Hello! Well I got this idea because I was bored and, even though someone may have already done this and I don't know about it, I wrote this. If there is another one like this please tell me and I will do whatever is necessary to fix the issue. I don't want to accidentally plagiarize anyone's work. And, I apologize for not updating my other stories, it will get done, but I have no idea when. Bear with me.

Also, this switches between POVs a lot, and uses both nation and human names. If this confuses you, don't read. And they are obviously somewhat OOC, so I won't apologize for that.

There are pairings in this story, but AmeCan is not one of them. And a lot of things said in foreign languages, the translations for which are at the end.

Also, I went through this and realized how many errors there were. I fixed them.

Warnings: Blood, violence (said in Tobuscus's voice in his Halo Reach Literal trailer), and hinted gay sex. No character deaths.

I don't own Hetalia.

. .

America leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, rolling his eyes at his boss, who was ranting about his economy. Again. When his boss saw that, he began yelling. America tuned him out, instead thinking about England. He hoped the smaller nation would be waiting for him when he got home; England had been doing that a lot lately, much to France's disappointment. England always listened to him when everyone else was too busy to. It was nice.

He sighed and abruptly walked out, interrupting his boss mid-rant, who yelled louder. America ignored him and walked slowly out to the parking lot, head down and hands in his pockets. He shouldered open the door and trudged outside without looking up. He heard light footsteps behind him, but only stopped when their owner called out to him breathlessly.

"Alfred, you bloody git, hold up!"

He stopped and turned to face his (secret) boyfriend – and froze. England was dressed just like in his punk days, with tight black jeans, a blood-red-and-black band t-shirt, and lace-up boots that went halfway up to his knees. He was even wearing eyeliner. His emerald eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms.

"What the hell are you staring at?"

America snapped out of his daze, and smiled widely. "Sorry, dude, I just didn't expect…this. Why are you dressed like that?"

England tightened his arms around himself and glared at the ground. "Well…I know your boss has been on your case a lot lately, and you've said before you'd like to see it, and…what, you don't like it?" His accent thickened as he spoke, giving away that he was nervous.

America grabbed his hand, still smiling. "No, you just surprised me. Actually, it's sexy as hell. Nice change from my boss. He was being an asshole."

England finally looked back up, and there was a predatory glint in his eyes. He sidled closer until he was pressed up against America, their hands still linked. "I can take your mind off him, if you want."

America's eyes widened, and he dragged England to his car, now very eager to get home.

. .

The pair stumbled through America's front door, lips locked and hands roaming. They decided America's bedroom was too far away and instead went to the living room, where neither of them noticed the blonde man sitting, holding a small polar bear. Canada cleared his throat, but neither nation looked up. He sighed; he knew he shouldn't have accepted America's offer to stay with him for a week (it was only for the world meeting, so he thought it wouldn't be so bad).

Quietly, he got up, still holding Kumajiro, and left the house. He didn't know where he was going, but there was no way he was staying in that house while his brother and England went at it like rabbits on caffeine.

He walked aimlessly for a while, and when he looked up again he was in front of the hotel Prussia and Hungary were staying at; if he wasn't staying with America he'd probably be staying here, too, for the meeting the next day. He sighed again, and then shrugged, pulling the door open. If they were busy, too, he could always go to the park and sit for a while.

. .

America and England lay on their backs, side by side, panting. They were in America's bed, which they'd moved to after round one. After he'd mostly caught his breath, England sat up and leaned over his lover, trailing his finger lightly across the other's chest.

"So, Alfred," he began softly. "Why were you so worked up today?"

America sighed, and captured the wandering hand in one of his. "C'mon, Artie, don't bring it up."

"But you looked so upset…I got worried. Please?"

"Fine…" he wouldn't meet the older man's questioning eyes. "My boss was yelling about the economy and shit again. It's getting old."

He expected England to console him, agree with him, but the response he got wasn't even close to that. "Well, maybe you should start listening to him, then."

He stared at the smaller man. "…what?"

England continued. "See, your economy is pretty bad, and obviously it's a huge issue. And, honestly, I'm getting kind of tired of listening to you complain about it. You should actually do something about it instead of just complaining."

America just stared. England, the one man who had listened to his rants, had consoled him, helped him relax…he was betraying him, taking the enemy's side. How could he? Didn't he know that America was alone without him? Maybe he did, and this whole time he'd just been led on. England had been a pirate, after all. Pirates were tricky bastards, weren't they?

He felt something inside him snap.

. .

Canada sat on the couch in Hungary and Prussia's hotel room with Hungary absolutely fawning over him. After he'd told her what happened he'd ended up ranting over how nobody ever noticed him. He'd nearly started crying, and she'd melted, cooing and stroking his hair gently, like a mother with her child. He'd vaguely thought it was a good thing Prussia wasn't there, or the albino would be drowning in jealousy. Then he'd surrendered, letting her comfort him. Now he simply sat with his head on her shoulder, barely listening to her murmurs. He was letting himself drown in his thoughts and self-pity when she finally caught his attention.

"…but you should really try to make yourself more noticeable."

He jerked away from her. What? Isn't that why he'd come here in the first place? Because he couldn't get himself noticed? She continued on, oblivious.

"For one, you're way too quiet. No wonder nobody notices you. You need to speak up! Secondly, you just let people walk all over you. Stick up for yourself!"

As he listened, something that had been coming loose for decades, centuries, finally snapped.

. .

England watched the emotions flitting across his lover's face switch from shock, to confusion, to sadness, until it finally settled on anger. His blue eyes blazed behind his glasses, and he suddenly drew back his fist and punched England right in the nose, knocking him backwards and off the bed. Slowly, America followed him, and straddled him, hitting him again and again. He could barely open his eyes by the time America finally got off him. He let out a shaky breath, praying it was finally over. But, no, he soon heard his lover's footsteps returning, and before he had time to react a searing pain shot through his leg. When he hazily looked down he saw a large gash on his thigh, probably made by the knife America was holding, a sick smile on his face. His eyes shining with madness, he brought the knife down again, sinking it into England's abdomen and jerking it upwards before ripping it out. England tried to scream, but he was too weak.

All that came out was "Al…fred…" And then he blacked out.

America looked down on England with a mixture of disgust and curiosity, nudging the limp body with his toe. He knew the smaller nation wasn't dead, but he sure looked like it. Instead of checking to see if he really was alive, America turned and walked out, twirling the bloody knife in his fingers. He was covered in blood, but he didn't know it yet. He wanted to hurt someone else. A slow grin spread across his face as he walked out the door.

. .

Hungary's head snapped back when Canada slapped her. Her eyes widened in shock, and her hand went up to cradle her rapidly-reddening cheek. He grinned sadistically. She attempted to stand, and he was on her.

He tackled her to the ground, and began beating her. The strength he had as a nation, plus gained from hockey, poured through his fists and into the Hungarian beneath him. As he beat her, he began screaming.

"How's that for speaking up?" he yelled. "How's that for standing up for myself?"

He might have beat her to death if someone hadn't pulled him off. Hungary had lost consciousness a long time ago. He jerked himself out of the other's grip and whirled around to find Prussia glaring at him with his teeth bared like an animal.

"You bastard!" Prussia shouted. "Why the fuck would you do that!?"

Canada didn't hesitate to launch himself at the albino, attempting to get his hands around the older man's neck. Prussia fought back, though, lashin gout and clipping Canada's jaw with his fist. This only angered the Canadian, who , instead of attacking, ran further into the large hotel room, looking for a weapon. He heard Prussia pursue him, but he temporarily ignored it. He knew Prussia always carried an old rifle with him whenever he left Germany's house, even though it was never loaded; it was only for sentimental value. Canada flung himself to the floor and reached under the bed, grabbing the barrel of the gun. And, just as Prussia entered the room, he dragged it out and swung it like a bat, striking the Prussian's temple. Prussia fell to the floor, and defensively held up his hands, attempting to ward off the crazed Canadian. This did nothing, of course, and Canada beat him to a bloody pulp with his own gun. Then he calmly walked out of the room and the hotel. He had somewhat spaced out, so his cell phone's sudden ringing made him jump. He scowled at the name on the screen but answered anyway. He didn't even get to say "hello".

"Matthieu!" France whisper-screamed into the receiver. "Oh, Matthieu, help! Your brother – he's gone dingue! H-he's got a knife, and he's covered in blood. Please help!"

"Je suis sur mon chemin," Canada muttered, and hung up. He growled in frustration; damn Alfred, always stealing the spotlight and taking what he wanted! Well, fuck him, too!

Canada's stride lengthened until he was practically running, going to the extravagant house his papa had for some reason bought here. He was always doing stupid shit like that.

. .

America stalked through the ridiculously large house, fresh blood dripping from his knife; if that damn Frenchman hadn't been so good at running there would have been much more blood.

He'd just walked right in, because France never locked his door. Said Frenchman had been lounging on the couch, watching some sort of erotic movie, judging from the sounds coming from the television. He'd been about to slit France's throat when he jumped, throwing up his arms; apparently it was actually a horror movie with one of those random sex scenes. France had impaled his forearm on America's knife, and screamed in pain, tearing his arm off of the knife and cradling it as he scrambled away, only glancing back once before he ran and hid.

So now America was hunting for the frog. Suddenly, the front door slammed, and a shocking familiar voice started yelling.

"Alfred!" the newcomer shouted. "Alfred, get your ass away from him! He's mine!"

America stopped, then grinned and began retracing his steps. So his dear brother had come after him, had he? Well, he'd teach him, oh, yes he would. He was older, after all.

Suddenly, Canada's voice started gaining volume, and America could hear footsteps quickly approaching. Perfect. His grin widened, and he ducked into the closest door to him in the narrow hallway he was currently in. Not a second too soon, it seemed, as Canada's footsteps were suddenly right outside the room he was hiding in. They stopped, and America burst out, grabbing his brother and dragging him into the room with him. Canada immediately swung something at his head, which he just barely dodged. He caught a glimpse of his brother, and saw he was apparently using a gun as a club. His white jacket was splattered with red, and there was a crazed look in his violet eyes. Kumajiro was nowhere to be found. Canada swung again, this time catching the hand which held his knife. He dropped his weapon, and swung with his other fist, wincing; his brother had treated his hand like a hockey puck. He should be glad it wasn't broken.

He missed Canada, but grabbed the gun. He gave it a hard yank, pulling Canada closer. America hit him with his injured hand, and the grip on the gun loosened. Now they were both weaponless, and they faced each other, panting slightly. Neither moved, and America grinned.

"I don't think either of us can win this," he said, but didn't relax quite yet. Canada appeared to consider this, then nodded.

"I think you're right," he replied quietly. "Such a shame; I really wanted to kill you."

"We could go kill France, then find someone else," America suggested. "Nobody will be able to get away."

Canada noticed his lack of the word "dude". He smiled slightly, and nodded once, a malicious glint in his eyes. "That sounds perfect," he murmured, and turned towards the door. "But I want mon papa."

America laughed and followed him. "Fine."

. .

France huddled in a bathroom cabinet, shuddering violently. His injured arm throbbed, but he made sure not to make a sound, especially when not one, but two sets of footsteps grew closer. They stopped outside the bathroom, and he held his breath. America began conversing with his new companion.

"Look, we're not gonna find him anytime soon. You know how good he is at hiding. Let's just go find someone else. They're all here for the world meeting."

A quiet, surprisingly cruel voice answered. "No, I want to kill him! That fucker won't forget me again…"

"If you kill him he won't remember. We can leave a calling card he won't ever forget."

"He won't know it's from me!" the second voice wailed, rising in volume. It was strangely familiar…

Matthieu? France realized. Oh, no, not my sweet Matthieu. Not him, too.

The two continued their conversation while he mourned his sweet, sweet Canada. There was a slight pause, and then Canada spoke with a sigh.

"I guess you're right…" He paused, then yelled, "France! If you can hear me, know I refuse to be forgotten! You won't keep walking over me! Au revior, papa."

America chuckled. "Nice. Now let's get Spain. Romano and hopefully Italy'll be with him, and we can get the last of the damn Bad Touch Trio."

Their footsteps retreated, and he heard the door shut. Immediately he called his friend.

"Hola!" Spain answered cheerfully.

"Espagne!" France gasped. "Hurry, go and hide! Bring whoever is with you! They're coming for you! They got Prussia, and –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Spain interrupted. "Who's coming?"

"Matthieu and Amerique!" France practically screamed. "They've gone insane! I managed to hide, but now they're coming for you! Take whoever is with you and hide!"

"Spagne? Con chi stai parlando?" Romano's voice said from the background. He sounded impatient. Spain shushed him.

"Toni, listen, they said if Romano was there they'd get him, too. Italy, too, if he's there."

Spain finally understood. "Gracias," he said curtly, and hung up.

France could only hope they got out in time. He stared at the cell phone in his hand, then began to dial another number.

. .

When America and Canada arrived at Spain and Romano's (also stupidly bought, courtesy of Spain) little apartment, the place looked deserted. They might have thought nobody had been there had it not been for the still-warm Italian food on the table. Canada smiled sadistically when he saw it.

"Oh, I think mon cher papa may have heard us and called ahead."

America, who had already begun searching, nodded. "Yep. But this place isn't that big; we'll find 'em."

Canada started searching, too, and soon the only place left to look was the bedroom. The brothers exchanged a look.

"Oh, how romantic," America sneered, and opened the door. The room was a mess, with clothes strewn everywhere. Canada headed right for the closet, and was about to open it when America gave a surprised shout. He turned around, only to be punched in the face by what felt like a ball of steel. He stumbled back, holding his now-bloody nose, and saw Germany standing there, fists clenched. Past him, Italy was furiously wrestling with America. They looked pretty evenly matched. Some blood ran into his mouth, and he spat it out, gritting his teeth angrily. Damn, that hurt! Fucking German tank, he'd kill him! Without another thought he swung his newly-retrieved gun-club, clipping Germany's chest. The larger man hit him again, effectively stunning and flattening him. He didn't realize until it was too late that Germany was using a discarded belt to tie him up. He struggled uselessly, until Italy let out an angry screech. Germany moved to restrain the tiny Italian, and Canada saw his brother lying barely conscious on the floor, bleeding heavily. Italy thrashed and screamed in Germany's grip.

"Don't hurt my fratello, bastardo!" he yelled. "Let me go! Let me go!"

A gruff voice came from behind him. "Feli, calm the fuck down! I'm fine, see?" Romano and Spain had come out of hiding when Italy started screaming.

Italy paused, and when he struggled again Germany let him go. He launched himself at his brother, sobbing. Canada scowled.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Enough with the crying! Untie me right now, and I'll take my brother and leave."

"We can't do that," Germany replied. "You won't hurt anyone else."

. .

The four older nations had brought America and Canada to Germany's house so they wouldn't get away again. Eventually, though, they (somewhat) snapped out of it, and stopped trying to kill whoever came close to them. England, Prussia, and Hungary recovered fully, and as soon as America heard this he began sending dozens of apology letters to England, begging the smaller nation to forgive him. He and Canada were eventually sent back home, and the apology letters increased in number. Canada, however, never apologized to anyone.

Through all this, nobody ever told America that Italy beat him in a fight.

. .

Well, I totally failed at the ending. Review and tell me what you thought of the story! And if anyone else wrote something like this and I didn't see it.

Translations (in order of appearance):

Dingue = crazy (French)

Je suis sur mon chemin= I'm on my way (French)

Papa= Dad (French)

Mon papa= my dad (French)

Au revior, papa= Goodbye, dad (French)

Hola= Hello (Spanish)

Espagne= Spain (French)

Matthieu and Amerique= Matthew and America

Spagne? Con chi stai parlando?= Spain? Who are you talking to? (Italian)

Gracias= Thank you (Spanish)

Mon cher papa= My dearest dad (French)

Fratello= brother (Italian)

Bastardo= Bastard (Italian)