lamp, tall and brass and gothic with a shade of blown green glass, and a desk matching the bookcases with a typewriter in the centre of it like a crown jewel.

"Come on," America laughed, pulling England through the study, feeling him resist and try to go to the bookshelves to look. "You can appraise my literary choices to your heart's content in a moment, sweetheart. Come and look, there's more."

"Oh, my, how you're spoiling me," England sighed, allowing himself to be dragged away from The Complete Works of Charles Dickens.

"I know, right?" America wrapped his arms around England's waist from behind as he brought him to the window, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You can thank me later – very, very gratefully, of course."

"Of course."

"Well?" America knocked at the window, pointing at the little garden down below – quite different from the neat front lawn, instead bursting with colour, overflowing with all sorts of flowers so that their shredded contours spilled onto the winding cobblestone path at the heart of the yard. "Garden. You like flowers, right? And gardening and stuff?"

England frowned.

"I... I don't know." He glanced back at America. "Do I?"

America's smile faded a little.

"Oh, yeah," he replied. "Of course you, uh... you don't remember."

Seeing that America looked rather crestfallen, England went on hurriedly, "Well, it does seem like something that I would enjoy. I'm sure I can get into it – or back into it, anyway." He smiled down at the garden. "Regardless, it is beautiful, Alfred. It all is."

America grinned again.

"Do you really like it?"

"Of course I do. It's wonderful, it's... it's just—too much, really it is. You didn't have to do all this for me."

"I wanted to." America squeezed him in a hug, rocking him back and forth. "I just knew you'd love it."

"I do. Thank you, Alfred." England rubbed his hands on top of America's. "You're so kind sometimes."

America laughed against his neck.

"Well, gee, you're welcome. Now then... about that bed—"

"I should have known," England groaned. "It's ironic that that's what we are actually doing, isn't it?"

"Not like this. This would be more along the lines of... hmm, afternoon delight?"

England rolled his eyes.

"Where did you get that disgusting term from?" he asked wryly.

"You." America kissed the crook of England's neck. "During the war. You'd come up beside me and whisper it in my ear as casually as suggesting afternoon tea. Then we'd sneak off and go find the least awkward place we could to screw, which wasn't always easy. There wasn't much comfortable about that war – sometimes it was just in the back of one of the Jeeps or something. But it's okay. I know you don't remember."

"You do, though." England frowned. "Why is that, Alfred? You're not supposed to."

America shrugged.

"Who knows? I can do a lot of stuff I'm not supposed to." He gestured around at the beautiful little house surrounding them. "Like this." He began to bundle England out of the room. "Now come on, let's get cracking on christening those sheets."

England was more than compliant by the time America lifted him onto the bed, laughing as he pulled him down with him, carding his hands up through caramel-coloured hair as America wrapped his arms around him. They could touch one another down here – they could hold one another close and whisper whatever they wanted.

"Was it like this?" England asked breathlessly. "B-back then in... the Jeep or wherever?"

"This is better." America finished unbuttoning England's shirt and slid it off. "We can undress here; couldn't back then, you know, in case an air-raid warning went off or something."

"But was it... like this?" England insisted, enclosing his arms around America's neck. "I mean, we could... we could touch and... and kiss and whatever else we wanted, right?"

America smiled.

"Of course. It wasn't like now."

England closed his eyes and sighed, arching as America began to kiss his chest.

"I wish I remembered," he said. "They just use us like breeding animals now. Well, without the actual breeding part."

"Sure they're breeding us. Breeding our economies, anyway." Going lower, America kissed his navel, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks. "That's how I understand it."

Confused, England propped himself up, looking down at him.

"Where are you going?" he asked warily.

"Down here."

"Why are you going down there?"

America slipped down England's underwear with a hearty little laugh.

"Of course, of course," he said, "you don't... you don't remember this sorta—well, just hang on a tick and I'll show you..."

England scowled.

"I'm not naïve, you know," he bit out.

America merely smiled.

"You weren't," he agreed, "until they wiped out half your brain, babe. It's funny – this situation was the other way around once. April 1942. Good fuckin' times."

"Alfred, what on earth are you—?"

America lowered his mouth and England's indignant query died a death on his tongue, giving way to a strangled gasp; his back arched off the bed again as he felt that wet heat, that mouth he had taken for granted down here (but never, for all his memory served, truly tasted) enclosing around him, drawing him in tight like a secret. His scope of perceived experience was but thirteen years long, and for all those thirteen years, he could not recollect anything feeling quite like this, quite so stifling and narrow and focused, so intense and intent, even, on making him shudder, his whole body laying down arms to a domineering unresponsiveness so that he could do nothing but writhe as his nerve endings sparked and frothed. The bed, the whole room, in fact, felt as though it was shaking, its very existence stuttering, but he paid it no heed with that feeling like the sun blooming at his very core, wrapping his legs around America—

"Arthur. Arthur!"

(He sighed happily – and it didn't occur to him, of course, that it couldn't possibly be America who was saying his name, his mouth so wonderfully otherwise engaged—)

"—Arthur!"

He was shaken violently and opened his eyes with a gasp, panting as he looked around in bewilderment. Their pretty little house was gone and in its place that drab old hotel room, America leaning over him with his blue eyes wide behind his sliding glasses, looking rather shocked himself.

They were not alone, of course. Clustered close, pulling and wrenching at them, were Clark and Hall; dazedly, England wondered why they were being forcibly separated until he felt his knees being shoved apart and realised that he'd had his legs tangled about America's waist. One of his hands, too, was fisted in the lapel of America's suit jacket, clinging grim-death even as Hall fought to disentangle his white fingers.

"Let go, Arthur, for god's sake!" Hall hissed, prying him loose. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you—!"

Clark finally succeeded in pulling America away from England, pushing him back and placing himself between them. He coughed exaggeratedly, straightening his tie.

"Well," he said dryly, "this has been interesting." He glanced at America, who was still catching his breath, and snapped his fingers at him. "Alfred. Don't just stand there. Get yourself tidied up."

America, still looking rather bemused, gave a shaky nod, peeled off the condom and started to fix his clothing, watching England through his eyelashes as he fumbled with his zip.

England sat up, kneading at his forehead. He felt rather like a bolt of electricity had been shot straight through his skull, the violent separation of his and America's bodies leaving him shivering. The silence in the cramped hotel room was unnerving.

"Wh... what happened?" he asked hoarsely, glancing at Hall.

"What happened?" Hall sneered unkindly at him. "Why don't you enlighten us with regard to that matter? The pair of you suddenly went very quiet and didn't respond to neither Mr Clark nor myself – and then, not moments ago, Arthur, you seemed to think that it would be a good idea to breach the rules of this very mechanical coupling and took hold of Alfred's clothing, proceeding to follow this small violation with the much larger one of wrapping your legs about him like one of London's painted whores! If you would like to share with us what the devil came over you, please do!"

England shook his head, looking desperately at America – who met his gaze with the obvious silent plea of 'Don't say anything'.

"I... I don't know," England said lamely, looking down at the bedsheets. "It just... felt rather good, I suppose—"

"My bad," America interrupted hurriedly. "I was penetrating him kinda deep. Musta hit his prostate or something."

Clark cleared his throat.

"Well, I apologise, Mr Hall," he drawled. "It won't happen again, I assure you."

"No, no, I apologise," Hall replied. "This was about Arthur not having any bloody self-restraint. Yes, it certainly won't happen again..."

England looked helplessly at America as Hall went to the door to open it for Clark and America himself. His heart thundered in his chest, so terrified was he that they'd been caught at long last—

America merely grinned at him behind their attendant's backs and mouthed 'Next time' at him. Then he was ushered out of the door by Clark and was gone, leaving England staring longingly after him with his clothing still in disarray and only Hall for company.

Hall was furious. He shut the door and turned towards England, white with anger.

"What in God's name do you think you're playing at, eh?" he spat. "Do you mean to make us look like fools? Having me apologise to that goddamn Yankee – as if it wasn't bad enough that we owe them millions from a war we couldn't have won without them, we've got you clinging grim death to their economic representative while he's buggering you!"

"It was an accident," England replied coldly, righting his clothing. "It's not easy to maintain a stiff upper lip the entire time you've got someone's cock up your arse. It wasn't meant as an exercise in humiliation for Great Britain, for goodness' sake."

"I don't think you really care either way, do you?" Hall hissed. "The whole bleeding lot of you, acting all hard done by because we monitor you – you don't care that it's for a good reason."

"It's ridiculous!" England fired back at him. "This is all ridiculous! We don't fuck with the economy, we didn't start those wars – what good do you think this will really do in the long run? This looks like a simple solution, doesn't it, controlling us so that you'll control the world, but sometimes things just... well, just happen and there's nothing you can—"

"No, there will be no more "just happening"," Hall interrupted. "That is entirely the point. This system evaluates everything, levels everything into neutrality – and our tight control over who you may mix with and for how long, listening to every word you say, means that certain ideologies do not spread—"

"Communism," England groaned, rubbing at his forehead. "Damn it, Churchill..."

"Not only Communism – Nazism, Fascism... No more ideological warfare! No more people dying for their country!" Hall clenched his fists. "No more people dying for you, you selfish bastard. No more young men crying God for Harry, England and St George – while you sit back, well out of harm's way, and let them do it. I lost a brother and a nephew in that war, though they were all too happy to give their lives to serve you, England. Do you not think that it is time that you served your people in return?"

England looked away pointedly, turning his attention to the window, and Hall gave an impatient, exasperated sigh.

"You are well cared for," he bit out. "You want for nothing – food, clothing, shelter, all paid for by Parliament. We ask you to give only a fraction of what those young men gave."

"Ha," England replied bitterly. "You say that as though you have taken nothing from me – and yet I cannot remember a thing before 1945. This awful war you're talking about? I have no recollection of it whatsoever. I don't know how your nephew and brother died. I could not even begin to imagine it. To my knowledge, I have never seen death."

Hall shot him a wry smile.

"And you would curse us for stealing that from you?"

"We are political prisoners, not even allowed to touch one another, and you have the gall to call us pampered!" England spat. "I curse that you stole anything from me – you ask me to serve a people that I have no knowledge of! Is it any wonder that we are more drawn towards each other than to our duties? Heaven forbid that I should want to touch Alfred when he is always the kindest to me!"

"It is not Heaven which forbids it, as you know."

"Well," England replied archly, "as much as you treat us like mere machines, good for nothing but calculating our economies, you must know that we are more than that and cannot help it. You cannot banish emotions."

Hall's eyes darkened; and, perhaps feeling threatened, he slipped back the edge of his suit jacket just a little, letting the Browning pistol in its holster glint like a memory.

"Perhaps not," he agreed, "but we can punish them. Now if I were you, Arthur, I would watch my attitude – keep mouthing off as you have been doing recently and at best you'll end up like Antonio Carriedo and Feliciano Vargas."

England eyed the gun in disinterest before looking away again. Getting himself and America caught was a genuine worry – but nonetheless he didn't think that Gregory Hall had the balls to shoot him.

"And at worst?" he sighed.

Hall drew himself haughtily, eying England with genuine dislike.

"Well, you'll end up like both Beilschmidts, of course."

Oh, my how cryptic! Well, I hope everyone likes it so far. :3 As I'm sure you can tell by now, the italicised 'American Dream' segments take place at a later period than the rest of the narrative – everything will come together in the second half.

The full version of that immortal phrase: "The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"" – it's from Henry V by William Shakespeare. If it sounds particularly familiar, you're probably remembering that Robert Downey Jr's Holmes quoted it to Jude Law's Watson in the 2009 film Sherlock Holmes; 'the game's afoot' is commonly associated with Holmes in all aspects, having first been quoted by him in The Adventure of the Abbey Grange (1904) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

On a final, unrelated note that I sort of feel that I should mention anyway... Wow, I really can't believe it's been ten years since 9/11 tomorrow. I think because it still comes up so much in even day-to-day conversation, it really doesn't seem like it was a whole decade ago. o.O I expect that there will be some 9/11-themed works in this fandom tomorrow, which is fair enough – I just hope people will be both sensible and sensitive about it. It's such a significant anniversary and some people in the Hetalia fandom aren't exactly known for tact... and maybe that's okay usually since Hetalia itself doesn't seem to pull any punches over who it offends (even Korea~!), but... idk. I really hope people will treat this anniversary with the respect that it deserves.

AND NOW TO GET OFF THE SOAPBOX. XD

Thank you so much for reading! Please come back for Part II... whenever I write it! Arghhhh, my backburner isn't getting any shorter... This is why. D:

RR xXx