Obviously hinted PruCan here tbh. It's not intentional, and no, they will not become a thing later in the story, bugger off. The only ship I'm possibly doing is already in mind. So there, hah. There might be mentioned side ships (DenNor is the only one in mind so far, but if you have suggestions I MAY be able to take them), so stay tuned.

Matthew woke up to his shoulder being shaken vigorously, and he groaned quietly, opening his eyes deliriously. "Mh… guah…?" he mumbled, noticing that his glasses had been discarded and thrown off. This had been shown by the fact that all he could see was blurred white and blue, mixed with green spots dotting what he assumed had to be a landscape of some sorts. He used his ears, straining to understand, and when he was met with the crashing of waves against rock and sand, he realized that he was on a beach.

"Oh, thank God!"

He turned tiredly to see Gilbert, grinning slightly and obviously glad that the younger man had woken up. The only reason he could tell it was Gilbert was because of his voice and the pale skin, shrouded by a messy mop of snow white hair.

"Here's your glasses, Canadia." he mumbled the nickname teasingly, shoving something cold and metallic up the bridge of Matthew's nose carefully.

Everything went into focus, and the first thing Matthew tried to do was thank his friend for helping him. He opened his mouth to speak, and that's when he realized something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He couldn't speak. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't speak. A burning pain that he hadn't noticed before suddenly blossomed in his throat and he warbled out what he could muster for words, his hands starting to shake.

Gilbert smiled gravely and put a hand on his chest, "shh, Mattie, it's okay… c'mon, calm down, I don't want you getting another panic attack like you got on the plane…"

Slowly but surely, the Canadian man calmed down, but he pointed to his throat as if demanding to know what had happened. He couldn't speak, and… he couldn't speak…

Gilbert shrugged and brushed his thumb along Matthew's collarbone, sighing quietly. "I found you like this, with your throat like that. I bandaged you up as much as possible, used your shirt…" he paused to let that sink in, "I think a piece of shrapnel might've hit your throat." he said finally after a long silence that had threatened the other man's patience.

Matthew was shaking more as he struggled to sit up, only to be held down again by his hand. He was panicking again, realizing the pain and coming to the conclusion that it hurt his throat even to breathe. He could only shake and take small breaths, watching Gilbert keep him still until he struggled no more from utter exhaustion.

He knew he'd be able to speak again, in a matter of time. But it scared him, especially being someone that was easily overlooked. He just shivered and looked down, his head spinning and his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tried to regain himself.

"Hey, Mattie, I'm gonna go get something for shelter. You still have that gun on you?"

It only took a moment for Matthew to nod once to Gilbert for him to grin, ruffle his hair gently, and leave. The man had always been motherly, so it didn't surprise Matthew that he was being motherly to him, of all people. He gripped his pistol gingerly, staring out into the night with determined eyes.

Gilbert wasn't back yet.

That was all that rang through his mind three hours later, his stomach grumbling for food even though he'd eaten not long ago and his eyes droopy with exhaustion, despite his numerous hours of sleep. But he couldn't sleep. He had to stay away to protect himself, to help Gilbert if he was hurt-

No.

Gilbert was fine. He was completely fine, and he didn't need Matthew to help him. He was Prussian, for God's sake! He didn't need help!

He shook his head slightly and grimaced at his own thoughts. He shouldn't be a pessimist at a time like this, he reminded himself.

Then he heard shouting and he recoiled, closing his eyes for split second and taking a deep, calming breath that hurt his throat bad enough that he had to restrain from coughing. He had realized at this point that his clothes were soaked through- Gilbert might have pulled him out of the water, or the tide had gone down from when Gilbert had found him. He had started a shiver a while ago, but he paid no heed, keeping his position, his eyes half-closed in a sort of fear that enveloped him whole and threatened to send him into a panic attack like the one on the plane he vaguely remembered.

The shouting got louder and his eyes shot wide open, his hands shaking as he realized that he couldn't fall asleep, he couldn't let anything natural take him over. The strong Canadian wouldn't let that happen. He'd fight to the end, and would refuse to give up until he didn't have any fight left.

"Alfred! Francis! Gilbert! Good God, where are you people?!"

Was that…

Matthew struggled to rasp out his sort-of brother's name, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to stand. He gasped quietly, a small hitching sound that was easily overlooked by Arthur from the many chirps of birds and the roar of the ocean not far from him.

It was useless. He wouldn't hear him. He wouldn't see him. Completely, utterly hopeless. What was he to do? Nothing. He had to sit there helplessly and wait, wait as Arthur slowly left the area without a second thought.

The shuffling of his feet was heard as he walked through the dense forest, and Arthur sighed, pressing a finger to his temple and leaning against the trunk of a tree. He didn't know how long he'd been waking, but it had surely been a very, very long time. His legs, which were burning from how long he'd been walking (the man was out of shape, he needed to get back into it, and soon), were nearly dragging along the forest floor, and his voice was raw from how much he'd been yelling. There was already a sinking feeling in his stomach, and he felt sick.

He slid down to sit on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his elbows on his knees. He groaned, running a hand through his sweat-filled hair. This was an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

"Mph…" Arthur struggled to make sound, his head spinning. He'd call out one last time…

No. He'd save his voice, and make a shelter. It'd be easy, he told himself, just like the last time he'd made one… in the late 1940's.

He wasn't good at remembering, but he figured he could wing it.

So Arthur stood up and brushed himself off, ignoring the aching pains and the exhaustion. He started walking again, searching high and low for a place to stay. And about half an hour later (not that he would be able to tell the time), he found it.

A sizeable wall of rock with a large chunk lost, a large open area in store for at least seven Arthurs to hole up in. It was relatively clean, got light easily, and was near what appeared to be a river (which he prayed was freshwater, though he knew it probably wasn't).

"Perfect." he mumbled, starting to trudge towards it with new hope.

This hope was dashed as soon as he stepped near it, his foot hooking onto a branch most painfully and he flopped to the ground, rather like a painfully disabled dog. He certainly yelled out like one too, and screaming obscenities in what had to be at least seven different languages.

It seemed to go in slow motion, but afterwards he couldn't even remember when he'd fallen, only the blinding pain up his leg and palms when he hit the root-littered ground.

"Goddamn it all…" he hissed, picking his face up from where it had hit the dirt. He rolled onto his back, looking at his palms tiredly and checking for damages. Nothing but a few scrapes, he'd be fine.

He hoisted himself up and almost fell over again, his face going a deathly pale that wouldn't have been remotely considered healthy, in any sense of the word.

He was screwed. He crawled towards the cave opening with as much dignity he could (which wasn't much) and scrambled into a sitting position, leaning forward and looking down at his leg. Then he almost fainted.

His foot was bent at an awkward angle, and God, it hurt so much. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, looking around and thankfully finding a nice piece of dry wood. He ripped his pant leg up to the knee and grimaced at the sight of a pink tinge to his skin, all along his ankle. It would start swelling soon, and he had to do something before that happened.

Arthur groaned and inspected it for a moment. It was far enough up that he wouldn't have to keep his shoe on the reduce swelling… besides, his shoe didn't cover it anyways. So the black slacks he had come off, though he kept the socks on. He began making a makeshift splint, wincing in pain every now and then. A few hours (it took longer than expected- his hands were shaky and his motions were slowed because of pain) later, he had a sort-of support for his leg, and was utterly exhausted. He gripped his own hair tightly, taking a deep, shaky breath. "Lord…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head and leaning against the cave wall. His ankle would be fine within a matter of days, but for now, it was causing him too much pain to bear.

He decided quickly that he would have to do something, and then thought first that he would evaluate the situation. He dug around in his pockets to see what he could salvage, and found that He had a few coins, a wad of money, his cell (the screen was cracked down the middle, and it wouldn't turn on), and his wallet, which held a few pictures, two credit cards, his ID, and some more money. He put all of the rest of the money in his wallet, muttering ferociously to himself. Not much, not anything remotely useful. The last thing that he thought before drifting off into uncomfortable, pained induce sleep was this:

"Where are the others?"

The first thing Francis realized when he woke up was that he was in pain. His whole body felt as if it was on fire, and God was he drained. He couldn't open his eyes for a long moment as the throbbing faded away, replaced by a still severe but less disabling dull pain. "Ugh…" he managed to open his eyes, and found that he was lying among the wreckage of a plane; it was a miracle that he hadn't been hit by debris more than the dozens of small specks of metal embedded into his arms and legs.

"France! France!"

Suddenly a small boy (which Francis recognized five seconds later as Peter) was shaking him, trying to get him to sit up, or at least respond to him. He looked scared out of his wits.

"Peter-" Francis managed, struggling to sit up, ignoring the protest of his back and arms as he supported himself. "Calm down, darling…" he said, trying desperately to get the younger of the two to relax.

"B-But where's Iggy? And America?" he demanded, tears filling his eyes. He shook Francis some more, which forced Francis to hold Peter's arms down and examine him. He'd hit his head, it'd started to bleed… and it was hard for the boy to breathe, which was evident in the insistent panting and the tightness of his chest; if this was a symptom of panic or an injury, Francis wasn't sure.

"I'm sure they're alright, Peter." he said gently, although he was struggling to reassure him, "Completely fine."

Peter made a sound of protest but Francis shook his head, standing up unsteadily, legs shaking as he managed to brace himself against a nearby tree. "How about we just still together and find a place to stay, hm?"

Peter nodded slightly, seemingly reassured, but Francis knew that both of them had that knot of worry in their stomachs, a slightly nauseating feeling that wouldn't go away until curiosity had been sated. So many problems spun in their heads as they trekked along the sidewalk, their heads held high as they tried to keep their panic from showing.

Where were they? Who were those people on the plane?

Where were the others?

-END CH 2-