AN: Not much to say about this really, it popped into my head, and I have a few ideas of extra things I could add, I already have a second instalment ready, and one more in planning. They're not very long though, I just kinda rolled it out - but yes! FACE family, with the kiddies around 8/9? I don't believe I specified heheh

WARNINGS: Some description of wounds but not in much detail

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is not mine hehe

The doctor lead him through the halls and corridors, reassuring him that little Matthew was in good hands with the nurses - but none of it was really making sense. They thought his little boy was dead. They thought his husband was dead. They wanted him to identify them. They wanted him to see them.

They weren't dead, he told himself, they just weren't. They couldn't be. They'd been out for ten minutes to go pick up a surprise they had said, leaving Arthur to keep an eye on Matthew, how could they have been in an accident in the space of ten minutes?! But as the lift got closer, more and more signs for the morgue cropped up, and suddenly they were down in the much cooler depths of the hospital.

Everything about the place screamed death, the grey walls and the cold, the frosted glass and shady silhouettes that moved around. Arthur could hear faint cries behind some of them and his stomach dropped when he realised he was about to do the same thing. He was identifying bodies. He struggled to place one foot in front of the other, so he concentrated on that, because otherwise he might collapse under the weight of everything buzzing around his head.

He hadn't even noticed they'd stopped until he bumped into the doctor. He went to apologise but he couldn't find his voice. He coughed, licking his lips and shaking his head "I-I'm sorry," he said, as the doctor opened the door.

This room was even worse, because once the frosted glass of the door was gone, everything was all too clear. The two tables, the two blankets, and the two figures underneath them. Arthur's heart thudded so loudly it flooded his ears, and he couldn't hear the words the doctor spoke as they stepped closer. He prayed, oh he prayed over and over again that it was all just a mistake. These were two other unfortunate souls, and Francis and Alfred were still in the shopping centre.

But they weren't and oh God, the doctor was uncovering one of the figures. Time had slowed so much that Arthur struggled to find breath. It was him, it was Alfred. He knew from the first second, that sunny blonde hair and that one strand that curled up defiantly - that was his son. His hand flew to his mouth, and the tears he had been trying to hide flooded out.

This was his little boy, his son who lay cold on the metal table. Stripped of his clothes, his glasses, his smile, his glow. Stripped of life. Instead, he lay white as a sheet, save for the sickening cuts along his neck and shoulders. The jagged lines ran the length of his neck, and though the doctors had done their best to clean it up, it only meant the wounds were visible in much more detail. There may not have been any blood, but suddenly the smell of it clogged Arthur's lungs as images of what Alfred's last moments must have been like.

"He bled out, Mr. Kirkland, but even if we had been able to stop it, he had serious head trauma. He may never have woken up," the doctor said, in her hushed tones. So, Arthur reasoned, at least he didn't feel it? He prayed it had been quick.

"C-can I… touch him?" he asked, well aware of how his voice cracked. The doctor nodded, and Arthur's hand shot out to stroke his son's cheek. It was stone cold. His little boy, his baby. Nothing else mattered now, his little boy was dead. Everything that could have been, everything that was around the corner for Alfred, had gone, in the blink of an eye. It took all Arthur's strength to stay on two feet. He'd have done anything to trade places.

He had done the five years in school, he had done university, he'd had his first kiss, the dates and the drama, the friendships - everything Alfred was yet to do.

He took a deep breath (another that Alfred wouldn't) and looked over to the other side of the room. Another sheet to be pulled back. Another person lost. He wasn't sure he could take it. But he had to. He had to know. He had to be sure.

"Sir, I warn you, Mr. Bonnefoy suffered severe head injuries… he doesn't look exactly… right," she said, and Arthur flinched. How dare this woman say his husband was anything less than perfect! Anger flared in him, but it was doused with utter shock when she pulled back the second sheet.

It was Francis, he could tell that from one side of his face. One side, his left, looked so perfect that he could almost be sleeping. He looked so peaceful, he always did - but the other side, the side that must've faced the window, was so disfigured, so destroyed… cuts ran from his hairline to his chin, his nose ripped to pieces on the one side. His mouth was extended in a gruesome smile of scars, and Arthur couldn't even look at the mess it had made of his chest. He shook his head, bile rising in his throat.

"I-I can't… he's… what happened?!" he snapped, glaring at he doctor. Used to such reactions, she lifted the sheet to cover Francis's body, but Arthur stopped her, staring into her eyes. "Did… was it quick?" he asked, one hand reaching out the stroke the hair that was left on Francis' head. This would be the last time he would.

She looked down, and sighed sadly. "We can't say, I'm sorry. It's possible he was unconscious from the moment of impact though," she said, and he let her go. He turned slightly, standing between the two tabled, between two of the most important people in the world, and gave them each one long last look. He had so many questions, so many wishes and regrets, things he wished he had said. The doctor interrupted his train of thought, saying

"I can take you back to your son when you're ready," and for a fleeting second, he thought she meant Alfred.

Matthew.

He had to explain this to Matthew.