Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
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Matthieu knew what a war was. A war was the reason he couldn't see Papa anymore, at least not as often as he used to. A war was when Papa limped into his room hours after bedtime just to deliver a kiss on his forehead that would have to last for days. A war was the reason he had to spend hours alone, just playing with his toys and trying to read his own stories. Hours of pretending that he could feel Papa holding him and hear the kind voice that gave each character a tone.
A war was the reason Matthieu had wet sleeves so often.
A war was the reason that Papa came home, still bleeding and in need of medical attention, so loudly one afternoon. Matthieu was excited when he saw the Frenchman, but he didn't understand why his papa was crying. "Papa?" crooned the young blond, wide violet eyes trained on the other as they silently asked what was wrong. Though he'd seen the nation dirty(filthy), sad(depressed), injured(wounded bloody), this was the first moment he could recall the older blond having cried.
Dropping to his knees beside the youth, Francis pressed shaky kisses to his son's face, and Matthieu felt the dread even before he was delivered the news. "Je suis désolé, mon amour. Papa is so horribly sorry." The Canadian was growing fearful, his stomach unsettled. "Papa?" the boy whispered. "Matthieu, shh.." Held against Francis' chest so tightly, the Canadian had no choice but to obey, and he clung to his trembling father figure. He understood that this had something to do with the war. It seemed that everything had to do with the war.
When he finally pulled away, the European had the most haggard, defeated look in his eyes. "Matthieu, I need you to listen," he said in a hoarse tone of voice. "Matthieu, mon petit Matthieu. Je suis désolé." Matthieu tightened his hands on the other's shirt. "But.. You must listen now, Matthieu. Papa has lost. The war is done." Matthieu's world seemed to slow as he processed the new data. The war was done? That was wonderful! However, why was his papa crying? The war was done! That meant that they had more time to play! "I-it's fine, Papa," he said with the widest smile that he had held in for the longest time. "You'll win next time! W-we can play now!" he cheered in his airy voice, throwing his arms around Francis.
When the man burst into a fresh round of tears and held him closer than before, Matthieu had to admit that he was puzzled again. Didn't Papa want to play with him? "P-papa? What's wrong?" he asked tentatively, miniature hands resting on his father's shoulders. The Frenchman took a gasping breathe of air.
"Je suis désolé. Matthieu, Papa has lost the war."
Matthieu nodded.
"When Papa loses the war, he loses what he was fighting for."
Another nod.
"Amour, Papa was fighting for you."
The Canadian froze. Wait... Papa was gone because of him? And if he lost the war, then... "P-papa?" Matthieu choked, the tears flowing before he even accepted what the man meant. Francis felt his bottom lip wobble as he kissed the tears away, though his own dripped onto the youth's face. "Je suis désolé, Matthieu, I am so very sorry." Matthieu looked up at his father with doe eyes, afraid to know what losing meant. "D-does Papa have to go fight until he wins?" Francis could almost physically feel his heart break. "Non, amour, it does not work like that. You...are a big boy now, oui?"
Matthieu off to the side of his guardian, his shoulder moving just a fraction in a shrug. He still didn't see where this was going...
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"Papa, non! Papa! Papa!" Matthieu shrieked, thrashing in bed. His thin, childish body was encased in cold sweat, and the blankets were wrapped so devilishly around his fragile limbs.
Arthur found himself growing annoyed as yet another night's sleep was disrupted. His sympathy with his Canadian had run out long before, after the eighth time he had been bitten and clawed at; and only six of those times had been because of his decidedly un-French tasting foods. Alfred didn't know what to make of this playmate. Matthew never wanted to play, or leave his room, and he used to give the American his food until Arthur found out. But, most odd to him, the boy never wanted to talk to Arthur, even if he was really hungry or hurt. When Alfred had tried to ask why, the other just muttered about how he was waiting for someone.
Matthieu, as typical, woke to the sounds of his own sobs, and blurry figures danced before him. "A dream," he choked in an awkward manner, shaking and gasping as the violent after-shudders hit. Only a dream.. But it wasn't a dream, was it? It was his memory of being taken from the one he had come to know as 'Papa', the kind man who had always cared for him.
The man who wasn't there any more, whose face was beginning to fade from memory.
Because of the war.
Yes, Matthieu, now reluctantly named 'Matthew', knew what war was.
War was bad. War was evil. War was his worst enemy.
War was loneliness.
Author's Note: This is more of a drabble than anything, but I hope you enjoyed.