"No nonononononnnonoNoONONonnoNONONONO!"

Matthew's fist slammed against the wall beside him and he struggled to breathe. His legs were shaking as he shook his head trying to rid it from the voice. It had always been there; trying to tempt him in the shadows, trying to make him stop caring. He was stubborn though, a trait that both he and his brother America shared. But the voice didn't want him to think about that. He was an evil man, a terrible person. He doesn't deserve to-' NO! Stop talking like that! I love Alfred! H-he's my best friend and a part of my family!' Canada told himself sternly.

Lately, it seemed, the voice had been getting stronger. Every time a nation looked right through him or forgot his name it would materialise beside him and drape its long, dark, wandering arms around his shoulders. It would whisper seductively into his ears, reassuring him that it was okay. The pain could be numbed by it soft caresses. It was only now that Matthew realized that he had unconsciously become so dependent on the voice. When did that happen? He would follow what it told him to do (sometimes willingly sometimes not so much), and then only remember what he had done later. He knew it was wrong to not tell anybody, but was there really anyone who would listen, let alone hear him?

Early that morning he had awoken to hear the voice was wailing inside his head. It wanted him to do this-no- needed him to do this. It was too much though. He couldn't do what it wanted. He would fight it and hold on for as long as he could, but Canada knew, whatever his voice wanted, his voice always got. So as he was on his way to the meeting room, he had felt his world crash down around him. Red flashed before his eyes and he pleaded with his mind to just let him slip into unconsciousness, it didn't respond. Inside his head he felt the voice screeching for what it needed. Blood. Matthew was shaking all over and tears fell to the ground and smudged his glasses.

He held his head in his hands as shivers ran through his spine. He could feel the voice's arms around him and the sweet words dripping into his ears. What he never realized was that the voice was his own.

England's POV

"Fuck!" The Brit exclaimed as he slammed the door of his car. He was late for the world meeting, very late indeed.

His brow creased and a groan escaped his lips as he imagined the scathing look that Germany would give him and the taunts from America. Oh dear God which one was worse? He ran a hand through his ever messy hair and began to run. He asked one of the humans working in the main foyer how to get to the meeting room and barely had time to thank him before racing off again. If it hadn't been for the unearthly shriek, England would have ran right past the huddled figure on the ground. 'Strange place to be crying.' he thought. Then he stopped for a closer look.

England approached the young man with care, but when he realized who exactly he was dealing with, and he became immensely ticked off. "Bloody Hell America, don't scare me like that! Why on Earth did you think this would be a good prank? And why aren't you in the meeting already and..."

England trailed off as he noticed the shivers that racked through the young man's body. He frowned, either America's acting had improved by leaps and bounds or this wasn't the irritating prank he first believed it to be. Then Alfred started whispering things. They were quiet and Arthur could barely catch what he was saying. All the same though, it was enough to give him shivers of his own.

"Come on now… It'll be fun! You know you always enjoy my games in the end- NO! Stop it, this isn't funny. I never liked your games, you're just saying that." At the start his voice seemed silky and sweet like honey, but the second voice was hoarse and quiet. It seemed almost like there were two different people speaking.

"They don't remember you anyways so why not? Now they can feel the same when nobody notices if they die! - SHUTUP. NOnOnONOnonoNONo."

England was legitimately concerned now. He gently rested his hand on his son's '-no not a son anymore don't think like that' he scolded himself, his allies shoulder. Bad move on his part. The boy shot up and pressed his back into the wall like a cornered animal. His face was flushed and his eyes were wide with fear but… this wasn't America. Well, it looked like him but something told England he wasn't. The teary violet eyes were a dead giveaway. What was his name? Ca….. Jesus why couldn't he remember? Arthur tried to calm the boy from his hysteria, "C'mon now lad. I'm here, tell me what happened. Hello?" It was like the young man couldn't hear him, or he was seeing a whole other person.

"Don't touch me! Why are you always touching me? I don't want your slimy arms draping over me all the time- Canada, calm down dearie- NO shut up! You want me to kill them! I hate it when you do this!"

Canada? It didn't ring any bells in his head. Was the boy a nation? His blonde wavy hair reminded him of old frog face, maybe France knew him. Just then England was snapped out of his thoughts by a pair of hands closing around his throat. He yelped in surprise as he was pushed to the floor and struggled underneath his attacker. The teary eyed man that had been sitting in front of him seconds before had been replaced by a manic smile, and a shrill laugh. "Well it looks like I'll just have to show you how fun it can be!" He sang out in a sing-song voice.

Arthur attempted to push him off but couldn't move as he was straddled by the adolescent nation. Black spots began to dance before his eyes and England almost resigned himself to his fate when suddenly his attacker fell limply on top of him. Breathing heavily England's hands flew to his throat and he began coughing and gasping. His eyes watered and upon glancing up at the new figure that had appeared before him. He felt one of his eyebrows twitch slightly upon seeing America. Alfred didn't seem to notice him yet as he was transfixed on the piece of wood in his hands. It must have been ripped from a door frame, God knows Alfred was strong enough to do that. That wasn't the issue though.

It was the blood on the top of the wood that was bothersome. Arthur realized that the America must have hit his mysterious attacker over the head and knocked him unconscious. America looked England in the eye steadily and the Englishman was shocked to see anger directed at him. Why was Alfred angry at him of all people? He was the bloody victim here. "W-who is this Alfred? Do you know this man he must be a nation of course but…" He trailed off with one silencing look from the furious looking American. His "friend" spoke with an icy calm to his voice, "That's my fucking brother you bitch. What the Hell did you do to him?"