Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the lyrics listed. They come from the Celtic Woman's cover of "You Raise Me Up."
Originally, this was supposed to be a part of a maybe four part series of one-shots but I doubt I'm getting to those other one shots any time soon. So, for now, it remains a oneshot. As I eventually get to writing the other oneshots, they'll be added here as well.
When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;
When troubles come and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit awhile with me.
The autumn air was crisp and cool by the time they had finally gotten around to enacting their annual ritual by the docks. Summer's heat had faded into cold days of freezing rain and high winds to match their moods and worries. The sun had already died away, leaving the two boys wrapped up in the heavy, dark red wool blanket shivering and clinging tighter to each other than they already had been. The larger boy's teeth began to chatter slightly, prodding his brother to curl up around him while he looked up.
"They'll come back," he whispered into his brother's chest, moving to pull the blanket tighter around them. He mentally scolded himself for not thinking to bring another – it might be warmer in his brother's southern territories but all that meant was that the English boy would be unused to weather like this. He should have been more considerate, especially since his brother was housing and feeding not him but one of his friends as well.
"I know."
"They always come back." It was supposed to be reassuring, but as he spoke it but they could each hear the unasked question that followed it. So why haven't they come to visit yet?
It was a quiet and pained sigh that came in response. "… I know." There was one downfall to being as close to your brother as they were – sometimes you really did seem to know what your brother was thinking and when that happened, it often hurt enough to wish that you didn't know them at all.
"They're just late!" Neither of them protested the idea that their guardians were coming. No, they clung to that desperately. Clung to it as much as they did to their brother, the one person in the world who really understood the tears and whimpers. The one person who understood that ghosts weren't just the last representation of people who had faded, but beloved memories as well. The one person who understood there was no better feeling than catching that larger hand wrapped around their much smaller hand and no worse feeling than counting the days like they were doing now. "They're just really late…" he murmured softer.
"They're coming. They always do." His brother hugged him tighter, resting his chin on the other's head. "Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow…"
"Or the day after that…" Hugged tight to his brother. He was still the braver of the two. He clung to the naïve idea that after a decade of neglect, their parents would come back to them, crying out their names and everything would go back to the way it should be – back to those moments that never lasted long enough. He was the brave one because he could face each day without the all consuming fear that something had gone wrong. He was brave because he believed in the strongest bonds of a family's loves and believed that when stretched across an entire ocean, they wouldn't snap and break forever but that they would snap and pull the two parties at opposite ends together again.
"Or tomorrow," the scared brother repeated. He was scared because he realized that wooden ships weren't perfect, that rations couldn't always last and the Mother Nature was not a force to be reckoned with. He was scared because he realized that life didn't last, not even for their kind, and there might one day be a year where neither of their guardians were ever heard of again. A day when they would finally be dragged down to Davy Jones' locker.
"Maybe," replied the brave brother. They're just late. Why are they late? The scared brother shifted again, starting to say something else but silenced himself by shaking his head. That was enough talking for now. They liked their silence; they liked to pretend that they could hear the declaration of land being spotted from a ship in the horizon if they were quiet enough. The complete silence was only ruined by teeth clenched, trying so hard not to chatter.
Hours passed, slow like the days they couldn't help but count. Days they couldn't ignore no matter how hard they tried. Days that, no matter how little either brother wanted to admit it, had twisted and drifted into long years. Time was cruel. They each had something they wanted to say, a million things for every day that had passed, a million things that would instantly be forgotten the moment they could finally set their eyes on the extraordinary, precious and all together perfectly lovely features of their loved ones who weren't being clung to. Until then, they could wait. For two young, restless boys, they were extremely patient when it came to their family. They just had to be.
Sleep tried to take them several times over and they each fought it like the proud warriors of their empires that they would become. "We can wait again in the morning," the brave brother whispered into the hair of the younger, scared brother. He had to be brave and not just because he was the oldest. He had to be brave because somewhere along the line – somewhere between them switching positions on the cold wooden dock so that the (larger) scared brother could duck completely beneath the blanket and curl better around him – his brother had started to cry. "Shhh, shh, there's no reason to cry."
The scared brother nodded weakly from his head's perch at the crook of his older brother's neck. "There is, of course there is," he squeaked out in a horrified, half choked whisper. "They forgot about us." He was the scared brother because he'd rather whisper that as if it were the scariest thing imaginable because it was easier than trying to accept the alternative, his real fear.
"No –"
"Yes." After that, he let out a shuddering sob. Minutes would pass and nothing would be able to console him. Not the kisses to his forehead or temple, not the soft strokes to his hair he was usually so fond of and certainly not the next words of his brother. They were counting the days and years, yes, but neither of them were doing it intentionally. It was just an ugly number that hung over their heads and hearts with every day in its passing. They might not be counting deliberately, but they each knew the number for the other brother as well and it haunted them. As the number grew and grew, it just made the distance between Europe and the New World all that scarier.
They might not be counting, no, but they each well aware that it had been five long years since Francis had come to visit Matthew and ten years since Arthur had seen his precious Alfred. Neither brother had it in their heart to tell the other that they had seen their brother's protector more recently than the ward of said protector had seen them. Alfred's grand frère Francis had seen him a mere four years ago and eight years prior to this day, for some strange reason, Arthur had come to Matthew's house speaking that odd language of his Matthew didn't understand. (He didn't have a reason to, both boys were quite fluent in French and the dying languages of the people they used to share.)
"Oh, Alfred," Matthew sighed sadly. He pulled the scared brother closer and nuzzled their cheeks together. "They'll come back. They always will. … They love us; they have to come back."