Hello, hello! Vic here, with my first full-length Hetalia fic. This was originally supposed to be a kinda cute one-shot, but it turned into something much bigger and quite a bit darker.

This is a human AU about the FACE family, Matthew and Alfred-centric. Arthur will make frequent appearances, but as of right now, Francis will be discussed but never actually appear. I don't write slash, so no FrUK or USUK. Just paternal/fraternal relationships. I've never really written Canada before, so I am both excited and apprehensive to see where this goes.

Warnings: Depression and Child Negligence. Possibly some darker themes in later chapters but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

I don't own Hetalia.

Mattie cowers before the enormous caterpillar eyebrows that hover over him, knitted together in equal parts concern and apprehension. Six years old is still too young to understand the anxiety that a new foster kid brings; it's old enough to recognize the tension he feels in the air. It's not exactly hostile, but it's not welcoming, and he holds tighter to the hand of the worn teddy bear that's almost as big as he is and drags on the ground. He closes his eyes and imagines that the damp paw is a strong, warm hand that belongs to twinkling blue eyes and a radiant smile, rather than glassy plastic beads and lopsided stitching.

He swallows the tears and looks back up at the eyebrows—the eyes are a pleasant green, but he can't seem to focus on that—when their owner clears his throat.

"Hello Matthew. I'm Arthur Kirkland. Welcome to your new foster home." Arthur cringes even as he says it. Be a little more stiff and formal, why don't you?

Mattie looks at his shoes. "Thank you, Mr. Kirkland."

Mr. Kirkland? Ghastly! "You can call me Arthur."

You can call me Mattie. Silence extends into too many seconds for either of them to be comfortable, but Arthur breaks first.

"Shall we bring your things upstairs?" He lifts the predictably light suitcase without waiting for an answer. Mattie doesn't mind—he's just glad he doesn't have to make his voice work—and he follows Arthur meekly to the staircase at the back of the neatly kept townhouse.

He studies his new home as they make their way, throwing sidelong glances at things that draw his eye, afraid that if he moves his head too much, Arthur will catch him looking. There's a kitchen on his left, a sitting room on his right. The warmth of faded cherry wood gives the kitchen an inviting look, and glass-paneled cabinets overflowing with haphazard stacks of mismatched mugs make it seem a bit more like home. There's a teapot on the counter whose matching teacup Mattie locates when he glances into the sitting room. It sits in its saucer on an end table next to a cream-colored wingback chair. A vintage-style love seat in another shade of off-white—it bothers Mattie with its slight difference—and a nondescript coffee table complete the picture. It all looks so neat and picture-perfect, Mattie has a hard time believing that this guy is a foster parent; life with the system is anything but perfect. Then he sees the jagged lines of red and blue crayon running up the walls of the staircase and he feels like he can breathe again. He even smiles a little bit and relaxes his hold on the teddy bear's arm. He wants to reach out and trace the colors that sit right at fingertip level, but Arthur's presence looming just in front of him keeps his arms pressed at his sides all the way to the second floor.

"This will be your bedroom." Arthur stops outside a door that stands slightly ajar and turns to look expectantly at the boy standing behind him like a pale shadow.

Mattie sees that Arthur is waiting for him to go inside first, so he grips his bear's paw tight and pushes the door open. The white painted wood is cool against his sweaty palm, but the hinges creak and Mattie can feel himself shrinking. Arthur doesn't blink; it's like he doesn't even notice the disturbance. Or maybe he's just pretending, to be nice. Mattie takes in the room for a moment before Arthur starts talking again.

"You'll be sharing it with Alfred." Mattie notes the twin beds on either side of the window. "He's about your age. I assume they told you?" They had. It would be good for him, they had said. "I'm sorry about the mess." There are crayons and paper and legos everywhere. A model airplane held together with little more than scotch tape lies at Mattie's feet. "He said he was making a surprise for you and wouldn't let me in."

A surprise? Mattie pads timidly to the pile of craft supplies in the center of the room. A large piece of poster board liberally decorated with star stickers reads "HI MATH" in crooked crayon letters. He frowns. It's missing a "T." His fingers itch to pick up the crayon by his foot, but he doesn't want to be rude. Even though "Matthew" really isn't that hard to spell. The hot tears that threaten to breach his eyelids frustrate him even more than the poster, and he scrunches his face, clenches his little fists and tells himself Arthur can't see him cry.

The hollow thunk of his suitcase being set on the floor, the murmured, "Let me know if you need anything," from behind him, and the sound of receding footfalls finally loose the tightness in his chest. Too overwhelmed to care about mussing the neatly turned down bedspread, Mattie throws himself onto his new bed and bursts into stormy tears. For the first time, he lets go of the teddy bear in order to bury his face in his arms, muffling the sobs that eventually subside to hiccuping sniffles. When he sits up again, the cool, dim evening light coming through the window hurts his eyes, and there's a giant tear stain the size of his face on the bedspread. Mattie pulls his cuffs over his hands to wipe his eyes, then scrubs at his face, trying to rid it of the clammy feel of drying tears.

Everything seems painfully loud, even the silence. Mattie can feel, more than hear, the low vibrations of England moving around downstairs, and they resonate with his body in an inexplicably painful way. He hugs himself, drawing his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. His bear looks lonely and sad in a heap on the floor, but Mattie cannot convince himself to stretch out beyond his self-imposed limits, even to reach for the one thing that can keep him grounded. His body is warm, and the thought of the air wrapping around his hand if he dares move it makes him shiver. So he fixes his eyes on the forlorn animal and hopes it understands.

"I'm sorry—" His voice cracks and it's too loud in the oppressive silence, but he has to finish. "I'm sorry Kumajirou, but we have to stay here now. Francis doesn't—" He chokes on the words. They are too terrible to speak aloud.

Francis doesn't want us anymore.

Mattie clenches his fists until it hurts, then relaxes them again, but the tightness in his chest that's creeping up his throat doesn't go away. He wants to scream, but he knows that then Arthur will come and ask questions. He wonders how much Arthur knows. Does he know about Francis? Did they tell him all the things they tried to tell Mattie? Does he think that Francis was a bad foster parent? Or does he know that it wasn't Francis' fault at all—it was Mattie's? He can't know that, though, or Mattie wouldn't be here now.

He can't know that. Or I'll have to go again.

It's zero to one hundred. Suddenly Mattie is off the bed, on his feet. Kumajirou's paw is in his right hand, his suitcase in his left. He's not thinking, he's just moving, and he's standing in the doorway, peeking into the hallway to make sure Arthur isn't there. Arthur isn't.

"Are you running away?"

Mattie stops short, gaping. Staring curiously at him is a pair of enormous blue eyes which, despite their size, are barely visible under heavy blond fringe and the low brim of an oversized aviator's cap. An oversized t-shirt that could be a dress completes the ensemble that Mattie can only assume contains Alfred, Arthur's other foster kid, back from school.

"Hello?" The impatient singsong pulls Mattie back into the moment. "Did you hear me? I asked if you were running away."

Mattie gapes again at the boy's demanding bluntness. He doesn't see much point in lying, but his voice doesn't see much point in working at all, so he only shuts his mouth and looks defiant. He doesn't need—doesn't want—to explain himself to this tiny child who can't even spell "Matthew"—as if somehow that makes all the difference between himself and the other boy. He grips his suitcase and his bear as tightly as he can and tries to push past.

"Don't run away."

The other boy, in an attempt to keep Mattie in place, simply sticks both his hands out in front of him. And it works. Mattie's eyes widen so fast that he feels tears coming on and he blinks once, twice. His feet skid against the floor as he pushes at the two tiny palms pressed against his scrawny torso, but his opponent remains unmoved. Bafflement turns suddenly to overwhelming anxiety, and Mattie steps back, dropping his suitcase and clutching Kumajirou to himself for protection.

"Alfred!" Arthur's voice breaks the standoff, and Mattie looks up, more relieved than he thought he could be to see his new guardian.

Alfred spins around to face the much taller man. He's easily three feet shorter than Arthur, but from the way he holds himself, you'd think he was on eye level with him. Matthew expects Arthur to scold Alfred—he seems that kind of person—but the man only sighs and runs a hand through his rumpled hair, as if he knows there wouldn't be much point. He looks from Alfred to Mattie, eyebrows once more knitted in concern.

"Matthew, this is Alfred."

Alfred scrunches up his face in annoyance. "Don't call me Alfred. That's an old grandpa name. Call me Al."

Mattie chafes at Al's demanding tone, but he also rather envies the other boy's bravery. It's not that he minds "Matthew," but he'd rather be called Mattie. Everybody calls him Mattie. Only one person ever called him Matthew, and it doesn't sound the same without the click of the "t" and the gentle lilt at the end. When Arthur says it, it sounds dull and plain and ordinary. When Francis said his name it made him feel special.

Arthur sees that Mattie isn't going to say anything, and doesn't see much point in trying to convince him otherwise. He sighs heavily once more. He could use another cup of tea. And a couple aspirin.

"You two get to know each other. Al, don't cause any trouble. Dinner will be in an hour."

Mattie eyes Al warily as Arthur's steps sound heavily down the stairs. The other boy remains unperturbed. He saunters into the room, pulling off the giant aviator's cap and tossing it onto his bed. Then he plops down on the floor and picks up a crayon, surveying the half-finished banner before him with a critical eye.

"Sorry I didn't finish your sign."

Mattie doesn't reply. Al looks at him expectantly until he shrugs self-consciously and mumbles something noncommittal.

"Do you like it so far?"

Mattie shrugs again, climbs back onto his bed, taking Kumajirou with him and hoping that Al will stop talking.

"Matthew?"

Mattie ignores him and hugs Kumajirou tighter.

"Did you hear me?"

Yes. Shut up. Francis always told him that "shut up" was a bad thing to say, but Francis isn't here.

"I asked you if you liked your sign."

Mattie feels like he might explode. He clenches his fists and counts to ten like Francis taught him.

"It's nice," he says at last.

Al looks startled, like he didn't actually expect Mattie to speak. The shock wears off within seconds though, and he frowns. "What's wrong with it?"

It's Matthew's turn to be surprised. For some reason he assumed that Al was a little bit dumb, that it would be easy to lie to him, like it was with most little kids. Now he doesn't know what to say.

"Why don't you like it?" Al persists, "What's wrong?"

Mattie has had enough. Al might keep talking even if he answers, but he definitely won't stop if Mattie keeps ignoring him. "You forgot a 't'" he says frigidly.

"Huh?"

"There are two t's in 'Matthew'" He can barely speak through the strain of frustration.

"Dammit!"

Mattie's eyes almost pop out of his head, and he shrinks even further into himself, trying to hide behind Kumajirou. Kids at the foster home got in trouble if they cursed, and Francis always told him cursing was "low" and "vulgar." He's still not sure exactly what that meant, but it didn't sound good, and he didn't ever want Francis to say it about him. Francis would say it about Alfred. Francis wouldn't want him to be here.

"Fixed it!"

Al's excited cry breaks through Mattie's reverie, and he peeks over Kumajirou's head to see a skinny lower-case "t" squeezed onto the poster. The other letters are bigger and upper-case; it makes his head hurt to look at it now, maybe even more than when it was spelled wrong. Mattie barely manages a weak nod, but that seems to satisfy Al, who puts down the crayon—Mattie won't bother trying to tell him he still hasn't actually finished spelling his name—only to start fiddling with the clasps of Mattie's suitcase. Mattie lets out a muffled, inarticulate shriek, and Al looks up at him, alarmed.

"Don't you wanna unpack?"

"No."

Mattie's coldest voice—rarely used—had been known to silence kids twice his age at the foster home, but Al remains blithely unaffected.

"Why not?"

Mattie's patience has run out, and even if he thought he could get his voice to work, he really doesn't want to. So, somewhere between angry and incredibly anxious, he flings himself face first into the bed pillows, using Kumajirou as a wall between himself and the perplexed boy on the floor. He remains thus for the remainder of the hour, until Arthur comes upstairs and announces dinner.

Alfred shoots up from the midst of his legos the moment the word "dinner" passes Arthur's lips, and he's gone before Mattie even lifts his face from the pillow. Mattie looks blearily at Arthur's silhouette in the doorway, awaiting his next move. He remembers the time that he and Francis tried to take in a stray dog, and he thinks he understands now why the dog would hang back from them when they offered him food, even if he was hungry.

"Will you come down for dinner, Matthew?"

Mattie wishes he could speak. He wishes he could move. He wishes he could do anything but stare warily at his new guardian. He's hungry but somehow embarrassed, anxious but somehow angry, fragile but extremely stubborn. And if he moves or speaks, somehow, he loses. So he stares fixedly at Arthur until his new guardian sighs, runs a hand through his hair, turns, and closes the door behind him, leaving it open a crack so that a sliver of light from the hallway can beam warmly through. The contrast with the darkness irritates Mattie, however, and as soon as Arthur's footsteps fade away, he pads to the door and gently shuts it all the way. He leans momentarily against the door, closing his eyes and breathing in the darkness, but the aging wood creaks when he puts too much of his weight against it, and he leaps away, heart pounding irrationally at the sound. The bed is the only safe place, Kumajirou his only protection, and he curls up on the bed and finally sleeps for what feels like the first time in ages.

He dreams of summer days and laughter and blond hair shining in the sunlight. He dreams of rain and tears and his tiny palm pressed against the window of the backseat of the car that takes him away from the only person who ever loved him. He dreams of eavesdropping and whispers he doesn't understand and sympathetic glances that make him want to scream but also cry. He dreams of sparkling blue eyes that become cold and distant and turn away from him, and he wakes with an inaudible gasp.

He can feel tears on his face, and there's an uncomfortable cold dampness on the pillow around his ears, but he doesn't dare move to dry them, because he can also hear a rustling and occasional bump on the other side of the room that he assumes must be Alfred getting ready for bed. So he waits, completely still, until he hears the creak of bedsprings and the contented sigh of the other boy drifting off to sleep.

The absence of watchful eyes and the cover of darkness set Mattie free. His muscles loosen and the lump in his throat dissolves. His heart pounds and he feels awake and resolute. Gingerly, he sits up. Swiftly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and slips to the floor, landing lightly. Alfred does not stir.

He keeps close to his own side of the room, remembering the treacherous expanse of legos strewn across the floor, and skims his hands an inch or so above the hardwood until he makes contact with his suitcase. Then he feels along its perimeter until he locates the handle. He stands, wincing at the little pop when he straightens his knees and holding his breath every time he feels the low moan of the floorboards shifting. Grabbing Kumajirou—around his middle, so as not to drag him on the floor—he slips to the door. The light in the hallway is off now, as is the light downstairs. Arthur must be an early-to-bed kind of person. All the better for Mattie. He doesn't know exactly where he's going, but if his time with Francis taught him anything, it's that he's going to have to go eventually. So he's going now.

He makes his way down the stairs, struggling to keep both Kumajirou and his suitcase from dragging. It's a delicate balancing act, lifting first one, then the other as they begin to sag lower and lower in his tiny arms. The most challenging thing, however, is that in order to keep them off the ground, he must hold them up in front of his face, so he steps very carefully, feeling for the next step with his front foot before putting his weight on it. He almost makes it. The landing comes sooner than he expects, and his left foot stops abruptly, the unanticipated shock throwing him off balance. He falls backwards, sitting down hard on the last step and letting go of his suitcase, which lands on the hardwood floor and slides a foot or two with an abrasive shush.

Mattie holds his breath, swallowing a cry of surprise and pain. He hears the cautious tread of someone upstairs in the dark and awaits the appearance of Arthur, who will ask him what he's doing and escort him back to bed with worried looks and scoldings. Some part of his brain urges him to run, but he's paralyzed, still winded from his fall. He stares at the front door only a few yards from the landing; it seems to be laughing at him, and tears spring unbidden to his eyes at the unfairness of it all. He feels footsteps descending, but they're too light to be Arthur's.

"You are running away."

Mattie turns reflexively to face the new arrival. Alfred stands one stair above where Mattie is sitting, rubbing his eyes. His hair sticks up in all directions and a slight glow surrounds him from the white oversized t-shirt he wears as pajamas. Mattie is glad it's not Arthur, but he is by no means pleased to see Al, and he refuses to answer, which—not surprisingly at this point—does nothing to deter the other boy.

"I betcha thought I was A—" he yawns, extending the vowel for a second or two, "Arthur."

Mattie remains silent. Alfred's propensity for spelling out every little thing gets on his nerves, and Francis always told him: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

"Arthur takes medicine before he goes to bed," Al continues, "Otherwise he wouldn't sleep at all. A—" He pauses momentarily, as though thinking deeply. "An alien invasion couldn't wake him up!" He nods, pleased with his hyperbolic skills.

Well, that was useful to know. If he couldn't make it out tonight, Mattie could probably try again. Provided he didn't lose his nerve and Alfred didn't tell on him…

"Matthew?" Al's voice was softer than Mattie had yet heard it, neither contentious nor demanding—almost forlorn. "Why are you running away?"

Al's voice reminds Mattie of something, something he's heard before, something that makes him unbearably sad. In his mind's eye he sees a sudden flash of blue eyes swimming with unshed tears and gentle hands working free of his own tiny death grip. It's his own voice he's hearing.

Papa, why do I have to go? Papa, don't let them take me!

Then the words that cut like a knife to the center of his child's soul: I am not your Papa, Mathieu. You have to go now.

He speaks almost without thinking. "You can call me Mattie."

Al looks at him with something akin to wonder and perhaps even gratitude.

"Okay Mattie," he says, testing the name and smiling when he finds he likes the sound of it. He sits down on the step with Mattie, perching on the edge, ready to leap up again should the other boy recoil.

Mattie tenses involuntarily at Al's nearness, but he doesn't object. They sit in silence for a long time. Maybe Al is too sleepy to pester him, or maybe he senses that now is not the time, but he doesn't repeat the question that Mattie nevertheless rolls over and over again in his mind. Why is he running away? Unprompted, after almost ten minutes of total silence interrupted only by the sounds of an old house at night, Mattie begins to talk.

"I don't belong here. I have to go back home."

Al tilts his head. "I thought this was your home now."

"This is a mistake."

Mattie doesn't mean for it to happen, but his voice grows cold, and Al shrinks away from him.

"Do you mean you want to go back to the foster home?" His eyes are wide and his voice barely more than a whisper.

Mattie hugs himself and draws his knees into his body. "I want to go back to my Papa."

Al frowns, totally bewildered. "Why are you in foster care if you have a dad?"

He doesn't want to answer this question. He can't answer this question. His throat constricts so he can barely breathe, and he wants to curl up in a ball and hide forever, but Al is looking expectantly at him, confusion written all over his face, and he's started this; he's going to finish if it kills him.

"Francis isn't—" His voice, barely a squeak as it is, cracks as he tries to get the words out. "He's not really my dad."

Al nods slowly, uncertainly, trying to look as though he understands. Mattie takes a deep breath and continues.

"He's my foster dad, but he's like my real dad. I have to go back to him. He sent me away. But I can be better. I can!"

He can't help it now; he breaks off, keening softly and clutching Kumajirou to himself.

Silence, then, "What did you do?" Al asks, timidly, breathlessly, afraid to ask and afraid to hear the answer.

"I don't know," Mattie whispers, and it's not even like he's replying to Al's question, but like a desperate plea into the darkness for the answer he can't give. "I don't know.

"He was my foster dad as long as I can remember. He took me to the park and carried me on his shoulders and bought me toys and candy and I loved him so much. Then one day he was so sad and his eyes stopped shining and he locked his bedroom door and wouldn't let me in. When he came out he was still sad and he wouldn't smile at me and he didn't give me piggy-back and sometimes he would forget to buy food at all. And I wanted to fix all the problems but I was too little.

"Then one day he came out of his room and his eyes were shiny again and he took me to the park and bought me loads of new toys and made all my favorite foods and he was fun and happy again. He smiled at me all the time and laughed at everything and called me his little Mathieu and said he wanted to adopt me and be my papa forever and ever. He went to the foster home and came back with a stack of papers and started writing on them right away, but he never finished, because one day he got sad again and when I asked him if I was adopted yet he said no and locked his bedroom door again.

"After that he called the foster home and talked for a long time in his room. When he came out he said he couldn't be my papa and I had to go, but he wouldn't tell me why."

Here Mattie abruptly stops. The lump in his throat is enormous, and he has told the story almost without breathing, as if he had to say it all at once or not at all. He takes a long, shaking breath, and Al sits next to him in stunned silence. The air is charged with confusion and unshed tears; Alfred, though he does not understand half of what he just heard, wants desperately to cry, for Mattie does not seem able to. He feels tears pooling in the corners of his wide, shining eyes, and his lower lip trembles. But he knows, small and innocent as he is, that he has to be strong right now. So he bites his lip to stop it shaking and blinks back the tears.

"I don't think it was your fault," he offers at last, the only words of comfort he can muster. He honestly doesn't know if it was Mattie's fault; he just knows somehow that's what he needs to hear.

Al waits for a response but Mattie's words are spent. He cannot reply, nor does he want to. He only wants to leave. He wants to go back to Francis and do whatever it takes to make him smile and want to be his papa again. His eyes turn steely and his jaw sets stubbornly. He grips Kumajirou in his right hand, his suitcase in his left, and stands up on shaking legs. Al bolts upright immediately after he does. He doesn't ask if Mattie is going. He doesn't tell him not to go.

"Promise you won't leave until I get back," he says, then scrambles up the stairs, almost tripping over his t-shirt in the process.

Mattie waits, obeying without thinking. His legs don't feel ready to move. Gravity is an unconquerable weight on his body, and he squeezes Kumajirou's paw as tightly as he can and puts all his willpower into staying upright. Because if he sits down, he won't get up again. He'll stay here. He can't stay here.

Alfred is back. He's wearing that ridiculous aviator's cap again and has on his tiny backpack, which he has emptied of school supplies and filled with clothes and snacks that he hides away under his bed for emergencies.

"If you're going," he says, "I'm coming with you."

For what feels like the thousandth time, Mattie gapes at Al. He shuts his mouth and frowns, then opens it again, but no sound comes out. The other boy's jaw is set and there's a stubborn gleam in his eyes that Mattie doesn't want to test, but he has to. With nothing left to do, he finally takes the fateful steps down the hallway, past the mismatched sitting room and the kitchen full of mugs. He pauses at the door, hand on the knob; Al is only a few steps behind him. He eases open the door and slips out, then turns and stands on the front step, looking into the house at Al, who doesn't hesitate before following him outside and shutting the door behind them. Mattie stares. Al only looks back at him with a wide, questioning look as if to say, "Where to now?"

Mattie doesn't know where. He doesn't know what he's doing or how he's going to do it. It all seemed so much clearer before he stepped out the door, before he had a companion looking at him with those big, questioning eyes. He hadn't planned on company, of course, but somehow he isn't angry with Alfred. He feels lost and confused, and he finds himself wishing that instead of Al looking at him to lead the way, it could be the other way around.

"I ran away once."

Mattie is so stunned that someone could knock him over with a feather. Had Al somehow read his mind? In his surprise, the lump in his throat disappears and an incredulous "Really?" escapes his lips.

Al nods.

"After I started living with Arthur. Before, I was by myself, with the nice people on the streets who took care of me sometimes. The foster home people found me and made me come with them. Arthur came a little after that. He took me home and I broke a teacup and he didn't yell but I knew he was mad. So I ran away because I didn't want to break any more teacups and make him mad. There aren't teacups on the streets.

"Then I met a policeman who asked me why I was running away. He told me that Arthur didn't care about the teacup and that he would worry because I ran away. He said Arthur wants to take care of me and as long as he wasn't bad I should stay. Then he took me home and Arthur yelled a little bit but mostly he hugged me and said it was okay about the teacup."

Al trails off. Mattie's face is screwed up in thought. He sits down so he can think better and Al follows suit, waiting for Mattie to say something.

"If Arthur is so nice, why do you want to come with me?" he finally asks.

"Arthur is nice," Al replies, "But he can't be my friend. He's a grown up. You're a kid like me." He looks down as he swings his little legs against the concrete step. "I hated the foster home. But I miss playing with other kids. When Arthur told me you were coming, I was so excited, I couldn't sleep for a week! I don't want you to go before we get to be friends.

"Also, since I ran away before, you probably need me to help you run away and find Francis."

Mattie mulls all this over. "Do you know where Francis lives?" he asks.

"Huh, no," Al scoffs, "I thought you knew."

"I know what his house looks like," Mattie offers, "It's blue."

Al frowns. "There are lots of blue houses," he points out.

Mattie's face falls. He hadn't thought of that. There are a lot of things he hasn't thought of, he realizes. The next thing he realizes is that he's so very tired. The street in front of him is big and dark. The house behind him is small and cozy, safe for crayons and broken teacups. There is a bed there. And a friend.

"Al," he murmurs.

"U-huh?"

"I don't want to run away tonight."

Al's whole face lights up.

"Good!" he exclaims, then lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm kinda too tired to run away tonight."

The smallest of smiles cracks on Mattie's face. "Me too," he whispers back.

"Anyway," Al remarks as he opens the door and they walk back into the house, "We can always run away on Monday so we don't have to go to school."

Mattie is too tired to laugh, but he feels like if he weren't, he might just be able to manage a mischievous giggle.

They clamber as quietly as they can back up the stairs. Mattie finally opens his suitcase, extracting a large white t-shirt like Alfred's. It must be a foster home thing, he thinks. He pulls it on, then climbs into bed. To his surprise and slight discomfort, Al climbs in with him.

"I want to give you these," Al whispers seriously, "for when we do run away."

He hands Mattie the aviator's goggles from the top of the cap he's still wearing.

"Every adventurer needs something cool like goggles or a hat."

Mattie accepts the goggles. Their weight in his hand makes him feel warm inside. Carefully, almost reverently, he puts them on so they rest neatly in his tousled thatch of hair. Al smiles with satisfaction.

. . .

In the morning, Arthur finds his two tiny charges asleep in Matthew's bed, Alfred's head on Mattie's chest and Mattie sunken into the great mass of fluff that is Kumajirou. The low brim of the too-big aviator's cap hides Al's fluttering eyelids, and Mattie's goggles have slipped down so they rest awkwardly on his hairline. But they're both sleeping peacefully, and that gives Arthur his own deep sense of peace and even gratitude.

He doesn't know what challenges lie ahead for their little family. The foster care organization told him that Matthew's last guardian had been severely depressed and borderline negligent. He doesn't know that, at this point, Mattie still isn't planning to stay very long. He doesn't know that Alfred may be the only thing to serve as an anchor for him. But he does know that he wants to do whatever he can to fix these children's lives and make them happy. He knows that he will love them as best he can.

In a few minutes they will awake, and the house will be filled with Alfred's shenanigans and Mattie's quiet wonder. They will sit and eat a leisurely weekend breakfast of eggs and sausage and scones. He will drink tea, they will drink orange juice. Mattie will break a teacup, and everything will be all right.

A/N: This chapter just kept going and going and going. I hope it wasn't too long or boring. Constructive criticism, if you have any, will be wildly appreciated, especially since this is something I've never attempted before in the Hetalia fandom, or any fandom really. I tend to stick with one-shots.

I blame my sudden deep need to write FACE angst entirely on Immortal x Snow, my beloved and constant partner in crime for all things Hetalia. She writes the best FACE fics I've ever read. Go read Despite Our Imperfections, it's divine. To be totally honest, this fic started out about two or three weeks ago as a cute America/Canada one-shot that I intended as a gift fic for her. Then this happened. It's not a gift fic anymore, but I still hope she enjoys it, and I hope you all do too.