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Spain had never asked, bless his heart. Even if he'd wondered about why his two closest friends has suddenly been unable to remain in a room together, he'd never asked.

Francis wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Ah Prussia. What had been at one time a close, intense, satisfying friendship had twisted into something far darker as the years drew on.

"When did it all go bad for us France?"

"I don't remember mon ami."

"....Liar."

He smiled bitterly at the memory. Prussia had just broken his arm in punishment for a French resistance in Paris that refused to die. In truth, he knew exactly the moment things had gone wrong - it was the first time he'd slept with someone other than Prussia after that first glorious night with the other nation.

He had been caught off guard by the anger in those red eyes as Prussia grabbed his arms and wrenched, ignoring his pained protests . As he was spun around and shoved into one of the many pillars of his Versailles, he'd thought it was a new game Prussia had thought of. It wasn't until Prussia's hot breath drifted over his ear that he realized something was wrong.

The shock that Prussia would dare do this, and do it here, in Francis's power base, kept him frozen, even when he felt the other pull his breeches down. Oddly, it was the silence he remembered the most. He could hear the sounds of the court through the glass windows, hear his heart, hear Prussia's harsh breathing, but not a word from either one of them as they stood there. Francis with his face against a cool decorative pillar, and Prussia arched over him. He hadn't said a word, just controlled Francis's movements with a cold, dark violence.

When he was done Prussia left him there, slumped against the pillar. Francis had rested his head against the cool marble and tried to tell himself that the wetness on his cheeks was sweat, not tears.

He hadn't seen him for a almost a decade after that. While some parts of him cringed in fear - the look on Prussia's face had not been even remotely sane - the German had been and still was his friend and ally and he loved him dearly.

He'd made an effort to hide his relations with other nations from Prussia after that. He wasn't sure why Nations were off- limits, and humans a free-for-all, but they were . The sex, when he and Prussia had it, was world rocking, even though he never managed to shake the feeling that Prussia was a bit...off.

In the end it was the nation he'd least expected, but at the same time the nation he should have most expected, who asked about their relationship. The context of the meeting was long since lost to time, but he and Arthur Kirkland had been sitting in some grungy little bar some place, drinking grungy ale and for once, being companionable.

Arthur hadn't been able to meet his eyes when he finally asked the question. "Why do you call Beilschmidt Prussia? Aren't the two of you," he squirmed, "close?"

Francis remembered leaning back and staring at his fellow nation through hooded eyes. "I do not know."

Arthur for his part looked like he'd rather be locked up in one of those torture devices Antonio was so fond of putting people in, before he spit out, "If you ever need.…"

"The day I require your aid," Francis interrupted, "will be a dark day indeed."*

Arthur grunted and went back to his beer. Before long, Francis recalled, they'd gotten into a fight and gotten thrown out of the bar.

To tell the truth he wasn't sure when Prussia had become Prussia to him rather than Gilbert. It had been before Napoleon he thought, but after his Sun King, his beloved Louis the 14th.

Regardless, he decided, as the crowd surged around him in the dark, cheering as the graffitied wall started to fall, that was a thought for another time. Ahead of him he could see clearings in the wall, lights shining in the black night and people falling into their loved one's arms. No matter what had happened, he'd still greet his old friend this day.**

If anyone asked, Canada would of course tell them he'd obediently carried out the duties required of him as an Imperial Colony with the dignity and reserve it required. That he regretted nothing and felt he was a stronger nation and had been better prepared for his nationhood than he might have otherwise been if he had not spent time under Imperial Rule.

What Matthew wouldn't tell them was that he wished he'd fought harder, or that he would have joined his brother in rebelling if he'd known what was coming. He'd never dream of telling anyone that he hated every second of the five years he'd served as Arthur's Imperial Consort. Or how he'd wake up some mornings, even now , hating Arthur, and hating himself, until the hate twisted up and around and he thought he'd choke on it.

His mentor Scotland, the man who'd trained him in being a Dom had only shaken his head when Matthew went to him for advice. "Sad state of affairs lad," he'd sighed. "Ye cannae collar a Dom and expect him to walk to heel." After that he’d seen Angus in court a few times,shaking his head at his brother - and then one day, in a show of mute protest, Angus simply stopped coming to court.

Matthew for his part, covered his Imperial Lion, his hard won Lion, closed his eyes, and endured. He knew why Arthur insisted on this farce. Alfred. The golden boy who'd broken an Empire's heart. By having each of his colonies serve him Arthur could strengthen the ties binding him to them and prevent another Alfred.

That first year of service Arthur hadn't even been able to look at Matthew directly, and had only taken him to bed when he was so drunk he barely knew what he was doing.

He'd never been exceedingly cruel - rather the opposite. Matthew had learned more from Arthur in a week as an Imperial Consort then he had his entire time as Francis's colony. Everywhere Arthur went, so went his Consorts. Matthew attended negotiations, balls, plays, went to bars, listened as Arthur and his Generals planned out battle movements, and watched as he moved in court, dealing with nobles and politicians alike. He was given books on philosophy, government, language and great works of literature to read. Arthur drilled him constantly, whether riding back in a carriage from some event, or while he lay under his mentor, teeth gritted, trying not to think about what was going on.

Without that time spent with Arthur, he knew he would not be as stable a nation as he was today. He knew that every other consort-colony had gotten the same treatment, right down to the scathing lectures. Matthew still remembered standing in a dark London living room, as Arthur paced before him, ruthlessly ripping apart his fledgling government, mocking their every move and demanding British Canada account for it all.

Sometimes he wondered in the dark of winter, the kind of dark it gets just before the sun rises, if all of that Nation training had been Arthur's way of apologizing for what went on once a week in the dark of the night. He didn't want to know the answer as he huddled under the sheets, waiting for dawn.

Gilbert wondered sometimes if he was sane.

Ivan told him he wasn't. That the Allied Powers had given Gilbert to him so that Ivan could see if he could be fixed - and if he couldn't be, then to deal with him. He was told that even Francis had agreed to this, they all had.

Then Ivan usually threw him out into the snow and cold and left him there in whatever rags he had on, waiting for permission to either be allowed back inside or to die. He'd discovered he wasn't allowed to die the hard way. He wasn't allowed to do anything really except whatever Ivan wanted.

He'd fought it at first. Had to fight it. He was Prussia for crissakes. Or was he?

He wasn't sure anymore.

Of anything.

Just that it was cold, and why was he fighting Ivan again?

He shivered.

Ivan was breaking him, and he knew it. He'd done it to other nations during his life, just never expected to be on the receiving end.

He’d first woken up in a wet dark room, bloody wounds still oozing and bones aching. At first he'd laughed. Oh how cliché! A cold, dark, wet room? Really? Time passed and he realized as he laughed into the darkness that his wounds were healed; long healed judging by the fact that he could feel no scar tissue over any of it.

When he was finally dragged into the light, he stood in the dim kitchen, body shaking like a newborn colt's. Around him, Ivan muttered orders to the other captive nations. Cut his hair, bind his legs. Don't let him near anything sharp or blunt. The collar and blindfold stays on. Dress him in these.

He slept for the next ten years on a mattress next to the kitchen's hearth till he tried to see how much blood the littlest Baltic had in him. Ivan beats him nearly dead as the others looked on in horror, before sending him to the factories. It is the last time he sees Ivan for a very long time.

He works in the factories for two years. One day he throws someone into a machine and is dragged away to work in the streets, even as he laughs at how red the blood looks on his hands. .

He shovels snow for five winters and then tries to escape, killing his guard in the process. He is caught before he can even go a block and brought to Moscow. The bloody footprints give him away.

He is used by every Russian official, tied to an iron bed, unable to move. It is there, years, maybe decades later, he doesn't fucking know, that Ivan finally shows up again. Inspects him as he lies there shaking, wrists raw and bleeding from his bonds, covered in god knows how many people's filth, skinny and starving.

And asks if he wants to live.

At first he says nothing, then as Ivan moves away, croaks out a yes.

That is why he's going to Siberia. Ivan tells him on the train there, as he sits on the floor, leashed to the seat beside him, that he is a broken insane thing. That he cannot control himself or his bloodlusts and for that he must be punished. But, Ivan promises gently, he can be remade. He can be made whole again. Made into a better person It will take work Ivan says, petting his shorn head, it will take a lot of work.

He could not be trusted so he spent his days in the Siberian mines shackled, collared and chained. He could not be allowed to top anyone, so Ivan locked him into a chastity belt. And his days passed in the dark and the cold.

Whenever he fought back, trieds to hold the fragments of himself together, Ivan simply locked him outside and let him stay there for hours, until he grew so cold he felt almost hot, and his shivers had almost died away into stillness.

Like now.

There was no use in fighting the superpower. He didn't even have to do anything - he just let Gilbert break himself against the cold and the dark. All the while telling him, how much he wished the other would stop fighting and yield.

Gilbert found he wanted that again. Wanted to be held by the other nation as he clucked over the frostbite and scars, tending them with care. Wanted to be told that he could be whole again, if he would just let Ivan help.

The door opens. For the first time he doesn't try to creep in, he stays where he is, where he was thrown in the snowbank. For the first time he's picked up, cradled and brought inside before midnight.

He sleeps on a bed for the first time since leaving his brother. He sleeps till he can't sleep anymore.

He is given warm clothes. He's almost too warm with all the layers on him.

He is given as much warm, thick, delicious food he can eat. Never before had porridge tasted so good.

He isn't bound hand and foot - or cock.

And he realizes the answer as Ivan fusses over him. He isn't sane, he was never sane and this is his punishment.