Done because of my recent foray back into the Hetalia fandom, history class, and thinking really hard about characters. Originally posted on my tumblr account.

Summary: (Set during World War One. Human names used.) The worst part is loneliness.

Characters: Matthew Williams (Canada). Alfred F. Jones (America), Arthur Kirkland (England).

Warnings: War. Hospital scene. Gas and its effects. Brief mentions of death.

"How are you, lad?" Arthur asks.

He's gentle about it, not too loud, voice soft like he's talking in a church. He might as well be- the building that Matthew remembers the Allies choosing for a makeshift hospital is big, with impossibly high ceilings and tall, glass windows. He doesn't know what the building was used for before the war, but now it's nothing more for dying men to go.

It smells of it, actually. Decay and blood, with a sharp scent of Dakin's solution fill the air.

"Still not up to talking? Well, that's okay." Arthur says. Matthew hears him shift, thick clothes rustling as the British man moved in place. "That gas did… a number on you. It's best if you rest up."

Matthew wants to snort, feels the urge to laugh rise up in him before he shoves it down. He had trouble breathing as it is. Laughing would just make him feel more light headed, would irritate his skin with the way his body would jerk.

So, under the thin blankets the nurses gave the patients, Matthew pretends to sleep through Arthur's visit. He hadn't responded to Arthur the last two times he had came to visit, and he felt it easier to just pretend to sleep while Arthur talked.

"It's been three years now," Arthur says. A pause. "For what it's worth, I wish I didn't drag you into this."

No, you don't, Matthew thinks, but he feels sorry for thinking it. Weariness in his bones and replaced by liquid fire pulsing in his veins until it fades, like the tide, when weariness takes precedence again. Resignation and anger. Between that, the sadness could only be guilt.

Or maybe loneliness.

"I'm sorry." It sounds a little more sincere, and even more noticeable, Arthur sounds tired as he says it. Tired enough that Matthew wonders if it is England the nation that feels that way, or Arthur the man.

But it's not like he could back out of this now. Neither of them could. Canada would fight, even as he mourned his people, and Matthew would fight, because he had to. The same goes for Arthur. Perhaps even more so.

Arthur stays quiet after that.

Matthew doesn't know how long it lasts, the silence, but Arthur isn't saying anything to break it, and Matthew's attention drifts. He can hear the nurses moving around, talking quickly in different languages, and he recognises both of them. English here, French there, some talking brokenly as they tried to speak in unfamiliar languages, others talking fast and quietly.

There's groaning from the person on his left. Quiet sobs on his right. Nearby he can hear footsteps, light, probably a woman. The men- the soldiers- wore heavy boots that often squelched from the mud caked onto the bottom. It drove the nurses mad, most days.

Matthew has been in this hospital for a week already, blind and unable to breath easily. He has to settle for shallow breaths and staying confined to his bed. The doctor comes by every now and then to check up on how Matthew's doing, mutters under his breath that it's a miracle when he takes off Matthew's bandages around his eyes and Matthew can see a little bit more each day.

The nurses are nicer about it. They don't talk about how lucky he is to survive when the rest of his company had died, instead talk about how the other Canadians are doing, what's happening in the war.

But he doesn't talk back much, if at all.

It isn't even that his throat feels terrible and breathing hurts. It's just that he doesn't want to. For goodness sake, he couldn't even see.

He hears heavier footsteps, those of a man, and doesn't think much of it until close by he hears fabric rustle, lighter than Arthur's thick uniform. Matthew thinks that he's partitioned away from prying eyes by a curtain, but doesn't know for sure. He's never asked and the people who came by never thought to tell.

"Am I interrupting?"

Underneath the covers, Matthew's hands clench, fisting the bed sheets beneath him. He tries to keep his face impassive, and hopes that Arthur doesn't notice.

"Alfred? What are you doing here?" Arthur says. Footsteps.

"The U.S.A. has declared war." Matthew hears Alfred say, slowly, like he thinks that Arthur is being stupid. "Could I speak to Matthew now?"

"Why, I know that you twit! I was just wondering why you're here-"

"For Matthew. What else? Really, Arthur-"

"He's asleep! You'll just wake him up and he needs his rest-"

"Then stop yelling and leave! God, Arthur, I'll let him rest. I just want to see if he's alright after fighting in your war."

Complete silence, then a strangled sound from beside Matthew. More footsteps, rushed. Curtains, maybe, being pushed aside roughly. Footsteps again, but slower, and a sigh follows. A chair creaking as Alfred sits down. Breathing.

"I know you're awake."

Matthew lets the corner of his mouth twitch up for a brief second, but it's enough for Alfred, who begins talking for the both of them.

"I can't even look you in the eyes, huh? I was hoping to, you know. I wanted to see your expression when you heard that America was finally going to war. Or that Alfred F. Jones was coming to back to England."

A pause. "You're in England, by the way. I think Arthur and Francis thought that it would be better for you to recover away from the front lines. Francis… he told me that he and Arthur expect you'll be fine in a few weeks."

Not in the church-like building in France, then.

"Perks of being a nation," Matthew mutters quietly instead, voice rough.

"If you wanna call 'em that," Alfred laughs. It's a nice sound, friendly and honest. It's nice to hear after only hearing things the depressed him.

"Mattie, I wanna set the record straight right now and say that I'm not here to fight for England's sake, or France's. Hell, maybe not even Belgium's. Americans are here because we've realised that Germany is a threat to us as well."

His voice drops, "Not to mention those one hundred and twenty eight Americans who died on the Lusitania."

"Why are you here, Al?" Matthew asks, because honestly, he's tired, he hurts, and his brother is here and he can't tell if he's talking to the nation or the person.

Alfred stays quiet for a moment, but he moves to put a hand on Matthew's shoulder. Matthew wonders if he should feel threatened by it, for a moment. He's vulnerable where he is. Can't see a blasted thing, and can only tilt his head curiously towards Alfred's direction, out of habit, like he can still see The hand alone is probably enough to stop him from struggling to sit up right now.

He remembers, in the back of his mind, the burn marks they left on each other.

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

And that's a wrap, folks. If you're interested in reading more of my stuff, visit my tumblr. That's where I usually post my stories first, before I clean them up and post them on or archive.