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Title: Parting is All We Know (Ch. I)
Author/Artist: Red
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Mainly Canada, France, and England, but featuring ALMOST EVERYBODY | America/England, Lithuania/Poland, China/Russia, one-sided Belarus->Russia, Germany/N. Italy, Austria/Hungary, Spain/S. Italy, Finland/Sweden, France/Prussia (kind of!) and probably a whole bunch of others if you wear the right goggles.
Rating: R
Warnings: ANGST, violence, character death overall. For this chapter, adult themes and about one line of bloodplay.
Summary: After one of their number kills another in the midst of a psychotic breakdown, and the countries involved seem to remain unaffected, the Nation-tans are forced to question their mortality and the very nature of their existence. The strain of loss and the weight of the questions threatens to tear their delicate community apart at the seams.
A/N: This fic is written to go with my essay on Internal Logical Consistency in Hetalia, which originally I was going to post before this, but I just finished another paper and I’m not in the mood to pen up another one just yet. So... eventually there’ll be a very existential essay to go with this, although I think the fic should ultimately speak for itself.

Chapter I: All We Need of Hell

“My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of Heaven,
And all we need of Hell.”
--Emily Dickinson

July 17th, 2009

The only thing Matthew can see is blood. He has long since left that place far behind, but he thinks it is all that he will ever see. His family… his friends… where had they all gone wrong?

His legs are shaking, and he falls to his knees on that hill, before that cross which he pitched some weeks ago. Weeks? Had it been only weeks? Only weeks, and all this. His shaking hands disappear into his hair, and he screams at the early morning sky. “Why?” he asks the cross, and his heart breaks for the answers he will never receive. “Why did it have to be like this? I wanted to help. I wanted to make it all better… for you…”

It is only he when he can’t see anymore that he realizes how hard he’s been crying. Strange, he thought he hadn’t any tears left. His forehead fell against the wood of that cross, and his breath came hard from his strained throat.

“Maybe,” he struggles to say, “Maybe none of us ever should have been at all.”

June 30th, 2009

Alfred is leaving him.

Alfred has been in a constant state of leaving him for over two-hundred years, this Arthur is sure of. The closeness they’d had since the last great war has been a lie. Every touch was a lie. Every kiss was a lie. Every night up late ravishing each other’s bodies, that too…

“That’s bullshit,” Alfred had told him, just a few short weeks ago. “I still love you and you know it. But my boss says I should hang out with some other countries a little more, and I agree with him. Just because I’m going to go hang out with Germany this week doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

Alfred is leaving him. He can try to hide it all he wants, but Alfred is leaving him, and this wretched week, this week leading up to that wretched day, only serves to remind him, just as every year, of everything he has lost. Everything that has been torn from him. Torn, torn, torn. He’s been torn. His hands are shaking and he’s finding it hard to keep a hold on the whiskey. He’s been drinking fairly constantly for days.

Alfred is leaving him, and Arthur is losing himself.

Everyone thinks Arthur is mad because he sees fairies and unicorns, but they have no idea. There have been times in the past when he has completely lost his mind. Once during that time they had so callously called the splendid isolation, when he was all alone. Once in his piratical days, but his behavior had seemed on par with the lifestyle. And once during the War of the Roses, but no one had blamed him for that. And few and far between, little sporadic bouts of becoming something else entirely.

He remembers well the perverse fascination in tearing apart a helpless woman, in slaughtering a ship full of sailors. Sometimes when he went to war he would wish he could will that part of him up to protect him.

He could almost taste the blood.

And Alfred is leaving him.

No, he knows he’s truly mad when he can’t hear the fairies anymore. Can’t hear them warning him, can’t feel them tugging at his sleeves. One lands insistently before him, to try to get his attention, to let him know that he’s slipping. Arthur leers at her, and the whiskey bottle comes down hard over her head. He twists it, grinds it into the table, pulls it back and leaves a red smear and a shed wing stuck to the table. He laughs shrilly at the sight of it. They think they can save him, they always think they can save him.

There’s no saving him.

Alfred is leaving him.

July 1st, 2009

“So you’re coming, right?”

“For the last time, yes,” Alfred sighs over the phone. “It’s not even ‘til eight or so, right?”

“I just want to make sure you didn’t forget.”

Alfred smirks. His tongue sticks out a little as he adjusts his tie, the phone tucked carefully between his ear and shoulder. “Hey. How could I forget my baby brother’s birthday?”

“You forgot last year.”


“So… you’ll be there at eight, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Alfred says. There’s a bang, bang, bang down the hall, and his head perks up. “Hey Matty, I gotta go. Someone’s knocking.”

“Alright. I’ll see you tonight.”

Alfred drops the phone down on the receiver and swings toward the front door. He wonders who could possibly be dropping by this late in the afternoon when really, everyone ought to be getting ready to go to Matthew’s. Except the Asian-tans, apparently. Something about Hong Kong. Matthew mentioned it, but Alfred has already forgotten now.

When Alfred throws open the door, Arthur nearly falls onto him. “Shi-!” Alfred catches him by the shoulders, pushes him back to right him, and Arthur his giggling hysterically into his hands. Alfred stares. “…you’re drunk already? Shit Arthur, it’s only four o’clock. Shouldn’t you be having tea or something?”

“’M not drunk,” Arthur spits out. “Had a li’l Baileys, s’all…” He tosses back a hand to wave off the accusation and nearly overbalances again.

Once more, Alfred catches him. “You’re drunk,” he insists. And only four hours until they’re supposed to be at Matthew’s too. He sighs and pulls him in. “C’mon in. You should sober up before we head north.”

Chuckling, Arthur stumbles forward and takes Alfred by the tie, tugs to bring Alfred’s face down to his level. “You gonna sober me up, love?” He leans forward and presses his lips to the other’s.

Alfred can practically taste the alcohol. In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn’t. But when Arthur is up against him, rubbing himself against him like he was starving for it, Alfred can’t resist him. He was never one for self-restraint. He kicks the door shut and throws Arthur back against it, lips intertwined while Arthur swiftly undoes his tie—remarkably dexterous for being drunk, but that was Arthur for you… dreadfully used to being drunk.

With two buttons of his dress shirt undone now, Alfred is ready to tear his clothes off and have Arthur right then and there, up against the door. But, dizzy with lust, Arthur easily slipped out from between his arms and overtook him, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him along behind. Alfred followed, eagerly, scrambling to keep up, undoing all the buttons of his shirt with his free hand. The door burst open and Arthur spun him, flung him onto the bed. When Alfred tried to prop himself up, Arthur was right on top of him. He peeled Alfred’s half-open shirt away and cast it aside. Bright green eyes went dark as Arthur leered at his lover, pinned Alfred’s wrists up above his head and tied them.

And oh how Alfred loved it when Arthur played rough with him. He arched up from underneath compulsively, wanting. In compliance Arthur stooped down to meet lips with him again, then began working his way down, under the chin and along the nape of the neck. Alfred’s eyes fluttered closed, and he tipped his head back and let his love do his work.

“Oh… oh, Arthur…”

Across the collarbone and down along the sternum.


A few light kisses across the nipples.

“Arthur, please…”

And then down to the stomach.

Alfred opened his mouth to moan, then froze. His eyes snapped open.

There was pain. Not the stinging of little love bites. There was pain, deep and wrenching, in his abdomen. He felt the heat and wet of the wound, the cold of metal, something foreign inside him, tearing at him. He couldn’t even scream, too stunned for sound to escape his throat. Shaking, he lifted his head to see.

And Arthur was crouched between his legs, his hand coiled around the hilt of the blade plunged deep into Alfred’s gut. He was stooped down low and lapping at the blood which pooled around the wound.

Staring, trembling, Alfred tried to force a sound to come from his lips. “…Ar… thur…?”

And Arthur smiled at him.

Matthew had his party in the evening because he wanted to have a bonfire, with marshmallow toasting and a cooler of Molson. That, and it would give him time to call everyone and remind them that, yes, he existed, and yes, he was having a party. Most showed up fairly punctually; Arthur had advised him he’d be a bit late. But by nine Matthew had yet to see a trace of his brother.

Bastard forgot again.

Sighing, Matthew pushed himself off his seat by the fireside and cut through the crowd. By the house, Francis had cornered Lovino and was busy fingering that single curly hair. Matthew caught his second father by the shoulder and turned him from his catch.

“Oh thank God,” Lovino breathed, then stormed off calling for Antonio.

Francis pouted. “Now look what you’ve done, mon fils.”

“Francis,” Matthew said, skipping past the issue of the molestation he’d interrupted. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m running down to Alfred’s house real quick. He forgot about me. Again. Could you look after my guests for a bit?”

At the very suggestion, Francis brightened. “Of course!” he cried. “I love to host.”

“Great. Thanks.” That set, Matthew turned on his heel and set off… until a second thought struck him and he turned back once more. “And hey, could you just… not rape anybody while I’m gone?”

Francis crossed his arms. “You have so little faith in me.”

“Because I have too much experience with you,” Matthew replied. He stood and accepted a tousle of his hair before departing.

By the time he arrived at Alfred’s, the last of the setting sun had melted away, leaving only inky black and wisps of clouds outlined silver in the moonlight. All was quiet, but the lights were all on in Alfred’s windows, like an invitation forward through the darkness. Matthew sighed. Just as he thought.

“Al!” Matthew hollered, rapping at the door with the back of his fist. “C’mon, Al, you’re late.”

The door flew open, spilling light onto the stoop, and there stood Arthur. He hung from the doorway, leaning halfway out, silhouetted against the light from within. There was a glint in his eye and his grin. And he was soaked in blood.

Matthew staggered back, barely catching himself on the front step railing. For just a split second, he forgot to breathe. “Arthur!” he sputtered. “Is… what’s going on?” He swallowed down his rising tension. “Whose blood is that?”

Arthur caught him by the shoulders and pulled him in, slammed the door shut behind him.

With a yelp, Matthew collapsed against the far wall. All the lights in the house were on, the radio and the TV too, to the point the house was buzzing with electricity. He could see just around the corner where the coffee maker was on and stood at attention. On the end table in the foyer sat a present wrapped in red and white, with a little card. He looked up to see Arthur locking the door and licking his bloody lips. What the Hell was happening here? No, there had to be a perfectly good reason for all of this. Matthew measured out his uneven breath so that he could speak up. “Where is Alfred?”

“In the bedroom,” Arthur said. He reached out a bloodstained hand and snatched up one of Matthew’s, dragged him along behind without another word.

Matthew stumbled as he followed, his brain racing too fast for even his feet to keep up. Absolutely nothing here made sense. “Please, Arthur, what happened here?”

Arthur chuckled a little; it sounded hollow, like it was rattling around inside of him. “We spent the afternoon together,” he said. “It got a little rough.”

For that Matthew couldn’t even manage words. A little rough? Was he seeing right? Arthur was all covered in splotches of blood. They rounded the corner so fast it made Matthew dizzy; he nearly collapsed when Arthur let him go. And then he looked to the bed, and all pretense of movement, all breath, all sound left him.

Sometimes, especially when they were growing up, but even now, Alfred had exhausted Matthew by his sheer presence. He was always so boisterous, relentless and loud. He was the outgoing one, the energetic one. He was the one everyone noticed because you couldn’t not notice him.

And he shouldn’t be so quiet. So still.

That couldn’t be his big brother. Alfred was never so still.

He lay on the bed, crumpled and broken in a puddle of red. Lacerations and little holes littered his naked body. His wrists were bound, and his eyes and mouth parted ever so slightly. But his eyes caught no light, and his eyelids did not so much as flick. His glasses were shattered upon the floor.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t make a sound.

“No,” Matthew said, before he even realized he was speaking. “No, no…” He ran to his brother, because Alfred couldn’t be dead. Their kind didn’t die. Matthew touched his fingers to his brother’s neck to check how bad off he was.

No pulse flinched beneath his fingers. He felt nothing but cold skin.

A sob. No. It was an impossibility. Matthew ran his hand down Alfred’s face, tapped his cheek. “Come on, Al,” he pleaded. “Talk to me. Talk to me. Alfred…”

All the air left Matthew’s lungs as he was flung against the wall once more. The whole world was a blur around him and a cloud of panicked thoughts that never came through clearly. A shadow fell over him, and before he could so much as see straight he found himself rearranged, pulled forward and pushed about, until his wrists and ankles were bound together by a belt. “Hey,” Matthew whimpered, tugging at the restraint. “What’s going on?”

Fingers ran lightly through Matthew’s long, wavy hair. “Look at us, all together again,” Arthur said. There were all manner of little catches in his voice like a skipping record. “And we’re going to be a happy family. Happy family.” He pulled Matthew’s head up by the hair hard, and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “Yes. Yes. Happy family.”

Matthew was aware, distantly, that there were tears falling down his face. Who was this man? This wasn’t the man who raised them. Arthur loved them. This man was mad. And this man… this man hurt Alfred.

Arthur backed away from Matthew, left him in the corner while he crawled up into the bed. He took Alfred’s bloodied body up into his lap and, faintly, began to sing. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

And Matthew wished he could reach up to wipe his eyes. He blinked to try to clear the dampness from his eyes, but the tears only came rushing back in again for every little glimpse he saw. A smear of blood on the bedpost. A photo of Alfred and Arthur in warm embrace on the bedside table, in stark contrast to the grizzly parody of affection displayed before him. Arthur kept running his fingers over Alfred’s pale hair, leaving more and more streaks of deep maroon there.

“What have you done?” Matthew whispered.

And Arthur only sung louder. “…If that diamond ring turns brass, Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”

“You killed him,” said Matthew, and the voicing of it tore his throat and his heart. “You killed my brother. You killed him.”

Arthur halted mid song, ceased from rocking the limp body in his arms. “It’s his song, you know,” he said. He looked to Matthew and his eyes were wide, baring all their whites. “Mockingbirds. They’re from here. So I think it’s his song.” He glanced back down. “Or maybe it’s mine, and I wrote it for him.” He pressed his fists to his mouth to hold back a fit of giggles. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Matthew trembled like a tiny bird with a broken wing. His back grew sore from being forced to stoop over and the leather was tight around his ankles and wrists. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t his family. He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t his family, that wasn’t his father, that wasn’t his brother, and maybe if he closed his eyes tight enough, it would all just go away.

Wet hands closed around Matthew’s face. “Now, now,” Arthur whispered. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Now unable to stop up his weeping, Matthew forced his eyes open. In the haze of his vision he saw a glint of light reflecting. And then his shirt was being cut away from his body. “Wait, stop,” he said. “Wait.” He squirmed back, pressed back against the wall like he could hide there. “Please.” The shirt was torn away, exposing his bare skin. He felt the tip of the blade scrape against his chest and wailed. “Why are you doing this to us!?”

“I just want us all to be together. Just like we used to be,” Arthur said. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against Matthew’s lips.

And Matthew, unlike Alfred who had broken the father/son relationship long ago, had never been able to see Arthur as anything but his father figure, if that. When Arthur’s tongue slipped into his mouth, Matthew locked up, wanted to retch but couldn’t manage anything but to sit very still. When their lips broke apart, Matthew screamed. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take it. He needed Alfred. He needed Arthur.

And Alfred was lying torn up on the bed, very still.

And Arthur was looking over Matthew’s body with hungry eyes, knife in hand.

“Please, Arthur,” Matthew sobbed. “I love you.”

“It’s funny,” Arthur panted, tapping along the length of Matthew’s torso with the knife’s tip. “Your brother said the exact same thing when I stuck the same knife into his belly.” He gritted his teeth and reeled the knife back.

“No,” Matthew whispered. He dropped his head once more, closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

There was a crash.

At first he didn’t even dare to breathe. When another moment passed with no strike, no hurt, he cracked open his eyes and turned up his head.

Francis stood over him, with the shattered neck of a vase in his hand. He scowled down at the floor, where Arthur had crumpled at his feet, a little bit of glass still caught in his hair. Casting the remains of the vase aside, Francis stooped down to caress Matthew’s face, and for once the touch was welcome. “Are you alright, mon cheri?” he asked.

“Francis,” Matthew said, trying hard to hold back the tears that were soaking his second father’s hand. It had been so hard to believe what he had seen so far, and now he just couldn’t believe he was safe. “You… you followed me?”

Withdrawing his hands, Francis bent down to release his boy’s hands and feet. “I was curious what his excuse would be.” When he stood back, there was not a fragment of his usual boisterousness or smarm upon his face. His expression was cold and grim in contrast to the warm summer night. “Germany is looking after your guests.”

Matthew shivered as he watched the belt fall away from him. Once free, he lunged into his father’s arms, like when he was a little boy and still felt safe there. “Oh God,” he sobbed into Francis’ shoulder. “He was… he…” It was impossible to contemplate. He glanced back and forth from Arthur’s unconscious body to Alfred on the bed. “Alfred.” This one idea alone was so huge it took up his whole mind. “He… he’s dead…”

“Impossible,” Francis scoffed, his fingers dancing through his boy’s hair, seeking to console. “He must have some life in him yet.” He turned from Matthew with a flourish and went to Alfred’s bedside. Stooping there, he checked for a pulse at Alfred’s neck and wrist. Finding nothing there, Francis studied the fog in Alfred’s eyes. “O dieu,” Francis breathed. He fled from the room.

And Matthew was quick to stagger after him, eager to leave behind that nightmare and the stink of his family’s blood. The halls were all still a blur of noise and sound. By the time he found himself in the living room, Francis was flicking through all the channels in the TV. There were no breaking news stories, no signs of war or chaos. All seemed business as normal for a Wednesday night. “I don’t understand,” he said. He ran to the window then, threw aside the curtains.

Down below, the cities still sparkled, scattered diamonds in the night. No smoke and fires, no screams, only the calm glimmer of the pulse of America. The pulse of a country that had just had its heart torn out and by all rights ought to have fallen dead with it. Because Alfred was America, was its heart.


Francis stood braced against the window’s frame, shaking his head.

“How?” Matthew said, but he could not finish the question. He didn’t even know where to begin. The world didn’t make sense.

And Alfred had left him.

Matthew felt so cold he had to wrap his arms around himself to still himself from quivering. “What do we do?”

Steeling himself, Francis stood up straight and turned away from the window and the incongruously peaceful night. “I will call Germany, tell him to send your guests home, that we are having a family crisis,” he said. He clenched a fist, and his fingernails dug into his palm. “And I will keep an eye on Arthur.”

A wince ran through Matthew at the sound of his other father’s name. He’d thought Arthur loved them. He’d always thought Arthur loved them. When Matthew stared ahead he saw nothing but a wide abyss of doubt to drown in. He needed to occupy his mind. “What should I do?”

For the first time that Matthew could remember since Arthur took full custody, Francis began, albeit silently, to cry. He pulled his boy into one more embrace and said into his ear, “Bury your brother. Put him to rest.” He laid a kiss on Matthew’s cheek, jarringly chaste for having come from the Frenchman’s lips, and retreated from the room.

Matthew faltered there, in the electric hum, shut away from the serene gloss of night that hid all things. But there was no going back to the quiet bliss of not knowing. It seemed he simultaneously knew too much and understood nothing at all. Weeping, Matthew marched slowly after Francis to gather up what was left of his brother.



( 29 comments — Leave a comment )
(Deleted comment)
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:58 am (UTC)
Workin' on it as we speak. :D Thank you.
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:29 am (UTC)
Wow... stunning. Heartbreaking. I can't wait to see more of this.
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:58 am (UTC)
Thank you. ^_^
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:33 am (UTC)
...aasfdjlsdkj omg how dark and awesome. B-but ...ALFRED. *cries* ALFRED. *sniff*
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:59 am (UTC)
It broke my heart to do. But this whole fic is an exploration of a bunch of contemplation I did about the Nation-tans, the extent to which they are human and the extent to which they are countries, which included considerations of mortality and free will... so...

It's going to get much worse.
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:05 am (UTC)
The Alfred and Arthur lover in me is crying (and poor Matthew!), but the part of me that loves new ways of looking at things is intrigued. I'll be back ^_^ Even if I cry every time.
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:35 am (UTC)
Oh WOW. I actually had tears by the end of this...I can't wait to read more.
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:59 am (UTC)
Real tears? YES. JACKPOT.

*ahem* Thank you. XD
Mar. 1st, 2009 03:49 am (UTC)
Nnnngaaaaahhhhh D: Why does this frighten me so bad? Crap, there's that deep-seated end-days American fear....((beats it down mercilessly))

And...and it doesn't help that I love this little family thing so much...; ; My heart, she is breaking.

I'm...I'm going to go sit in anguish and look at my paper Alfred doll mmkay? ._. Spectacular as always, m'dear, it's just...sad...
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:03 am (UTC)
ROFL. *pets Lynn* We Americans have fear down to a science.

Oh god, me too. Especially the brotherly dynamic between Matthew and Alfred...

Thank you, lovely. ^_^ Sorry to make you sad. Your papercraft doll shall keep you company. (And sorry for disappearing the other day, but I wound up being out much later than expected.)
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:09 am (UTC)
Oh that's okay, I ended up not getting back on because I was busy with homeworky things...but I'm sure you know that...

Aaah but I enjoy the angst...<3
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:08 am (UTC)
Oh my goodness! You just made my day! I can't wait for the next chapter! Thank you so much! I'll try to give a more coherent comment for the next chapter!!
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:58 am (UTC)
LOL. Well I'm glad to make your day. :D Thank you.
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:10 am (UTC)
"Whoa..." That was pretty much my reaction followed by "MOAR!". I can't wait to read your essay because I love anything meta, it's like food for my analytical soul/brain/whatever. LOL.

But man, it was heartbreaking reading that through Canada's eyes and the mystery you're weaving is killlllling me. I hope you can update soon.

Man, I need to read something happy now.
Mar. 1st, 2009 05:01 am (UTC)
Yes, yay for over-analyzing. XD I'm beginning to suspect though that I might post the full essay _after_ the fic is done because I fear the essay may take the edge off of some of the coming events in the story... and I'd hate to sabotage myself like that. >.>

Thank you! I'm working on the second chapter as we speak.

Go find something fluffy. XD
Mar. 1st, 2009 07:24 am (UTC)
I'm a huge Canada fan, so I love that you have this as Matthew's POV. Your writing style is really terrific and the character personalities are dead on.

Gah, I'm too tired to give this story the review it deserves, but I think this is going to be one of my favorite Hetalia fanfiction. I can't wait for the next update!
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:42 pm (UTC)
Well thank you very much. :D

The story's going to wind up bouncing around perspectives a lot, especially considering I'm trying to work _every character possible_ into it eventually.
Mar. 1st, 2009 01:19 pm (UTC)
Very interesting story so far. I'm intrigued :D Your fic is awesome.
Mar. 1st, 2009 04:43 pm (UTC)
Thank you. :D
Mar. 1st, 2009 11:56 pm (UTC)
Goodness, I almost missed this in the endless mass of posts on the Hetalia community, but I'm so glad that I didn't. o.o I'm looking forward to seeing where you go with this.
Mar. 2nd, 2009 03:35 am (UTC)
Thank you. ^_^
Mar. 2nd, 2009 07:56 am (UTC)

omg need more now T_____T sobsobsob so hard
Mar. 2nd, 2009 06:22 pm (UTC)
Aw. Thank you. XD More on the way.
Mar. 6th, 2009 06:22 pm (UTC)
Too beautiful and sad for words. I love how this was made from Matty's POV, and your writing style is quite interesting too. Can't wait for more.

If you'll excuse me, I'll go cry now.
Mar. 6th, 2009 06:25 pm (UTC)
Didn't help much that I was listening to Hello, by Evanescence at the end...
Mar. 6th, 2009 06:23 pm (UTC)
H-Holy crap... There are just no words...

It's kind of disturbing to see one's nation stabbed to death by the motherland. 0.o Poor Matt, left alone in his house now...
Mar. 16th, 2009 05:31 am (UTC)
W-wow...I'm actually crying!!! That was so amazing...


That was just to sad for a coherent review...Thank-you!!!
Mar. 16th, 2009 10:01 am (UTC)
Phwoooaarrr, cor Blimeeeey, bloody heeeellll...so gripping!
Mar. 21st, 2009 02:55 am (UTC)
You take incoherency as a complement, I hope?

'Cause, really, that's all I've got to offer by way of review.
And, um, really lookin' forward to the next parts. Yeah.
( 29 comments — Leave a comment )