The room fell silent.

"Wait . . . Are you trying to say that—"

"You know exactly what I'm saying."

"You?"

"And Gilbert?"

"Trust me, it didn't go that far."

"Sure?"

"Fucking— Yes, I'm sure!"

"Well damn . . ."

"I think that's sort of cute . . . ?"

"I would not call it cute, Italy . . ."

"Does he remember it was you?" Alfred asked.

"I have no idea, you'd have to ask him yourself," Arthur replied.

It was something he hadn't remembered straight away either, to be fair. It was only as America had been reading the entry aloud that the gaps had started to fill and the memories of the alcohol-fuelled Halloween Party became complete again. It was quite funny; the way he'd felt that evening was different and exhilarating, but he'd tried to block it out. After all, it was never a good idea to bring up the past once the future had begun — Gilbert and Matthew had gotten together as he'd started to remember what had happened at the end of the previous year, and he was hardly going to bring that evening up out of the blue.

Gilbert leaned back in his seat, aghast. He felt bad for not remembering, hoping that he hadn't offended England with the entry, but he was shocked at himself that it was Arthur of all people. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe he was just kidding, and someone like Feli or Toni would step forward and say 'well, actually, 'twas I!' and everyone would have a laugh and joke together! Or maybe Gilbert had seriously been way too off his face to realise who he was with, and had possibly hurt his friend in the process . . . Make that friends, actually . . .

"Prussia, are you serious?!" a young voice yelled through Gilbert's headphones. He threw them off for a moment to try and save his hearing, and then remembered who it was. He'd completely forgotten that Peter was there listening. "You and the jerk?!" he cried.

Gilbert cautiously leaned towards the microphone, sliding his headphones back on. "Apparently so—"

"THAT'S SO DISGUSTING!"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that if you have nothing nice to say, then you don't say it?" the Prussian winced.

"No, but they did say that honesty is the best policy!"

"Fair enough . . ."

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and bleach my eyes and my brain. I have some nasty images I need to get rid of before my innocence is corrupted entirely!" Peter stated, and he — to Gilbert's assumption — fled away from the computer.

He didn't know if he should laugh at Peter's reaction or not; he hadn't expected it to be so extreme and dramatic, but then he also felt bad for the kid . . . Still, he had been drunk! He had had basically no control over his actions — anyone who knew Gilbert after a good few drinks knew that all too well. So long as Matthew didn't feel jilted or anything, no one should let what went down that evening ruin anything . . . He hoped . . .

"Should, uh, I perhaps take the book now?" Feliciano asked over the awkward silence. Alfred nodded and passed it to him with little hesitation, and the Italian flicked the page over. Its unusual contents made him frown.

"Everything alright?" Ludwig asked, trying to get a glimpse of the paper.

"Mhmm . . ." Italy replied slowly, before going back to his seal smiley self. "The page just says 'from here, nations not present will have some entries sprinkled throughout. You do not have to read them. They may see them in time'. What do you think of that?"

"Other nations? Like who?" Yao questioned.

"I don't know," Italy said, "I just assume it means anyone else. The Nordics, the Batlics, the rest of Europe really . . ." He looked to the next page. "Like this one! This next one is about Romania!"

"Should we really read it if they're not here?" Francis said, clearly not in favour of delving into the affairs of those not present. "I think this is where I draw the line. If we read this, then we really are invading their privacy," he insisted.

"I agree, it's totally uncool if we do this," Alfred responded. "We need consent, really, and we haven't got a way of getting it."

"Plus, how do we explain this book?" England said. "What, 'oh by the way, we have this book crammed with personal information written by god knows who or even ourselves, and there's a group of us reading it all to each other, and some stuff about you is in here too, mind if we read it'?! Preposterous," he chided, crossing his arms. "That'll just paint great big targets on all of us. World War Three'll be right around the corner."

Not much more discussion was required on the matter. Portugal said that any of his entries could be read, but that was it. The vote was unanimous and everyone agreed that the entries of those not present were to be left unread, saved for them in their own time or perhaps destroyed (not including Romano's, Feliciano insisted with an unusual assertiveness). That second idea had been quite popular too. Maybe they should destroy the journal now and stop before things become any more drastic. But then perhaps leaving things as a secret wasn't a good idea either . . .

Matthew would've been happy to see the book burn. He was starting to think that it was causing more trouble than it was worth, and he was contemplating joining Lovino in self-induced exile. He wasn't angry. He wasn't annoyed. He was just tired. He held nothing against anyone based on what had been read, like he had nothing against England or Prussia over the latest entry, but that didn't mean he liked to hear it. Maybe if he were to sneak away, no one would notice . . .

"Alright," Feliciano said after discussions had died down, "moving onwards! This one's an entry from Japan!"

"Speaking of, is he OK?" Ludwig asked. "He's been in the kitchen for quite a while."

"He was fine when I left him," Arthur responded, resigned. "I think he was steaming something. Told me that he would rather supervise it, hence his absence, but he also said he was happy for us to continue without him, so I suppose we can proceed and update him when he comes back."

"Fair enough," Germany replied with an indifferent shrug. He turned to Italy, and with a small smile, told him to read the entry aloud. Feliciano smiled much more brightly back and obliged.

"Japan. September 21st, 1498. The earthquake that shook our land yesterday caused more damage than I could ever imagine. It caused a giant wave to destroy the buildings and the lives of my people. I can feel them all . . . So many dead . . ."

'Sadly, that wouldn't be the only time something like that happened in Japan,' Alfred reminded himself in silence. He'd also felt many effects of natural disasters, and empathy wasn't all that hard, but he still hated the thought of Kiku having to endure all that pain, emotional and physical. 'I think it was about thirty-thousand who died in the end, if I remember reading that correctly on the Internet. That's a lot of deaths to feel . . . Doesn't get any easier with time, either.'

"I know that this will not be the last time something like is happens on our shores, but I am still struggling to understand why this happens. I want to know. I need to know. Is it the gods? Is it something else? What is causing all of this pain and terror?"

"Tectonics, it turns out," America sighed.

"Earthquakes are terrible," Feliciano nodded in agreement, "and volcanoes are also very . . . Not fun, but that's just the way the earth was made. We can't change it."

"Unfortunately . . ."

"Still, scientists are getting better at predicting these sorts of things," Ludwig remarked.

"Doesn't reduce the pain, though, does it?" Yao said pointedly, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms.

Feliciano hummed, taking a disliking to the awkward and almost hostile atmosphere being created. "Whatever it is, I will defend my people and do what I can to keep them all safe. I do not want them to face another tragedy like this ever again, no matter if it is nature's doing or the fault of another person. I will protect them until the end."

Alfred smiled sourly to himself. 'I'm sorry . . . I don't know much of what happened in between those years, but I think I ruined that hope in 1945. Fuck, I was even in one of the planes . . . And I don't know if I can ever forgive myself, even if you've forgiven me, Kiku. Not so easily . . .'

Matthew nudged his brother as if he could sense the negativity flooding through Alfred's mind, and the American looked to the Canadian with a weak but knowing smile. The elder brother took the younger's hand in his under the table and reassured him quietly. Matthew didn't want Alfred to do anything dumb or feel guilty about anything, or even think about anything that could send him further down that spiralling road of depression. Suicide wasn't possible, but it didn't mean he couldn't try. And Matthew didn't want that for him.

"I think most of us can agree that natural disasters can sometimes be more devastating than the things we inflict on each other," Ivan mused softly. "The idea that we cannot control any of it . . . I think that is what is truly terrifying."

"They're unavoidable. It's not even the control," Francis responded distantly with a faint meekness about him. "We cannot control what the other side does in war, but we can take steps to avoid disaster. Mother Nature is a lot less considerate, however."

"Or everyone could stop being idiots and learn to get along," Portugal muttered to himself. "That'd be nice."

"Love your neighbour as yourself," Spain quietly shot back. "You want fair treatment? Treat everyone around you with respect too."

João scoffed and rolled his eyes, not really in the mood for a lecture. Feliciano decided it would be best to continue reading before disaster struck inside the meeting room, and he turned his attention to the next page. He made a quiet 'ooh' as his intrigue peaked, and as he skim-read over the entry, he smiled happily to himself when he saw how important it may be to some of those present in the room.

"Portugal. He acts laid back and like he doesn't care much for others (bar England, really) but in truth, he cares a lot more about others than some of those who are open about it. He has a photo album tucked away in his study that contains pictures of himself with numerous other nations, all happy, all smiling, all friends. He looks at it frequently."

"Stalker alert," João said with a wary laugh. Had someone seen him look at it, because he had never shown anyone and he had never planned to. It made him feel a bit uneasy inside—had someone gotten into his house without him knowing . . . ?

"You don't care about people, huh?" Antonio remarked, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face. "My, it seems that there really is a heart under all of that ice."

"Hey, no one said there were pictures of you in that album!" Portugal retaliated.

"Of course not," the Spaniard said. "I bet there's only a picture of most of South America along with you and I tucked in there somewhere as an undying reminder of the past, right? A little keep sake."

"Shut up . . ." João sighed with a weak frustration, half-tempted to take the journal and smack his Iberian neighbour over the head with it. Repeatedly.

"I think it's a good idea," Feliciano chipped in. "It's a good way to remember the days when we smiled, so that in times of sadness, we can always look at our past selves and smile again at the memories," he said, giving the room a radiant and warm smile of his own as if to prove a point. "Plus, it means we can—"

The Italian was interrupted by the sudden sound of metal crashing and banging from below them, off into the distance a bit. Everyone sat in silence and looked around at each other, wondering what on Earth could've made such a orchestral racket and where it had come from. And it clicked just as quickly in England's head.

"Japan!"

<><><>

It hasn't been a month since I updated this. Pfft. Don't be daft.
(I'm so sorry, don't murder me plz ;w;)

Also, PrUK.

Also, perhaps some jealousy?

Also, RIP Japan . . .