Matt hadn't had a war flashback in years. Which made it that much worse when he did.
Every noise was a gunshot, every voice a cry in pain. Explosions, smoke, dust, blood. The world had become chaos.
He saw his brother to the right, the brave one. This was his war, not Matt's. Why was it that Al always dragged him into these things? Matt wasn't violent. He didn't want to fight in these wars. But he couldn't abandon his brother. Alfred was far too reckless to be left alone to fight.
So here Matt was, forced to aid his brother in the wars he never wanted to fight.
A turn of the head, and his heart began to ache. Shy violet eyes met ones that burned with the cold fire of cruelty. The whip of a scarf in a bitter burst of icy wind, then a gunshot that rose above the rest.
The change of expression. Too late realizing his mistake. The reach of a hand that wouldn't find its place for years. And the Canadian fell.
"Matthew, I need you to be waking up. It's not real."
Ivan's voice brought Matt back to the present. The Canadian was sweating, his chest rising and falling swiftly with each heavy breath. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
"Yes, that is it. Now can you be focusing on me, мой дорогой?"
Ivan's hands were on Matt's cheeks. Their noses touched, and as their eyes met, every ounce of hate in their intense amethyst stares replaced by love, Matt knew that the war was long over. His breathing slowed, and he let himself fall into the silence around them.
"Merci, ma cherie," he breathed.
Ivan smiled and, after kissing the smaller man softly, replied, "Of course, Matthew. I am not wanting you to have to live any of it again, as I have. Those days are over now, and there is no war that can be getting in between us."
A smile made its way across Matt's lips at the Russian's words. "Well, it's about time, eh?"