It was a beautiful thing to be home again.

For someone who has never been in the army, they cannot possibly understand the physical and emotional turmoil an army man goes through. Matthew Williams had been through it all. It had been three long years. A year and a half had been as a prisoner. What a long time to think that he might never see his homes again, both Canadian and American, that he'd never see his mother, that he'd never see Alfred and Emily again. There was no feeling like that of stepping off that ship onto the grounds of North America again, and to see his siblings searching the crowd for his face and the overwhelming joy on theirs once they saw him, safe and sound and limping towards them with the relief of a lifetime across his.

Coming home was everything he imagined it being.

He found himself in his old room for the time being, staying for a month or so before he left to return to Canada and began the search for a home and job there and started getting life back to normal. The war had uprooted him. He was going to need some time to just adjust to society again.

The first step was adjusting to a life in a home again. No longer was he restricted to a cell or camp or some tent on a beach or even to the steel confines of a carrier vessel. As he carried his trunk into his childhood room, he found himself stricken by it, more than anyone else could ever appreciate. While small, it was warm and comforting and filled with more splashes of friendly color than he could have remembered on the field, a place of such depressing greys and browns and greens one would feel their skin taking on the tones ever so slowly. The symbols of patriotism were everywhere, filling his room with stars and stripes and maple leaves and the like. Upon opening his closet, he rediscovered the joys of casual and comfortable clothing, even a little sense of satisfaction seeing the more formal wares. Having a choice in his ensemble was yet another little joy you don't know you have until it's gone. Another was being able to mill around his room and arrange his possessions as he wished, just having possessions worth displaying or otherwise was a selfish pleasure after years of everyone getting just exactly their share of the same everything. Even come his first dinner home, he was thrilled at the prospects of warm food and options and being able to eat as much as he desired. With the exceptions of the still implemented rations, of course. And taking into account the still voracious appetite of his brother. But still.

As wonderful as home was, reality still existed. Problems hadn't just vanished once Matthew had set foot on North American soil, something he was harshly reminded of upon stepping into his room after dinner to start nodding off to sleep (in a lovely permanent bed with a heavenly soft mattress and warm blankets and other luxuries). Upon stepping across the threshold onto his carpet, Matthew found himself greeted by a frowning Alfred, the blue-eyed man holding up a small silver and black object, confusion, concern and maybe a little hint of scorn marring his face.

"Matt. Mind explaining this?"

Alfred uncurled his fingers from the object a little more, making its form more visible to the brother in the doorway. A small black cross, thick and outlined with silver, hung from a pin of an outstretched eagle, with its wingspan long and the color of wrought iron. It was a war decoration. Not uncommon for a soldier returning from war. But perhaps a bit unusual to be found in the possession of a Canadian soldier, since the eagle and cross was of German nationality.

It took a moment for the realization of what he held to hit Matthew. His eyes opened with shock and sadness flitting quickly across his eyes before it settled on mild anger, like what his brother had found meant nothing to him. He was annoyed for a different reason. He took a quick step forward, glaring at Alfred with a frown. "What are you even doing in my room, Al?" he asked in quiet annoyance.

Alfred was never one to like people evading his questions. "Seriously, Mattie. What is this? This is German, right?" He tilted his head, trying to think of an explanation. "What is it, like, a souvenir from a kill or something?" he offered, thinking it wouldn't be so bad like that. Maybe his brother had killed a high ranking Nazi and he wanted something to prove it. It's not like Alfred wouldn't have done that. He let an awkward grin creep onto his face, hoping that was it. "Is that it, dude? Tell me that's it. Why didn't you tell me, that sounds sweet!" he continued, getting already worked up over such a badass story his brother must have to tell him!

He didn't expect the somewhat weak punch to the stomach he got, more of a distraction as Matthew plucked the medal out of his hands and stepped back quickly again, tucking the medal into a visible corner of his bookshelf. His face was stony with repressed frustration. His brother didn't understand anything, not after his soul mate came to him so easily, that little English blonde he had made a fool out of himself over. Good for them, but he didn't understand at all and how dare he say this was a kill trophy-

"Maaaaaaatt, what was that for?" Alfred whined from where he was pitched over slightly in exaggerated pain.

"Please, I didn't hit you that hard," Matthew muttered, turning back to him with his hands in his pockets. "Seriously though. If you could get out of my room, that'd be great."

"But Matt," Alfred continued to protest, lifting his head and looking all over the room when he wasn't giving his brother the puppy eyes. He soon found the medal again and his face grew serious once more. "What's that from? You could get in trouble for that, you know," he told him, like Matt didn't already know he could. "Especially if it's not a kill trophy-"

"It's not a trophy," Matthew eventually spat out, so tired of hearing his brother imply that. Hearing his brother imply that he had killed the soldier it came from, that he was happy and proud that they were dead…

"Then why do you have it?" Alfred pressed again, leaning against the desk, clearly not ready to go anywhere until he got his answer. The American could be stubborn like that.

Matthew sat on the edge of his bed, cradling his head in his hands. He really didn't want to tell a soul. He wasn't sure if he ever wanted to, especially not so soon. Not when he still needed the time to put himself together again. And again, his brother wouldn't understand. No one would understand. It was supposed to be his secret, his burden to bear.

But how was no one ever supposed to find out? It wasn't like the signs weren't there. Matthew's face always held masked emotions, but the marks of hollowness and sorrow must have been entrenched in his skin. It wouldn't have taken long anyway for his family to decide something was wrong, despite how quiet he already was, even though it'd take even longer for them to know it wasn't just the toll the war had taken on him, it was loss even greater and more personal. Someone would have noticed the medal eventually as well and asked a similar question. It wasn't like Matthew could bear to hide that. Other people could have jumped to much harsher conclusions. And here Alfred was, ready to listen.

"Matt?"

He looked up at Alfred though his fingers, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He took a long and longing glance at the medal, flashes of so many emotions running through his eyes. The sorrow and pain, suffering and anger, frustration and intense love.

"I got it from a guard… she looked like hell herself…"