"Gilbert?"

"Yes, squirt?"

"Don't you think that observation was a bit too telling?" Peter queried. From watching the screen he could see how Italy seemed a little off while he was being bombarded with reassurances and promises and affection from the other nations. "What if he knows?"

"Then he knows," Prussia responded indifferently. "I trust him to keep it to himself until the time is right. He's not as stupid as people think."

And that was just something that no doubt made the younger Italian feel so inferior to other countries around him, Gilbert thought. Who was to say that Feliciano surrounding himself by nations like Germany, America, Japan or France wasn't him trying to make himself feel better? That he was making sure he remained part of the clique? Only Feliciano knew what was was running through his head. Gilbert couldn't vouch for him, but through the observation, he felt that he could at least help the Italian feel more important.

"Besides," Gilbert said, "there's still a fair amount to get through. I'm not underestimating him, but he could forget given the severity of things to come."

"And if he doesn't forget? What if he tells your brother without you realising?" Sealand commented. He didn't fancy being put face to face with an angry Ludwig, nor did he fancy his chances at running away from said Ludwig . . .

"Keep your pants on, Peter!" Prussia responded. "If anything like that happens you know I'd cut you out of the loop! That's why you're not in London with me!"

"But I don't want you to get in trouble because of me!"

Gilbert let out a faint sigh under his breath. He could understand why the kid was probably so worried and wanted to take the blame. It had been his initial idea, after all. Prussia was just facilitating it. But that was no excuse, because forget Peter even being young, he was someone that Gilbert respected as both a nation and a person, and he didn't want him to face such damning consequences for what Gilbert had allowed.

"No matter what happens, neither of us will face any severe repercussions. I promise you," he said, a small white lie slipping through his lips. "I did the collecting of all the information, whereas you're the genius behind it. You won't get penalised for having common sense and boldness, Peter. Those are the best attributes you could have."

"You . . . Really mean that?"

"Yes. I do."

Sealand smiled to himself, a small ball of hope growing in his chest. "Thank you, Gil . . ."

"For what?" the Prussian questioned with a quizzical frown as he reached for his trusty bottle of beer.

"Teaching me how to be a good nation," he replied, "and a good person."

"You don't need me for that," Gilbert told him. "Only you can make yourself the best nation, squirt. And you're definitely on your way."

And as Peter continued to smile to himself, elsewhere, another blue-eyed blonde was doing exactly the same. Francis was watching all of the encouragement and praise Feliciano was receiving as a result of the Italian's observation. He knew that Feli was strong in ways people didn't always understand or acknowledge, and he was above all happy to see that he was finally receiving that recognition.

"Next up is another one from Japan, it seems," Antonio announced once the commotion had died down a little.

Kiku stopped fiddling with the bandaging on his arm and looked up at the Spaniard. "Another one?" he repeated.

"Ah," Germany said warily, realising that no one had actually told Japan about what they had read not too long before the incident in the kitchen. He took a moment to explain all to his friend, who then in turn signalled for Spain to proceed.

He nodded. "Japan. May 17th, 1997. I visited a familiar place today. That same place I visit each year around this time in order to help others: Aokigahara."

"You go there each year?" Yao asked with concern.

"Hai, I help both visitors and the authorities with the recoveries," Kiku replied meekly.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt," Spain said sheepishly, "but . . . The recovery of what, exactly?"

He wasn't the only person in the room who wanted an answer, in reality, he had just been the only one who had the gall to ask. Feliciano was similarly intrigued for an unknown reason, and Russia was also having a little bit of a hard time recognising the name of the place provided. Aokigahara? It sounded familiar, but he didn't know why . . .

"Bodies," Japan said.

'Oh,' Ivan thought, 'now I remember . . .'

"Bodies?"

Kiku hesitated for a moment, a faint tightening in his chest bear his heart, and he looked down at the table. "There is a forest in my country," he explained, "that has a certain reputation known rather globally."

Talking about it wasn't easy, but it had to be done. If nothing was ever spoken about, he reminded himself, how would anyone ever know anything or learn?

"It is a forest where many people - not just from Japan - come to kill themselves each year." He fiddled with his hands in his lap a little anxiously. "I have spent a long time trying to reduce the figures and the idea of it being a place for suicide, but it has been hard. I want to help people find peace, but not through death."

"And you go there to get the bodies . . . ?" he was asked wearily, the concern having grown along with horror and shock.

"Someone has to."

"R-Right . . ."

"I don't see why you put yourself through all of that," Yao remarked faintly, wistfully, almost. It wasn't a harsh criticism, but rather a desire to understand. "Surely you can only take so much death in your life before it becomes too much, Japan."

"It is respect, at the end of the day. For both the dead who felt there was no way to continue, and for the forest that they use," Kiku responded. "You can only see so much death before it all becomes the same, China: numb. Now please, perhaps we should just move on to the next one . . ."

Everyone could tell he was holding back a river of different emotions and trying to conceal, above all else, a sadness in his heart for those lost in the woods. Japan's infamous suicide forest was not something he wanted nor was proud of; he only wanted people to become aware of the problems of depression before the figures started to rise again. He wanted to help those who needed it and save them from darkness and temptation. To preserve their honour and protect their loved ones from the collateral pain that a death would bring.

Antonio shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat as the room became eerily quiet. "If you're sure and no one else minds . . ." Which they didn't, it seemed, based on the silence, so he turned to the next chunk of writing. "This one's a super short observation about Canada."

"Oh?" Matthew said. "I don't know if I want to hear it," he mused with a lighthearted smile and wary laugh -- an attempt to lighten the mood somewhat.

"No no," Antonio responded, catching on a bit, "sharing is caring!"

"If you say so . . ."

"Canada," the Spaniard began, then. "He probably won't admit it, but he sometimes sleepwalks and it scares him."

"Aww, Matthew, bless your little golden heart," Francis said softly, placing an arm around his dear Canadian. "We all do crazy things, you don't have to let them scare you, cher!"

"I-It's not so much the sleepwalking that scares me," Matthew stated reluctantly, looking from Francis to everyone else and their curious faces as well. "It's just that . . . That lack of control over what I do. The fact that I can't make it stop or start is what I don't like."

"So don't try to control it," Feliciano said. "Perhaps if you just let it be and accept it, you won't find it so bad!"

"Yeah, maybe . . ."

"But I know what you mean," João added on. He was under the impression that the Italian hadn't quite gotten the idea but he didn't want Matthew to feel too small, so he felt urged to leap in to help, too. "It's never fun to lose control over what you know, and as the representation of such a country as Canada, I can imagine it's worrying to think about the consequences of moments of disorder."

"That's exactly it," Matthew said with a quiet nod. "I mean, I woke up once in the backyard just sat at the table, and I actually made myself sick because of the cold . . ."

"Wait, the cold made you sick?" Ivan questioned. "That is possible for you?"

"We're all a bit more human than I think we realise," the Canadian responded meekly. "Sure, the cold and snow is great, but my body doesn't always agree with my heart."

The Russian hummed to himself with intrigue and everyone was once more lost for what to say. It seemed that both Japan and Canada held onto different things that had rather calamitous impacts on them as people, one unable to talk about it much and the other struck into fear. It made Ivan wonder how many secrets one person could store. For himself, it was a high number, but for smaller nations like Japan?

But then, he had learnt never to underestimate a nation by size. He had, of course, lost an entire war to Japan in 1905 and he had since barely felt so humiliated in all his existence . . .

"OK, who wants to read next?" Antonio questioned above the crowding thoughts.

"I will, if no one else wants to," replied Ivan, awake again. Since all he received was nods of agreement, he was passed the book and took straight to the next piece of writing. "Oh, I see. This actually seems to be neither an entry nor an observation . . ."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Canada questioned, peering over at the journal.

"I mean it is quite ambiguous," the Russian replied. He turned the book around so everyone could see the big capital letters scrawled onto the page. "Ask England about J," he read out.

"Who's 'J'?" Portugal questioned, as if someone else in the room knew.

But they didn't. Not knowingly, off the top of their heads, at least. Lots of things began with the letter 'j', especially if it was a name involved -- which it likely was -- and around the room a handful of people could think of at least one 'J' that England had mentioned at one point or another.

There was John, the idiot king who, during one lot of crusades, had ruled over England with an iron and greedy fist, taxing the people horrendously. Or there was James I, the witch-obsessed Scottish king (King James VI of Scotland, James I of England -- something that confused a lot of people) who seemed to have a taste for murdering the innocents accused of witchcraft. Heck, for all they knew, 'J' could've stood for any man that Arthur had come across over the past millennia!

But maybe it was a woman, some thought. Lady Jane Grey had been named queen during the Tudor period (which Arthur voiced he had been quite fond of) who remained so for nine days before being executed in the Tower of London on the orders of Mary Tudor; the surviving daughter of Henry VIII's marriage to Catherine of Aragon and reminder to Arthur of when he and Spain had been much closer . . .

Still, Jane Seymour had been another firm favourite from the Tudor period. Henry's third and favourite wife, and a charming woman whom Arthur had mourned over with the king after she died giving birth, if France was remembering correctly. It was a sad story, but not uncommon. But if not them, then Joan of the Tower perhaps. Joan, who--

'Non, it can't seriously mean Her, can it?' Francis asked himself despondently.

He wished the sudden churning in his stomach would go away. There was no way that page was talking about Her, and her undeniable grace and loyalty, the passion and determination that had led an army, the purity and innocence who was lost to . . . No. It couldn't be.

"My . . . Joan . . . ?"

<><><>

yayme!!
threemonthslatewhydoyouguystoleratethisbookstilljesusiamsobadatthistimetoreturntomyrockokaybai--

Hope this was worth the wait  (defs isn't lmao) <3

- S