...I blame Frozen for this crap...
Do not own a damn thing...
Do You Want To Build a Snowman, Alfred?
A small, blonde boy stood just outside a half opened door. His hair fell in waves to the neck of his white nightgown, one curious curl escaping in the front. Violet eyes took in the scene of another blonde boy, a little taller and much louder, playing with a set of toy soldiers in the room.
"Alfred?"
He knocked on the doorframe, but the other didn't seem to notice.
"Do you wanna build a snowman?"
The blonde boy simply continued to smash his soldiers around.
"C'mon, let's go and play!"
Even his loudest voice was not enough to call attention to himself, and he frowned.
"You never see me anymore, I'm at the door, but it's like I've gone away..."
He wiped a hand across his face, sniffling slightly. His brother still did not look up.
"We used to be best buddies, but now we're not,"
He sighed, and looked at the older boy in desperation.
"I wish you would tell me why."
He stifled a sob, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
"Do you wanna build a snowman?"
His eyes were filled with hope, as the other stood, looking around.
"It doesn't have to be a snowman..."
He whimpered as his brother walked right past him, clearly looking for their father, Arthur. Not him.
"...Okay, bye..."
He whispered, sinking down to sit against the wall, tears pouring down his face.
Many years later, the same boy, now a nineteen year old man, dialed his older brother's phone number. He waited through the rings, until he heard the cheesy voicemail, proclaiming his brother's heroism, and then the beep.
"Hey, Alfie?"
He looked out his window, at his snow covered yard. Even his proud maple tree was covered.
"Do you wanna build a snowman?"
He sat down on the edge of his bed, fingering a framed photo of his dysfunctional little family.
"Or maybe see Niagra Falls?"
He smiled at the image, of his older brother, his father, and his Papa, all with him.
"I think some company is overdue, I've started talking to the pictures on the walls."
It wasn't even a joke; he really had been speaking to the few photographs he kept in the house.
"It gets a little lonely, all these empty rooms,"
He shuddered, curling up instinctively. His empty house was so very cold.
"Just watching the years tick by,"
He hit the end call button. What was the point, anyway? He had already left similar messages on his father, Arthur's phone, and his Papa Francis' phone. No one would reply, never stopping to remember who the quiet man was. Even Gilbert, his supposed boyfriend, hadn't answered any of his calls for well over a week. He had been completely forgotten.
He reached for the bottles of pills, and the bottle of strong whiskey, that he had set on his bedside table earlier.
"Angleterre, I just had the strangest message from Mattieu on the phone." The Frenchman was frowning deeply, catching the attention of the few others who had arrived early for the conference, at Alfred's place, "I had not checked my phone today, and it was from very early."
"That's odd." The Brit picked up his own phone, "Oh, he must have called me, as well." He put the phone to his ear, listening to the message. He frowned deeply. Looking at Francis, he lowered the phone, "By strange, do you mean singing?"
"Oui, that's it exactly. And he sounds so upset-" Francis cut himself off, worry showing in his usually cheerful face. Alfred fished his phone out of a pocket.
"Hmmm. I got it, too." He listened to the message, and raised an eyebrow, before looking around the room, "Haha, Canadia, really funny. What the hell kind of prank are you trying to pull, you freaky stealth beast?" He frowned, as he realised that Canada, Matthew Williams, who had never before been late for a meeting, was nowhere to be found, "Mattie?" He quickly dialed his brother's number, "C'mon, pick up."
No answer.
Enter Gilbert, a horrified look on his face.
"Birdie?! Where are you?"
"Gilbert? What's wrong?" Francis asked, looking in worry at his old friend.
"I can't get a hold of Matthew! My phone was broken a week ago, and I couldn't find his number anywhere till today, and he hasn't been answering my calls, or my texts, or anything!" The albino was obviously shaken, "Mattie never ignores anyone! What if he thinks I broke my promise?"
Alfred frowned in confusion.
"Promise?"
"Ja, not to forget him like you unawesome people!" He motioned to include the whole room in his gesture, and continued talking over the quiet protest, "Nein, don't deny it! I'm going to his place, to make sure he's okay." He turned to leave.
"Wait for me, Prussia." France quickly followed, with England right behind him. America, now filled with a strange sense of dread, ran out after them.
It took them several hours to reach Matthew's house. A few moments for them to take in the fact that it barely looked lived in. That his calendar was blank, that the few photos were of him, Kumajirou, and occasionally his dear Provinces and Territories. None were with other Nations.
Then, minutes after arriving, France was the one to find him.
None of them would ever forget it. That bone-chilling, heart-rending cry, a sound only a grieving parent could make. They ran upstairs, to Matthew's room.
Francis was clutching his unmoving body to his chest, weeping and begging desperately in French for him to wake up. His face was deathly pale, and America fell to his knees, feeling horribly light-headed, as he saw the empty pill bottles, and the smashed whiskey bottle, on the floor.
Everything was a blur to him after that.
He barely registered that his little brother was loaded into an ambulance, that Arthur, fighting to hide his emotions, had steered him to the car. The next truly clear moment he had was when Francis had fallen asleep in his chair, two days later, and Gilbert and Arthur had gone to find some food for the four of them. His dear, sweet little brother showed no signs of waking from his self-induced coma, which would surely have killed a human. He lamented, the times he had hurt him, ridiculed him, ignored him, forgotten him. He gently picked up his brother's hand, and in a shaking voice, whispered.
"Mattie?"
No change.
"Please, I know you're in there."
The unconscious blonde didn't even twitch in his slumber. Now Alfred knew how his brother had felt.
"People are asking where you've been."
That was true; the whole damned WORLD seemed to remember him now, and they were all worried.
"They say have courage, and I'm trying to,"
Kiku had indeed told him to be strong, that his brother would wake. He barely believed him.
"I am right here for you, just let me in."
He wiped at his forming tears with his free hand. He lightly stroked his brother's hand.
"I know that you've been lonely, but I need you here."
He let his head fall onto his baby brother's chest, feeling the sobs coming, right along with the guilt.
"God, what am I gonna do?"
He sniffled, trying to stop his crying. To be brave for his brother.
"Do...do you wanna build a snowman...?"
He whispered softly, feeling his heart break when there was no answer.
Now, understanding how horrible the years of loneliness had been for his brother, he wept. He wept for the lost years, for every time he should have been there, but wasn't. He wept, because he had missed it all, leaving his brother all alone as he basked in the limelight, first, from their father, then the whole world.
"I'm so sorry, Mattie. I'm so sorry." He choked between sobs, feeling an arm go around his shoulders as he completely broke down.