War's Edge

Regret

Creak

Matt cracked a wary violet eye open. He sighed, grumbling under his breath as he leaned further into the couch and crossed his arms. The noise had been caused by Kuma, who was currently lumbering from the kitchen toward Matt, lazily dragging each paw forward. So, the Canadian relaxed for a moment longer until he felt a cold, metallic hand press against his cheek.

"Son of a—!"

He glared up at Gilen, the Prussian man quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Don't do that," Matt muttered, but in all honesty, he wasn't too bothered.

The mute nation snorted, and his light footsteps could just barely be heard as he walked around the couch. He plopped into the deep cushion next to Matt. The Canadian felt a gentle, yet persistent, tapping at his arm. Again, Matt lazily peered at him through his eyelashes. Gilen fished around his ancient uniform until he pulled his flip phone out from a sewn-in pocket. He gave the phone to Matt, so he could read the message.

After skimming the text, Matt concluded, "Allen's hiding out someplace again? Aw, you care about my little brother? He's probably just camping."

Gilen rolled his eyes, shaking his head, and snatched the phone, rapidly typing something new before handing the phone back.

"Ah, Lutz is missing, too, eh? Do you want me to schedule an emergency world meeting? You know, the others'll probably take advantage of that," Matt commented, handing the flip phone back to its owner.

Gilen nodded his head vigorously, then, with a confused look, shook his head.

"Ah, sorry. Too many questions. Do you want an emergency world meeting?"

Gilen nodded.

"And I'm guessing you're going to run the country until he gets back?"

Another firm nod.

Kuma rumbled deep in his throat, most likely showing his annoyance at the ever-constant talking. Matt leaned down and scratched behind Kuma's ears, hearing a satisfied rumble in response.

"I'm guessing Ollie stopped by your house to badmouth you?"

Gilen shook his head and waved his flip phone, then showed two fingers.

"He called twice?"

Gilen shook his head again and waved his phone again, this time using a bit of sign language in English that Matt seemed to understand well enough.

"Luciano visited, too? That cunt's annoying. Him and his brother."

Matt stood up and stretched, his flannel parting just enough for the bandages around his chest to be seen. Gilen pushed his tied-up hair back, subconsciously tracing the scar on his face. He, too, stood up and followed the Canadian into the kitchen where the latter was beginning to cook breakfast. Usually, the busy nation let Gilen do the cooking, even if the Prussian usually cooked foods that lacked meat and were mostly made up of vegetables.

This, Gilen understood, was a sign of stress.

He used his metallic hand to grab the bag of flour while he gently placed his other hand on Matt's shoulder. The concerned look in his red eyes, and the way his lips were pursed said it all. Matt sighed, shutting his eyes and lowering the flour to the counter.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

Gilen pinched his arm, earning a hiss and a light smack from the Canadian.

"Alright, I'm worried. Allen's had it tough. I never know what to say to him, and it's so hard to actually talk to him without jokes or teasing. What if..." Matt pauses, audibly gulping and looking down at his own hands, "...what if he's gone this time? Actually gone?"

The last time he'd talked to Allen, it had been a fight. In the face of death, their fight seemed trivial.

No, it was trivial.

Gilen shut his eyes, sliding his hand down from Matt's shoulder to his hand and firmly squeezing it to reassure the man. Matt took in a deep breath and released it.

"Right, Allen wouldn't give up that easily. He can't be gone. We'll just have to find him, and I'll make sure that fucking dork doesn't scare me like that ever again," Matt reasoned with himself.

Gilen nodded, allowing a small smile to grace his features. Matt seemed calm now. He pulled out his phone, beginning his call by alerting François first. From there, he'd call as many people as possible and allow those people to contact others until everyone knew of the emergency world meeting.

Oliver heard from François of the meeting.

Arthur cried, snapping at Oliver for forcing both of them to cry when only one of them was sad. Oliver's lip quivered as he held his tears back, gently cutting into a cake with a skilled precision that Arthur didn't have. Once the last slice had been cut, the Brit slammed the knife deep into his counter, a brewing anger flaring out of nowhere. He could guess his own frustration mixed with Arthur's anger had caused such a reaction. That, or he was reaching his own limit of sanity.

"Arthur, Allen wasn't the only one performing acts of magic. Help me through this, just this once, and I'll see to it that the mirror is fixed," Oliver reluctantly muttered.

"If it could be bloody fixed with magic," Arthur testily hissed, "I'd be gone by now."

"Perhaps you aren't all that magical."

Oliver gripped the knife hard enough to turn his knuckles white, almost daring him to protest. Arthur kept his mouth shut.

Lutz, meanwhile, had not spoken in hours. His mind had raced nonstop in place for his lack of words as he pondered his own loyalty. He loved Luciano dearly—he had done his best to protect, feed, and care for the poorer nation.

And those states? He hadn't thought of them. He had given up on war for easy solutions, and he'd left the solution-making to others. Once, he had planned carefully and analyzed all around him, but his life seemed rather peaceful without all of the planning. Still, Allen's words echoed in his mind.

Those states were just like—no, don't think about it.

But...it almost reminded him of his mistake.

The one event he could never forget—that no one would ever let him forget.

Lutz opened his mouth, but his breath caught in his throat. Allen looked at him briefly.

All that was heard from the exhausted American was an almost inaudible whisper of the phrase, "I hope you feel that pain for the rest of your fucking life."

Lutz yearned to be a child once more, sitting in Gilen's lap while the latter comforted him over a trivial mishap—not waking up in time that morning. How he wished he could cry over the simplest things again.

He missed Gilen's voice. He figured Allen missed hearing his states more.

"I'll do vhatever you vant," Lutz tiredly whispered, soul sagging rather than eyelids.

Allen scowled at the road in front of him.

"Then don't talk. I don't want to hear anything from you. I never want to hear your voice again."

And Lutz was silent.