And here it is. DA FINALE! First half, USUK, second half, PruHun. Quick warning before you jump right in: LOTS OF ANGST AND REALLY DRAMATIC! Now without further ado...ENJOIIIII~

Red brick walls, black spiraling gates, spotless glass doors. Arthur stared into the hotel lobby with a slightly scornful expression on his face. His stomach began to squirm. He had known that he would eventually end up in this predicament sometime soon, but he hadn't expected it to be this soon. Only two days and he had already received a call. Was his father really that worried? A pang of guilt struck him in the chest. No, that can't be it. He may appear considerate...but in the end, isn't all he cares about image? Maybe he called me here because there has to be an explanation to the press for the cancellation of the wedding...but when had he ever discussed those things with me?

"So...Dukes Hotel, huh?" Alfred muttered, fixing the building before them with a distasteful, sideways gaze. "That's...ironic. Are you sure your old man isn't playing a joke on us?"

Arthur heaved an exasperated sigh and slipped his hand out of Alfred's bigger one, stalking towards the door. "No, unfortunately, he hasn't the sense of humour. Now come on, let's go."

"Ugh, I don't understand why it has to be in one of these fancy hotels," Alfred complained as the cool air-conditioning hit their faces. "Why can't your family be normal for once?"

"Well...I think you'll find him to be less autocratic than my mother. But I don't know what you dislike about the hotels. It's perfectly comfortable."

Arthur asked the receptionist about visiting a staying guest, then the two continued on their way to the lifts. Once they were alone in the lift, Alfred abruptly reached over to pinch his cheeks. "Yeah, it's comfortable for little rich boy Arthur!"

"Hey! Stop it! Let go!" Arthur cried, flailing his arms at Alfred frenetically.

"Whoa! Whoa, careful there. Haha." Alfred finally released his cheeks, which Arthur rubbed with tender fingers in irritation. He shot Alfred a glare.

"What was that for?!"

"Ha! You have so much baby fat on your face! No wonder!" Alfred burst into laughter, hugging his own stomach.

"Hey! Sod off, you wanker!" Arthur's face promptly heated up as he aimed several blind kicks at Alfred's leg.

"Ow! Ow! Violent rich boy! Jeez, you kick hard."

"That's what you get," Arthur smirked, arms crossed over his chest in triumph. Sometimes, he felt like he was ageing backwards at an exponential rate when he was with Alfred.

"Fine! Then maybe I should just go up to your old man and ask him if I could have his son!"

"What?! Don't you dare!" Arthur yelled, the air pressure in his head jumping up a few notches. "...I'll...tell him myself."

They fell silent. Only the soft hum of the little steel box remained.

"...Really?"

Arthur nodded, ducking his head in embarrassment.

"...You're really going to tell him everything?"

"You're so annoying!" Arthur burst out. "Yes! Okay?" He turned his back on Alfred, fuming. The truth was, he himself didn't know how to say it. But he had decided that he would at least tell his father why he was so against marriage. He had been secretly feeling like a shameful wretch ever since that day at the Ritz-Carlton. The worried look on his mother's face coupled with her uncharacteristically lacklustre hair and skin was enough to jolt him out of his own selfishness. She always took the utmost care of her appearance. Call it vanity or call it love of beauty, but she was convinced it was one of the only things she had left in life. So he began to think: Maybe he had overplayed this entire debacle. Maybe he had over-dramatised it. Maybe if he had just told his parents...Maybe he had been too caught up in himself.

"You know,"—he turned to face Alfred again, voice quivering slightly— "After this...there's no going back."

Alfred gave him a puzzled frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that after this...you're stuck with me the rest of your life." He turned his head away, only to find his own warped reflection on the white marble walls of the lift.

"Arthur..."

"I mean! I mean that you're going to have to take responsibility and put up with me no matter what! With my bad spending habits and luxury clothing and all that rich stuff you hate!" Ah. So this had been bothering him all along, somewhere deep down beneath his gut. What if Alfred got tired of him? Got annoyed with him? He knew that he was nowhere near patient or perfect.

Ding. They had finally reached the top floor. Alfred still hadn't responded, but had retained an inscrutable expression. Arthur followed him nervously out of the lift, a tight knot seizing his chest. Why wasn't he saying anything?

"I'll work really hard in Hollywood and earn lots and lots of money so you can spend all you want."

Arthur blinked. "What?"

"Well, that's the only thing I could think of! I'm not good at business, and I'm not rich like you and Gil! There's nothing else I can do!"

A still moment as they stopped in the hallway. Alfred faced him with honest, blue eyes. "I'm sorry if that's not enough for you."

"...Ha...No, I...I'm just..." Arthur tried to conceal the joy that shot up inside of him like a geyser. "...happy."

They exchanged no more words as they proceeded down the hall, their quiet footsteps treading the soft carpet discreetly. Because there was nothing else to say. Arthur knew for sure now that he was making the right choice. Life was constructed of a million different decisions, intricately weaved and folded thousands of times. You can never be sure of the future, so you try to be sure of all your decisions. And Arthur Kirkland had never been so sure of another decision in his life.

The room was spacious. Posh, with airy white and cerulean walls, comfortable armchairs, couches, and various other cushioned surfaces. The style was reserved, but still distinctly high-class without any of the elaborate finesse, just the way Arthur knew his father liked it.

The Duke himself was sitting across the tea table from Arthur, one leg crossed over the other. He hadn't changed much in the past year, for the exception of the increased number of grey specks amongst well-groomed, blonde locks. He was a slim man, much like Arthur himself, though slightly taller with scholarly, square spectacles upon his nose. He always called his own eye colour hazel, but in truth, there was no one colour that could describe his eyes. They were a unique blend of inky green, light beige, and a few wisps of dark coffee. Tranquillity poured out soundlessly from those eyes. They always had a calming effect on Arthur ever since he was a child. He had the appearance of someone very clean and intelligent, with an elegant posture and a hint of benevolence in the slight curve of his lips.

"Hello, Arthur," he said. Arthur thought that he caught the flicker of an attempt to smile.

"Hello..."

They were alone. Just the two of them. It suddenly occurred to Arthur how long it's been since the last time they were alone together. And how unpleasant that meeting had been. That's right...that last time...was when I found out about Peter.

"Arthur, do you know how much you made us worry?" His tone was not accusatory. In fact, he barely raised his voice, but it contained a taciturn impact nonetheless.

"...I'm sorry." Arthur fidgeted with the corner of his shirt. "For making you worry."

A thoughtful pause. "But I guess I can't blame you."

"...Huh?" Arthur was caught unawares. Can't blame me? I thought you would blame everything on me.

"I've done you wrong, Arthur. How can I expect you to forgive me so effortlessly?" He smiled a little sadly.

"I didn't run away because...It wasn't because of...that. It was because of the-"

"Marriage. I know. And I know that you wouldn't consent to it in the first place."

"So then why-?"

"Because when your mother insisted on marriage, I thought it would tie you down to the family. I had my own selfish reasons, you see. You're my son, Arthur. Don't you think that I can tell when you purposely try to distance yourself from me?"

"I..." The guilt inside his chest thickened. Perhaps he had been too unmethodical and unassuming, not to mention too overcome by his own egocentric desire for escape.

"As I've said before, I don't blame you. I realise that tying you down with an unhappy marriage is futile and unfair, especially when I myself am a victim of such a marriage."

Arthur said nothing. Only stared at the little flowers etched into the carpet. He had never heard his father discuss the state of his marriage before, though it was plain to Arthur it was far from successful.

"Even if you hate me, Arthur, I ask that you do not scorn your home," he continued. The twinge of forlorn in his peculiar eyes made Arthur unable contain his shame.

"I don't hate you!" Arthur gushed. "I don't...I just wanted freedom...but I was being stupid. I should have just...told you earlier...I just didn't know how..."

The Duke fixed him with a suspicious gaze. "What is it?"

"Look...You should probably let Peter inherit the title and estate."

The Duke's frown deepened, the lines on his forehead converging in a valley. Arthur was sure that he hadn't so many lines on his forehead the last time they met. "You know very well I can't do that, Arthur. So why would you suggest it?"

"Ah...well...you see...I'm probably never going to get married or have children."

He laughed a little and said, "Many people think that in their youth but soon change their minds afterward."

"No...it's not because..." Arthur clenched his hands together nervously, nails digging into his palm. The flowers in the carpet grew blurry. He had been hiding for so long he didn't know how to get out. He was afraid. Frightened, actually. Why can't I just bloody say it?! He didn't want to devastate his parents more than he already had.

"Are you in love with someone, Arthur?" Still sharp as ever...

"Erm..." He let out a long sigh and finally gave in. "Yes. I am. But it's not...what you think..."

"Please clarify," the Duke urged gently.

"I...I'm...ah...erm," –here goes a total whim—, "...I'm a homosexual. Erm. I like men."

He peered up at his father carefully. The Duke was staring at him his mouth hanging slightly ajar, and astonishment written clearly on his face. But he quickly recovered, blinked a few times, and managed, "Ah. I see."

Arthur was uncertain. Was he angry? He seemed normal enough. But he was good at hiding things like this.

"So you're in love with a man..." the Duke mused, as if reorganising his thoughts.

Arthur nodded, using all his willpower to prevent himself from hiding his face. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or suspicious that his father seemed to be taking this surprisingly well. If it was with his mother...she would be in hysterics by now.

"Well, then. As long as you're sure it's love," the Duke said after a long moment of contemplation. Unexpectedly, he seemed more intrigued than disgusted.

"But...you're not going to disown me?" Arthur became quizzical at once. He had always thought his father as overly conservative, whether it came to politics or societal standards. He had thought that both his parents would throw a fit and then try to 'fix' him like he was a mental patient.

"What? No, of course not. I'm not your mother, Arthur," he said, giving his son a funny kind of frown. "I was just surprised, that's all." A thoughtful pause, and then, "You know, when you were growing up, I was quite unhappy with the principals your mother was filling you up with. But I didn't say anything because she's rather...provocative. But I eventually began regretting that you've become spoiled and idle and that it was too late to change anything. While I've failed as a father, I'm glad you worked it out on your own." Arthur drew a blank. What? Was this his father the Duke? He sat there with a vacant stare as he cautiously revisited his own memories. Every summer he spent in Switzerland and every winter he spent in Berkshire...And now that he thought about it, his mother was the one who always taught him about prestige and wealth. His father had always stood back and gave a few nods. He had thought that it was simply a way of expressing agreement, but it appeared that it was not the case at all. What...does that mean that I haven't known my own father for all these years?! He was dumbfounded.

"So," His father soon interrupted his train of thoughts with a soft reminder. "It's silly of me to ask you now, but how are you, Arthur?" He smiled, the edges of his strange, rare eyes crinkling like folds in a thin piece of paper.

"I...I'm fine." Arthur cleared his throat. It was a rather empty answer, but he didn't know what else to say.

"I see. And what about money? Are you getting by?" Ah, so this was what he was concerned about.

"Well, I haven't starved to death yet. I'm cutting back though. From how I used to spend anyway." And it was painful. He suspected it would be the closest he'll ever get to rehabilitation in his life.

His father chuckled in amusement and said, "I remember you distinctly declared you could not live without your car. What was it...the Aston Martin if I'm not mistaken."

"Ah...right...the Aston Martin..." God, I miss that car! "Unfortunately, I had to sell it. But the Audi right now is alright. I had Gil add a few features and it drives quite smoothly."

"...I've been wondering this since you mentioned lover, but is he by any chance-"

"No! No...haha. Gilbert's...normal." Arthur hadn't the energy to tell the story of his unrequited love. Not right now at least. It was a story for another day.

"Ah. I see. So who...?" He could see that his father was genuinely interested, which was quite uncommon outside the realm of history, economics, politics, and golf.

"He's an American. His name is Alfred." It was strange talking about Alfred to the Duke, especially when the very subject was right outside the door. But no. He wasn't going to introduce his American boyfriend to his aristocrat father that day. It was still too early for that. But perhaps one day...

His father arched an eyebrow, then suddenly began to laugh. "You've always had a knack for surprising me," he chuckled. Arthur allowed himself a few laughs, too. For the first time in a long while, he was confident about who he was and where he came from.

He glanced towards the clock on the wall. "I best be on my way," Arthur said in a tone of finality as he stood up. The Hub was open for business in approximately 20 minutes.

The Duke stood up, too, as if afraid he would miss his chance to bid his son farewell. "Take care, Arthur. And come home once in a while." Then he added, as an afterthought as Arthur reached for the door handle, "Now I have to relate this story to your mother. I'll be looking forward to that." Arthur was left with the Duke's mild, good-humoured chuckle as he stepped out into the hallway and rejoined Alfred's side. He shut the door behind him with a soft thump.

"So, how was it?"

"It was...I have a home again." Those words fell light upon his chest as the two rode their way down the lifts and strolled out the glass door onto St. James. The skies were clear for a short window after days of being grey and downcast. Without knowing it, Arthur found his hand entwined in Alfred's. He smiled quietly to himself as he listened to his companion ranting about a new Hollywood film that was going to be in theatres next week.

They crossed the street onto the pavement, and Arthur suddenly had the odd feeling that someone was watching them. He whipped around, and his eyes fell on the white sash window on the sixth floor of Dukes Hotel. Sweeping aside the thin, silk curtains with one arm, his father's familiar figure perched behind the glass pane. The Duke gazed down at them with a slightly amused smile upon his lip.

"Arthur? Arthur! What's wr-" Alfred stopped, too, and craned his neck up at the window. To Arthur's surprise, his father the Duke smiled and waved.

"Oh! Hey! Is that your old man?!" Alfred asked with unnecessary gusto and thrill. "He's not so bad!" Alfred, to Arthur's great chagrin, eagerly waved back.

"What're you-" Arthur started, but it was already too late.

"Heeeyyyy! Don't worry! I'll take good care of him!" Alfred yelled up at the window, flashing his brightest grin. Arthur couldn't tell whether or not his father had heard them. The Duke only laughed.

"Sh-shut up!" Arthur flushed, and, seizing the American's wrist, dragged him away.

And on they went. Down the road on which their paths had crossed. Side by side.

Five days. By 4:37 am tonight, it would be a full five days. Five days since Gilbert had walked out her door. Elizabeta had been counting. The hours. The minutes. Even the seconds sometimes.

They had reported his disappearance to the police two days ago, but with the little information they had, there were no leads. Where could he have gone? Elizabeta had even called a few friends back in Berlin and none of them knew where he was. As far as she knew, he could be in France or Sweden or Greece*. And if they didn't find him soon, he can apply for a visa leave Europe altogether. Then...she repeated to herself over and over again not to allow her imagination run away with her. But it just seemed so futile.

"Eliza. Eliza. Hey, Eliza."

Elizabeta felt a large hand on her shoulder. She jerked away in fright, blinked a few times, then Ludwig's disquieted frown came into focus before her. "Oh. It's you, Ludwig."

She was sitting at the bar, absentmindedly swirling a glass of scotch in her hand, the ice cubes tinkling against the cup as it rolled lazily about. She glanced over at Alfred and Antonio, who were preoccupied with customers. And abruptly, a glimpse of his figure. His white hair as he twisted his head around in laughter. She made an instinctive lurch in his direction. But he was gone. It had been merely a beam of light that caught the shine of a steel fork.

"Are you alright?" Ludwig turned her around so she faced him. "You're quite absentminded today." She gave him a dry, humourless smile. It wasn't just today. It was the past five days, though it felt more like five years.

She averted his acute, blue gaze, eyes downcast at the alcohol in her hands. "How do you do it?"

"...Do what?"

"Keep calm, I mean. After hearing all of that..." Her low voice trailed off into the mid-supper buzz.

Ludwig sighed. A sigh that deflated the fatigue in his lungs. And Elizabeta realised that she had been mistaken. "I'm not calm at all. I haven't slept more than three hours each night for the past few days. But I guess none of that matter. I just hope he'll come back soon so I can beat some sense into him."

Elizabeta bit her lip. The images of that little boy with burning, glass tears rewound and replayed in her head. The scene in her imagination was blurred. In it, she could never see Gilbert's young face clearly. Only a dark shadow over his features and two red eyes drenched in fear. The more she tried to make out the details of his features, the more it retreated into the darkness. "Lutz...do you think he'll come back?" This was the question. The one that had been stuck on the inside of her throat.

"...Of course." But Ludwig was uncertain. Elizabeta could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes.

"Hey, shouldn't you two be...ah...working?" Elizabeta looked up to find Alfred leaning over the counter, frowning at them with curious eyes. His gaze was directed at Ludwig, the one who was usually always goading everyone else to work.

"Ah! Ja. I apologise." Ludwig stood up stiffly and walked away.

"And what about you, Liz?"

Elizabeta shook her head and finished the rest of the scotch in a single swig. The hot sting of alcohol slid down her throat. She didn't taste anything. "Should I regret it, Al?" she blurted out of the blue. She suddenly realised she had been carefully treading around this question for a long time.

"Regret what?"

"Falling in love."

But to her surprise, Alfred laughed, then took the empty glass from her hand. "Of course not. Regretting it won't do you any good," he smiled back.

His words slowly sank in. 'Regretting it won't do you any good...' So what should I do? I can only sit and wait. I feel so useless.

"Hey, Liz. Don't torture yourself over this, okay? Worrying yourself sick won't do you or him any good. It's not your fault. I can't guess what that guy's thinking, but he's always got a reason for everything. That guy lives on logic alone and you know that." Alfred tried to comfort her with a commiserating pat on her head."You know how he always goes on about how love doesn't exist?" he continued after a short pause. "I think that he's a hypocrite."

"Why do you say that? As far as I can see, he hasn't ever betrayed his sex-only rule," she sniffed.

"Nah, he gives lots of love. For instance, his brother. And his friends too. Who else goes that far for his friends?" He laughed a little and shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. Elizabeta somehow had the strangest notion that Alfred knew something she didn't. "Hey, Liz. When you two make up, which I'm confident that you will, ask him about the car chase the other day. You'll love that story."

Seeing the sunny grin Alfred had on his face, Elizabeta's mood lightened slightly. She was always in awe of that optimistic grin. Maybe, she thought, if everyone had a little of Alfred's hope, we'd all be better off. I definitely need some of that right now...sitting here and feeling dejected won't get me anywhere. That's right. I need to pull myself together. She suddenly stood up, the pub stool almost tipping over as she did. "Thanks, Al."

And she finally turned back to all the people talking and laughing, absorbed in the alluring fragrance of food and the peak of their own youth. As she weaved her way through the tables, it occurred to her for the first time how many trials and tribulations sat in this room at this very moment. Behind each face red with wine was a story. Someone abused, someone neglected, someone lost, someone disenchanted. Their faces were all around her, and their words filled the space with mirth and merriment. Spiralling, floating upwards. Elizabeta wondered if somewhere above the grand firmament, someone was listening to the resonating music of their joy. Here they were, in a magical pocket of the universe where all troubles were forgotten. And maybe that was what Gilbert was running from. All of this laughter, all of this joy. All of this love. He was running from love. But why? What was the worst that could possibly happen if Gilbert Beilschmidt fell in love?

Quiet chatter. Calm night. All the clinking of glasses and plates and silverware was gone, along with the voices that created that atmosphere so alight with vivacity. All that remained were the used. Used tables, used chairs, used bowls, used cups. But that was alright, because it was just them now. The workers who gave the Hub its life, wiping down counters and cleaning tabletops.

Elizabeta slipped into the kitchen, skilfully manoeuvring the cart piled high with the last of the plates and utensils. She stopped beside the washing machine and set then down, wiping away a few beads of sweat on her brow.

The door behind her on the other side of the room creaked open and closed with a heavy thump. "Rough day?" she heard Arthur ask as he yawned.

"It's been...alright," she concluded after a long pause for thought. And it has been alright. More alright than yesterday that was. Gilbert was still on her mind. In every movement and flutter. But she was somehow happy to be in love again, despite his being gone. Somehow, she convinced herself that she was going to find him. And she was going to make him come back.

"I see," Arthur said, just as he yielded to the onslaught of chefs that streamed through the kitchen door. They had apparently just finished their after-hour drinks.

"Ah! Another night spent without a lady. What a waste," Francis sighed as he stretched his arms. He had been relatively less promiscuous lately, what with all that was going on.

"Francis, you should really stop indulging in excessive sexual activity. You're going to get a poor girl pregnant eventually. You're already very lucky you haven't yet," Blanche lectured, wagging a disapproving finger at her heedless brother. Francis feigned a long yawn and quickly escaped Blanche's nagging to the opposite side of the room. Elizabeta always thought Blanche resembled a strict pedagogue while Francis was the lazy student who always skipped class.

"Blanche, don't even bother with that bastard. He's going to die old and alone anyway," Lovino interjected with two butcher knives in his hand.

"What?! Excusez-moi! I may die old but I certainly won't be alone," Francis exclaimed dramatically.

"He's telling the truth," Arthur said with a sarcastic wave of the hand, "His life plan is to be the next Hugh Hefner."

"Ah! That would be splendid indeed," Francis agreed with a confident nod. "How well you know me, mon ami."

"Don't give him too many ideas, Arthur. He actually might take them seriously," Blanche sighed, shaking her head.

"Je suis offensé!*" Francis sniffed, then began rambling to Blanche in French. Elizabeta had never studied French in depth before, so all she could discern were the words 'big brother.'

As she stood back and watched their pointless bantering, she couldn't help but allow a smile to hang upon her lips. How curious, she thought. How curious that we go around day after day and never notice how much we depend on each other to nourish ourselves. We depend on each other for help, for laughter, for friendship, for love. So why can't you allow yourself to depend on anyone, Gilbert? Why aren't you blissfully oblivious like the rest of us?

Bam. The door flew open, making all them jump. In barged a breathless Bella with a wet mop still in her hand. But the urgency on her face was enough to alarm everyone.

"He's back." Her voice was barely audible, but it cut clearly through the stillness of the room. It didn't resonate. But it sliced open the very fabric of the air.

No one made a sound. Not a single word as they rushed out into the front to join Feliciano, Antonio, Alfred, and Ludwig. Every pair of eyes fell upon one person.

London's darkness was juxtaposed against the enormous span of glass, as if the picturesque night streets were merely separated by a thin film. The form of his shapely back reflected against the membrane. It seemed as if he had just stepped out of the darkness, through the transparent layer of film, and into the precision of this moment, his silhouette a dim outline on the black marble floor. Silver hair, tall nose, dark crimson eyes, illuminated by the low, orange light. His hands were deep in his jeans pocket, his eyes downcast. For an instance, a surreal photograph.

Then, the moment was shattered. "Du Arschloch!" It was Ludwig who broke the silence, jaw clenched and face red with anger. He exploded into a stream of curse-ridden German.

"Do you have any idea how fucking worried we were?!" he bellowed as he advanced on his brother, "I don't give a fuck where you went or why you left! At least leave a fucking note! (in German)."

"Es tut mir Leid*, Ludwig." His rasp was low. Hushed and quiet like Elizabeta's never heard it before. But a wave of emotions flooded her chest at those six tiny words. Relief, anger, joy. All at once. So powerfully she almost overflowed. Then, he trained his wavering red eyes on her, and she felt a shudder travel down her spine. His lips parted.

"Eliza. I need to talk to you."

She was about to answer when he turned his eyes on Arthur and said, "Can you do me a favour and...let us be alone?"

Arthur frowned back inquisitively. Then, reluctantly, he gave in. "Alright. Okay, everybody clear out. Clear out! Just leave everything where it is! Go!" He began shoving everyone towards the door. Bella left her mop on the floor, Lovino left his butcher knife on the bar counter, and Antonio left the half-folded tablecloth strewn haphazardly over the tabletop. Everyone hurried past the two of them and out the door, with a few words of complaint from Lovino but no more. Ludwig trailed behind and looked back at his brother, unwilling to leave. He had much to say to Gilbert, too. But Arthur took his arm and pulled him outside.

The door closed with a final thump that echoed across the remaining emptiness. And it was just the two of them. Standing on either side of the room. Facing each other. Elizabeta could feel herself begin to shake, her lips quivering. Something was coming. He came back to say something to her. Something important. What was it? She could see it in his eyes as he approached with a stiff, unnatural gait.

"Elizabeta." He stopped an arm's length away from her. Upon closer examination, she could see the pale translucence of his skin and the dark bruises under his eyes. No. He had not been well.

"Elizabeta," he repeated, "I...am very sorry. I...messed up. And I think you deserve to know why...I can't...be with you. And why I'm leaving."

Her heart sank, like a ship capsizing to the bottom of the ocean floor. He was still apologising, just like the day that he left her alone in her room. He came back to finish it. That was all. And afterwards, he was going to leave, once and for all. She swallowed hard. "Then...tell me...why..." It was hard to control her own voice. Why? She wanted to scream. Why can't you stay?

He heaved a long, forlorn sigh. And he still wouldn't look her in the eyes. Instead, he glanced at their reflection in the glass panes. "It's because I'm wrong." Elizabeta ground her teeth together in frustration. She remembered him saying something similar that night, too. What was it? 'I'm wrong for you.'

She finally couldn't take it anymore. The way he wouldn't look at her properly. He wouldn't acknowledge her. He wouldn't accept her. She had to make herself known. "What?! Just because your father died you have to be some sort of martyr?!" she screamed. Then, shocked by her own words, she clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no. She hadn't meant it like that. Too harsh.

"She...told you? About...the suicides..." The hollowness in his whisper was amplified by the emptiness. By the black marble floor and the film-like glass. By the inside walls of her chest. She could only nod.

But to her surprise, he only sighed and gave one wry, humourless laugh. "Well, I guess that would make my job easier, then."

Her eyes grew wide, then her brows furrowed. She took a step closer and reached for his hand. He grimaced, and jerked away.

"Listen, Eliza. I need to tell you why I am...the way I am so you can understand...So I need to tell you the...real story."

"The...real...?"

"Please hear me out until the end." Their eyes finally met, his red ones boring into hers. They were dark and pleading. It gave her heart an uncomfortable lurch.

"I've never told anyone else before...so..." He shook his head, as if in mental preparation. He was struggling. Struggling so hard. "You know the story they always tell you. That Papa left the stove on but it didn't light. And then when he did light it...the house exploded..." He waited for her nod of confirmation, then continued, "But that's not what happened. The truth is...that...he...No, I have to start from the beginning...It was the morning. I remember it clearly. The sun was out. There were no clouds. Mama was out with Lutz. I was alone with Papa at home. He always liked tea in the morning so he would always boil a pot of water on the stove. Every morning was like that...And that morning was no exception. I remember watching him put the water into the pot and then the pot on the stove. But then...he left. And forgot...to light...the fire...so then...I..." His voice began to crack as his sentence came out broken, fighting himself to utter the next word. Elizabeta felt a surge of cold through her body. As if her blood had iced over. This man Gilbert. Whom she had always cherished as a friend and now as her beloved. He was breaking. Falling apart in front of her eyes.

"...I...turned...the knob...but...the f-fire...didn't light..." He had squeezed his eyes shut, clutching he sides of his head like there was a universe fracturing inside his head. "And I...went outside...to play...and about...t-ten minutes...l-later...I saw him...come back downstairs...and I was...about to call out to him...and...and...then...he lit a...cigarette..." A dull thump. Gilbert collapsed to his knees, shaking, trembling, quivering. Elizabeta approached cautiously and knelt down in front of him. She reached out an arm and gently touched his cheek. The surface of his skin felt cold against her fingertips.

"Oh...Oh...Lord..." Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him tightly and buried her face in his shoulder. Gilbert is here, she told herself, Gilbert is here. I won't let him suffer anymore.

But when he spoke, his voice was hollow. Apathetic. "Elizabeta. Please let go."

She peered up at his face as she grudgingly released him. He was broken. So defeated. She would have never imagined that Gilbert Beilschmidt, the man she remembered for his laughter and devilish wiles, would ever wear that expression. That despondent pain. And she realised. This was where he was. The little boy crying burning tears. This was where he had been hiding for all those years. Quietly. Never to disturb, but always watching. Through that dark tunnel in Gilbert's eyes.

"Don't pity me, Eliza. Don't...don't give me sympathy," he said, shaking his head, his voice growing in volume with each syllable. "Don't you see? Why I'm...wrong! I'm not right! My existence! I shouldn't...be alive...I don't...I'm a coward!"

"How could you say that?! It was an accident! It wasn't your fau-"

"No! Don't you get it?! I don't deserve any of this! Wealth or opportunity or anything!" He climbed onto his feet, hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles turning white. His entire body was convulsing rigidly.

And then it struck Elizabeta. "...So that's why. That's why you wouldn't take your inheritance! What did you do?! Tell me now!" she screamed, immediately springing up behind him.

He ground his teeth and glowered at the bottles and glasses on the shelf behind the bar counter. "Okay! Fine! I asked him! I begged him to forgo my inheritance! I begged!"

"Gilbert! How could you do that?!"

"How could I?!" He spun around to face her, contempt and disgust in every detail of his face. "How could I kill my own father?!" His words seemed to echo around in the room. Elizabeta could hear each heavy breath he took that blended in with the echoes. His visage, distorted by abhorrence. The hopeless sentience in the crimson gaze that he fixed her with. And the fear. She saw it like a shadow that haunted his countenance. He hated himself. And she loved him.

"Elizabeta. You have to try and understand," he said, attempting to regain control over himself. His eyes grew cold. So cold and far away like the ends of the earth. "As I've said before. I'm a coward. I couldn't even bring myself to say anything after it happened...I don't deserve to be loved..." He uttered the words with such torture in his eyes. "I always say that love doesn't exist. I guess it's because I'm envious. Because love doesn't exist. For me."

"That's not true! I love you!" she cried, tears stinging her eyes. How could he say that to her? How could he look her in the eye and say that? It broke her heart.

"You shouldn't, then! I'm undeserving! I'm a coward who can't even take his own life...I'm a coward who...who shouldn't be alive!"

A blur of motion. Elizabeta heard a distinct metallic note bounce back against the glass window. And before she knew it, he had the knife in his hand—the one Lovino had so innocently left on the bar counter— thrusting it blindly towards his own chest. The malicious glint of steel caught Elizabeta's eye.

"NO!" Her legs moved by themselves. She lunged forward and seized his arms. Pulling, jerking, screaming at the top of her lungs as he struggled against her. Hot tears blurred her vision as they spilled over onto her cheeks. All she knew was that she couldn't let go. She had to hang on no matter what.

Clink. The blade fell to the floor. She kicked it aside and- smack! Right across his face. Ear-splitting and unforgiving. His head snapped back to face her, clutching his throbbing cheek with one hand with stunned, bloody eyes. He had been jolted awake from a deep trance.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?!" She was screaming as hard as she could, tears cascading down her cheeks. Her throat felt like it might tear. "HOW COULD YOU BE SO SELFISH?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT FEELS LIKE TO ME?!"

"I-"

"YOU WHAT?! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW THIS FEELS!"

An impulse seized her and she abruptly swiped the knife lying on the floor near her foot. She point the knife at her own throat. "This is what it feels like to me when you do that," she finished, her voice and hand shaking in unison.

And there it was. That sudden realisation, like being dunked in frigid water. Cold, hard, and abrupt. His eyes grew large and round with horror. "Eliza! Eliza, no!" he panicked. He grabbed her wrist and wrenched the knife from her weak grip. He threw it across the room. It skidded over the hard marble to land unceremoniously in a corner.

"No, no...no..." He enveloped her in his arms, clinging onto her very presence like a lost child. "No...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry...I'm sorry," he kept mumbling over and over again. "I'm sorry..."

She took in a deep breath of air, her heartbeat slowing down some, and asked, "Gilbert...you keep apologising...what are you sorry for?"

"I...I'm sorry...I...love you," he uttered through trembling lips. "I know it's wrong...please forgive me...I did something unforgiveable...I'll hurt you...I beg you, stay away from me..." He was pleading. Pleading with her. Pleading with himself. Pleading...with his father.

Elizabeta learned the true pain of affliction. He said...he loves me...For a second, her blood melted in her veins and flowed again. And then froze up. Dismay. Dismay at his sad, sad words. The despair. The moment was dual, of two separately diverging emotions. Ah, so this was him. Here was that little boy. Now she understood why he cried. He cried for forgiveness.

He was being torn apart right before her eyes. She didn't know what to say. So she wrapped her arms tightly around him. He hastily pushed her away.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

She ground her teeth. She couldn't take it anymore. The way he tortured himself. "Stop it! Stop apologising!" she burst out. "Look at me!"

Her outcry startled him. He winced, and automatically obeyed. She didn't care anymore. Whether she was being rash or not. "You're such a...a...a Dummkopf! You're so stupid! Do you think killing yourself would make anything better?! You are a coward! You're a coward because you choose to run from love instead of face it! Not because of anything else! Stop hurting yourself! You just end up hurting everyone who cares for you...stop it...just...stay with me..."

She seized his collar forcefully and kissed his cracked, parched lips. Then, they grew quiet. Saying nothing. Only standing in the middle of the vacant restaurant. And it was at that point that her strength began to die. She was spent. Drained. Her throat, her lungs, her heart. She just wanted everything to be alright again. For her to be with Gilbert so they could laugh and drink and complain about the world. She didn't care if she was being naïve.

And then he finally ventured to speak. "It's funny. The second time I tried to commit suicide...Mama said something similar. She begged me to stop hurting myself and stay with her. Just like you." He had calmed down some. Regained some composure. And she breathed an inward sigh of relief. Because the moment of danger was gone.

She peered up at him, inky green meeting blood-crimson. The red in his eyes were stirring. Battling. Warring. She instantaneously grabbed onto it.

"Gilbert...stop running. Stop apologising for love, okay?" She could see the hesitation in his eyes. The insecurity. He couldn't let go of him. The little boy on the other side of the tunnel.

"Gilbert..." she took his hand and interlaced their fingers. "Please. I'll be with you."

He swallowed hard. She knew he was trying to eradicate the fear. He was trying so hard. And that was hope enough. She smiled, knowing the storm was past. Settled, for now. A silent agreement that passed between the two of them. The dark tunnel in his eyes had dissipated, replaced by pallid fatigue. In the end...

She rubbed her bleary eyes, swollen from crying. "Look what you did to me," she sniffed, pouting. The corners of his cracked lips even lifted in a wan smile.

She threw her arms around his neck and held on as tightly as she could, with all the strength she could muster. He was going to stay now, whether he liked it or not. Stay with her. He was wounded. She was going to give him solace. She grabbed onto him now. And she was never going to let go.

One month later...

"Cheers! To our new partner!" A mass echo of 'cheers' and a chorus of clinking glasses. Then, every head in the room tilted to the ceiling as they drank to their hearts' content.

It was a rare scene as they sat in the empty restaurant that Friday night, chairs placed to form a wide circle around a single, large table. Gilbert's eyes swept the people in the circle one by one. Antonio was sitting with Lovino to his left, followed by Feliciano who was talking at lightning speed about pasta to Francis. Roderich, who was a little uncomfortable with the alcohol, sat next to Basch. Basch was between Arthur and Roderich, a smile playing on his face the first time since Gilbert had met him. Directly across from Gilbert was Arthur, who had just made the toast to the new partnership between him and Basch (who was ever the avid investor), officially documented as of 24 hours ago. And to Arthur's left were Alfred, Yao, Horace, Blanche, and Bella. To Gilbert's immediate left was Ludwig, who was relaxed against the back of his chair. And to his right was Elizabeta. She was beautiful, he thought. Long, brown tresses that tumbled down her shoulder to her chest. Green eyes that sparkled like emeralds.

It's been one month, but he still couldn't be certain staying was the right choice. He was a broken man, with dark shadows that haunted his memories. At that particular moment he had tried to take his own life, he was carried away. Carried away by those shadows. So what if it happened again? He still couldn't rid himself completely of those thoughts and beliefs that had latched onto his heart and weighed him down for so long. She didn't seem to care. But could he really make her happy?

But there was one thing he did understand. He was now just another lovesick bastard. Oh, how ironic.

Elizabeta gave him a hard nudge, breaking his train of thoughts. "Hey, Gil. You owe me £100," she sniggered, pointing to Roderich and Basch.

"What?!" No way. No way. Not them, too. After Antonio and Lovino, and then Arthur and Alfred...

"I asked Basch the other day. I swear! He was really just shy after all," she giggled.

"No way! You're lying! That makes half this room gay!"

"Well, you ask him yourself then!"

"No, that's awkward!"

"Then you'll ha-a-a-a-ve to take my w-o-o-ord for i-i-it," she sang, sticking her tongue out at him playfully. "And with the £200 for Lovi and Antonio, that makes £300 in all. You might as well take me shopping," she grinned smugly.

"Ugh...women," he grumbled under his breath.

"You know what? I'll make you a deal. Buy a new backseat for your car and I won't drag you shopping with me."

"What?! That'd cost thousands! And what's wrong with my backseat? It's premium leather!"

She pouted sulkily and said, "Well, I hate it!"

"Why?!"

Bella suddenly started giggling uncontrollably on the other side of Elizabeta. Gilbert peered over with an irritated frown. "What is it?! Just tell me!"

"Hahaha...Liz is such an idiot...But it's partly your fault, too..." Bella mustered between fits of giggles.

"Bella, don't you dare..." Elizabeta started threateningly.

"What?!" Gilbert demanded, indignant.

"Look, do it and I'll tell you why. Do we have a deal?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes at her and relented. There was no helping it. After all of that insanity, he still felt as if he still didn't understand her one bit. And something told him that no matter how many dates they would go on, he would never fully grasp the deep mysteries of her mind.

"Oh, Lord it's already 4:30," Arthur abruptly said. Everyone stopped their chattering and followed his line of sight to the clock on the wall. The hour and minute hands indicated 4:32 am.

"Whatever. It's Saturday tomorrow, um, today," Alfred waved him off. Then, his eyes suddenly lit up. "Hey, wanna go watch the sunrise? Since it's already morning, we might as well."

"Why not?" Francis shrugged. And in about three minutes, they were all in agreement.

They drove down to Hampstead Heath, four cars one right after the other, Arthur's Audi in the lead, followed by Gilbert's Mercedes, Ludwig's Mercedes, and Yao's BMW. The road seemed to merge into Lovino's unending complaints and Francis's exaggerated boasting in the backseat as Gilbert steered steadily down the receding London boulevards. Elizabeta was next to him in the passenger's seat, flicking through all the radio channels for entertainment. Gilbert smiled quietly to himself. If he had to be stuck in this moment for the rest of his life, he wouldn't mind it at all.

They pulled in the park and tumbled out of their cars one by one, spirits high along with the spring in their step. It was still dark out, but they breathed in the pure crispness of early morning. It had been raining nonstop for the past three days. The air, washed and rewashed, was cool and refreshing upon their skin.

After making a roughly circular trek around the park, they settled down at the highest point, gazing out into the city skyline through the black silhouettes of trees. Rooftops—flat, pointed, and round—blurred together into a single horizon, like one dark brushstroke across the bottom of the canvas that was the sky.

Gilbert stared at the shadowy outline of Elizabeta's curved back before him, and that old mischievous smile played on his lips. "Guten Morgen*," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She laughed in amusement and kissed his cheek. "Let's not go home this weekend," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Let's rent a room at the Ritz. So we can stay in bed all day and all night." Elizabeta broke into laughter. He felt her spontaneous tremors against his chest. During moments like this, he was always so sure of the present. There was no way to know tomorrow, so he wasn't going to try. But he knew now. He knew today.

"Hey!" Alfred hailed. He pointed to the horizon.

One single ember. Then, one spark. One beam. The great star that lit up their small world peaked over the skyline, its grand, orange rays sweeping over the city of London, engulfing it in a warm, velvet embrace.

Gilbert glanced all around at the people who stood beside him on the cusp of this marvellous new day. Blanche, Bella, Feliciano, Yao and Horace, Francis, Roderich and Basch, Ludwig, Lovino and Antonio, Arthur and Alfred, and lastly, at the miracle he held in his own arms. Elizabeta, smiling into the glow of dawn. And he marvelled at their lives, just one brilliant thread of gold intertwined with another in the fabric of the universe. But it was golden nonetheless, its subtle elegance shimmering in the morning sun. At the end of each day, he realised, they were all in love. In love with this beautiful city, in love with their own selves, and in love with each other. And each morning, when their little corner of the world began to awaken from its deep slumber, they crossed their fingers over their hearts and wished to fall in love again, while secretly praying to never fall out. Their lives were like an art. An art full of hope and passion. An art brimming with vitality and colour. An art empowered with the strength to stretch out their arms and grasp their futures. The art of being young and beautiful.

Fin.

1 For those of us unfamiliar with the European Union and how it works, here's the deal. There are barely any border controls between EU Member States, especially within the Schengen Area (Roughly, Europe without the British Isles). You don't need visas. You just step across the border and say hallelujah.

2 Je suis offense- I am offended

3 Es tut mir Leid- I'm sorry

4 Guten Morgen- good morning. Self-explanatory.

Since this is the last chapter, i shall type out the disclaimer once again. This is a work of fiction and in no way represents real people or events. Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. This story contains minor illegal actions, violence, and sexual themes. Do not do this at home! Do NOT drive like Horace and Gilbert, children!

Ahem! So this is the ENDING! Hahaha. I'm giddy somehow because it makes me sad AND happy to have finished this story...TT-TT I is feeling accomplished! I know the ending is really really dramatic...hehe. Sorry, Gil. I had to make you such a tragic character...So that aside, let me share with all of you readers who's followed me all the way through chapter by chapter a secret. Many of you commented that I'm either really punctual in updates or put a lot of words in since I first posted this story. That is because I've already FINISHED WRITING IT when I made the first post! I've just been holding out on you! :P Please don't be mad. I wrote the entire thing in about one month on my iPod app DraftPad (I email the parts I write to myself then copy paste into word doc and obsessively add/delete/edit stuff). It took lots of hard work and I did lots of research and wrote many different situations to the story where it may branch off in one direction or the other. It is after a dastardly amount of work that I've ended up with this particular sequence of events! Not to mention I added some parts after I was technically "done." I basically did not have contact with society during that one month, except with The Strawberry, who helped me by making helpful suggestions. Now, since this is the last chapter, shout-outs!

First shout-out goes to The Strawberry who I thank for her help (and inspiration), and also Ev who is badgering me to update the story at this very moment (no srsly RIGHT NOW as I type this)!

Second shout-out goes to my beloved HIMA-PAPA I'm SOOOO glad you're back (though that's kind of belated)! Good job on the new volume and new season! I'm so glad you're okay, you've had me worried with that REALLY LONG HIATUS.

Third shout-out goes to my two favourite characters England and Prussia, and also my two second-place-favourite characters, China and Germany! All four of you have fascinating histories and ah-mazingful spirit, whether it comes to war effort or determination or cleverness in general! I'm rooting for your economies! xDDDD

Fourth and final shout out of COURSE goes to my readers/followers/reviewers for either following this story from the beginning or middle, or just discovering it now. That's okay too! xD I really hope you enjoyed it, and also this is your last chance to post me reviews making suggestions about the afterstory. I HAVE DETERMINED that it WILL have BOTH USUK and PruHun in it! So review! Tell me what you think of the ending or the story in general or...anything really. So...THANKS FOR READING!

You will see me again when I post the after story. And you're also welcome to check out anything else I've written. xP