Author's Note: Can I just say that I'm absolutely obsessed with the idea of the War of 1812 in Hetalia?
I tried to make this historically accurate, but it may veer off a bit at some points for the sake of the plot, so I apologize if I went wrong anywhere. I've had this idea for a while, but I never actually got around to write it until now.
I'll save my plethora of explanations for the end. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
I also wish not to offend anyone with any content in this story. I apologize if I did so.
"Maple, Al, when's the last time you cleaned in here?" Matthew teased, walking into the kitchen and looking around with an amused smile.
"Oi, I clean!…S-sometimes!" Alfred retorted, but laughed, sitting at the dining room table and watching his brother through the doorway. "S'that bad?"
"No, I don't think I expected any less from you."
"Hey, you're in my house, bro. I can just kick ya out if I wanna."
Matthew rolled his eyes. "Fine, then you aren't getting those pancakes you wanted."
"Wh-what are ya talkin' about, Mattie?! Mi casa es tu casa!" the American quickly replied, tumbling over his words, earning a chuckle from Matthew.
"You Americans are so easy to manipulate."
Alfred blinked at that, swallowing a lump in his throat.
"You Americans are so easy to manipulate."
Arthur smirked as he stated what he thought to be obvious, the muzzle of his rifle almost touching Alfred's chest. Alfred tried to scramble back to his feet, staring up at the Briton with wide sapphire eyes, but Arthur tapped his trigger warningly. "Ah ah ah," he chided. "You aren't going anywhere…of course unless you want a bullet through your heart, that is."
"A-Arthur—"
"Hush, lad, it's for your own good."
"Yeah, Alfred." Matthew spoke up from his place behind Arthur, watching his brother, violet gaze solemnly cold. "Think for once. It won't hurt as much if you don't struggle, Al."
The Canadian almost spat the nickname.
Al…Al…
"Al!"
Alfred blinked, then shook his head, swallowing again. "Whazzat?"
"You kinda zoned out. Are you all right, eh?"
The American blinked again, his vision slowly returning to normal. He was no longer lying on his back on the soft grass of Capitol Hill. He was at the dining room table, watching his brother mix pancake batter in the kitchen.
"O-oh…'Course I'm all right, Mattie!" Alfred managed to flash the younger man a shaky smile.
Stop thinking about that. Every time he freaking says something weird, you automatically jump to thinking about that. Get a grip, man!
"…If you say so." Matthew didn't look completely convinced, but didn't want to argue, so he went back to moving his whisk around in the bowl of batter. "It'll be ready in a few minutes."
"Awesome, bro!" Alfred relaxed against the back of his chair. They were just brothers, having pancakes. Not enemies going around and—
No. Stop it. That was years ago.
He was lost in thought for a few moments, and snapped back to reality when Matthew called over, "Hey, Al, your stove isn't lighting."
"S'not?" The American began to get up. "It was working a few days ago."
"Don't get up, I can just light the fire myself."
And suddenly Alfred was on his back again.
"Don't get up," Matthew warned his brother, and Alfred froze in shock at the venom behind Matthew's voice. The Canadian looked up at Arthur. "I can just light the fire myself. So you can watch him."
"Are you sure, Matthew? That's quite the task."
"Al!"
"Huh?" He was in the chair again, in the dining room, watching his brother in the kitchen. "I-I'm fine, I promise ya."
"Your eyes keep glazing over…" Matthew didn't seem at all fazed by whatever words had triggered Alfred's memory. "Are you sick? Is something wrong?"
"N-Nah, Mattie, s'all good. I'm the hero, nothin's ever the matter!"
"…Right…" Matthew opened a cabinet, sifting through the various boxes and containers inside. "Got any matches in here?"
Alfred felt all the color drain from his face. "…Matches?" he echoed in a whisper.
"Yeah, to light the stove. It only takes one match."
Alfred was suddenly launched fully into the memory, unable to free himself.
"It only takes one match." Matthew looked at Arthur steadily, a small blaze in his usually kind violet eyes. A small flame but bright like the fire that had burned his own capitol mere months ago. "To begin the greatest conflagration."
Arthur nodded, throwing a glare sideways at Alfred, who was once again trying to escape. And the American went tense, not moving a muscle when he found himself trapped in the horribly familiar emerald gaze. "If you think you can do it, lad."
Matthew nodded, turning on his heel to walk slowly away from them, heading towards the huge Mansion on the Hill. He reached into his uniform pocket and took out a small box of matches, most likely from his very own cabin kitchen.
"Al! Al!"
Alfred tried to call out, beg his little brother not to do it, apologize for what had happened up in York a year earlier, but there was a sudden pressure on his chest, and he looked up to see the muzzle of Arthur's rifle resting on him.
"Not a single peep out of you. You need to learn your lesson, Alfred." The Briton's voice was so emotionless it hurt Alfred more than the gun did.
With a simple flick of the wrist, Matthew had a small flame flickering at the tip of his single match, and he simply studied it for a moment. Alfred was becoming more panicky by the second. But he was slightly confused. Was Matthew mockingly taking his time, or was he hesitating? But then the Canadian spoke in a declaratory voice:
"…And on this day, August 24, 1814, the United States of America's Presidential Mansion did burn—" Matthew finally tossed the match, and it hit the house, kindling a small fire at the foot of the Mansion. "—at the hands of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and British North America." Matthew's expression was close to blank as he watched the flames begin to rise, the fire hungrily licking at America's prized Mansion.
Matthew only turned when he heard Alfred scream.
"Al! Snap out of it! Al, Al!" Alfred was being shaken.
Alfred was shaking, curled up on the grass, shrieking so loud it could be heard for miles around the Hill. Both hands were clutching at his uniform, at his heart, as a searing pain passed mercilessly through him.
Arthur backed up, holding his rifle at his side, looking down at the screeching American. The Briton's gaze looked indifferent, but there were a few small sparks of emotion in his eyes. Satisfaction? Disappointment? Regret, even?
Matthew's own gaze was flickering as he watched Alfred writhe. Alfred opened one eye to look blearily at his brother through tears, their gazes locking.
Matthew walked over, slowly, almost nonchalantly as if there wasn't a magnificent building baking right behind him. He halted next to Arthur, and the two North American brothers' gazes never tore away from each other.
"M-Mattie…P-please, make it s-stop…"
Something flashed in the younger brother's eyes, and he knelt down, tilting his head at the wildly trembling American. After a short moment, he reached out to ever so gently brush a hand through Alfred's disheveled hair. The touch was so familiar to Alfred, but so foreign at the same time. He could feel no comfort from the usually soothing gesture.
Matthew had made his heart burn. Matthew had set his capitol ablaze.
What had happened to his peaceful, loving little brother? Where was his Mattie?
"Al, please, say something!" Matthew was panicking, on the verge of tears.
"Where's…Where's my Mattie…?"
"Now you know what I went through, Alfred," Matthew mused, his voice soft and monotone. Alfred suddenly let out another yelp of agony, making the Canadian lose his train of thought for a moment, violet eyes flashing again. "When my heart was burning, my people dying, my home destroyed to nothing but ash. I'm not going to live in your shadow any longer. Arthur has made me stronger, stronger than I would be if I had joined you."
Black hovered at the corners of Alfred's vision as he screamed again, tilting his head back. The pure anguish in the sound made both Matthew and Arthur cringe in the slightest. The American quieted down to a few pitiful whimpers as the black took over more and more of his sight, as the flames ate away at his heart. He curled into himself, just praying for the pain to stop. Had he really caused that much pain to Matthew?
"I-I'm here! Al, I'm here!"
"Did…Did it hurt that much…?"
Tears rolled freely down Alfred's bloodied cheeks, and he sobbed silently, the pain numbing after what felt like hours, days, months, even years. He coughed before letting out a shaky sigh, and all he could see was black.
He felt a hand in his hair, gentle fingers combing through the light brown locks. He heard a voice, soft, soothing, maybe even somber, next to his ear. A familiar voice?
"I think you've learned your lesson…Now sleep, dear brother…"
"Al, Al!"
Alfred let out a choked sound, and suddenly leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Matthew's neck and burying his face in the Canadian's shirt, tears streaming down his cheeks. Matthew gasped, but after a very short hesitation returned the embrace, rubbing small circles into Alfred's back.
"Shh, shh, it's okay, Al…Let it out, everything's okay…"
Alfred barely heard him, crying shamelessly. Why had it happened? Why did he have to go off and be an idiot, starting a terrible war with his own brother?
"Al…Al, can you look at me? Please?"
Alfred didn't obey right away, then slowly glanced up, blinking in surprise when he saw a few tears rolling down Matthew's pale cheeks. The Canadian gently cupped his brother's cheek, now having realized what he had been saying earlier.
"…J-Je suis tellement, t-tellement désolé…"
"N-no, Mattie, no. Th-the whole thing was m-my stupid fault…"
Matthew hugged his brother again, Alfred resting his head in the crook of the younger's neck. Matthew gently lowered the two of them so they were sitting on the floor, the Canadian leaning against the wall and Alfred leaning on him.
"…A-and on that day, A-August 24, 1814, the United S-States of America's P-Presidential Mansion d-did burn…"
Matthew shook his head, sniffling as Alfred recited the words Matthew himself had said so officially on that awful day.
"…M-Mattie…My Mattie…"
"Shh, I-I'm here, Al, I'm h-here…"
"I'm sorry, lil bro, I-I'm so sorry…"
"Non, I'm sorry…S-so, so sorry…"
Author's Note: "Je suis tellement, tellement désolé" = French for "I'm so, so sorry"
Okay, so if you don't know the War of 1812, it was a war between America and England, almost considered the U.S.'s "second war of independence". Canada (British North America) was England's colony at the time, and it supplied troops and such to help the English fight, and also fought for itself because American troops were trying to invade Canada and make it U.S. territory. This eventually led to American troops burning the Canadian capitol of York (now Toronto), which later inspired the English troops to burn America's capitol in retaliation. It is true that Canadian troops did not take part in burning the Presidential Mansion (now the White House), but they indeed wanted revenge for the burning of York.
Sorry for the rushed ending! XP
Big thanks to my friend Agent Doctor for helping me with revisions!
Please review and feel free to leave suggestions!
-Fanta :)