Just a fun, random thing I wanted to try out. I actually wrote these a while ago and wanted to wait to post them, but... eh whatever. They don't take too terribly long to write, especially now that I'm finally on Christmas Break.

The five historical periods I'm going to cover in this fic are the American Revolution, the War of 1812, WWI, WWII, and later 20th century/modern times.

Regarding the epigraph/title, I've basically decided Siegfried Sassoon is my favorite poet ever and yeah.

"My subject is war, and the pity of war. The poetry is in the pity." ~Wilfred Owen, of Siegfried Sassoon

I: American Revolution

Red

If he was going to have the insult "redcoat" thrown at him like trash everywhere he walked in the Colonies, it wasn't half-bad to have someone at his side for the whole thing. Someone else to bear the abuse. Two sets of shoulders were stronger than one. England was right about that. But he was wrong about which set, which heart, was the stronger of the two.

Where England made a face, Canada kept his expression still, calm. Even. When England stopped, Canada continued walking, either unafraid or ignorant of the threats the American shopkeepers and families alike hurled at them both. If England faltered (though he never showed it), Canada found his courage; if the elder slipped in the mud on the battlefield or somehow tripped over a loose stone in the cobbled streets, the younger reached out and picked him back up.

It wasn't fair, they both thought to themselves, never ready to share the accusatory words with each other. England didn't think it was fair because Canada was a child, a colony—and a former French colony, even—and he was an empire, a colonizer. Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, no longer in the days when he was trouncing Spanish fleets and terrifying monarchs with one well-aimed smirk. That shouldn't have mattered. He still should have been a thousand times stronger than any other country in the world at his worst.

And yet he wasn't. He didn't know why. He hated that more than he hated anything else, maybe even more than he despised the leaders of this little rebellion-turned-violent-revolution.

Canada, on the other hand, never minded England's apparent weakness. He never failed to put a hand on his arm, physically or mentally, and offer to help. Now that he had been plunged into this hell, he might as well make the best of the situation. England's quiet, unspoken—unrecognized, perhaps even unknown—need didn't bother him. It was the cage in which he hung, just on the edge of an abyss, that gnawed at his heart.

Canada had never wanted to be a part of this war: it wasn't his fight to begin with. He still couldn't think of what he had done to his brother to make him think he could waltz right into Quebec and start walking all over his people. Make him one of his states, ha. He had changed hands enough over the course of the last twenty years. No matter how many offers America made (please Canada you're my brother you're my friend don't you know what I'm going through join me you wouldn't have to be alone we could be independent together), he would shake his head every time, their eyes meeting for just a moment before Canada turned his back and walked softly away.

Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he did join America, became part of him. Not that he ever entertained the thought seriously, of course—he would never dream of falling under that final yoke, the one that would finally steal away his nationhood altogether—but he did sometimes look at England and wonder what it would be like to fight against him again. He would see the older nation trying to stare straight ahead on the battlefield, his gaze falling to the earth every time, and his stomach would twist and churn at the thought of leaving the Briton. England needed him. If Canada tried to give voice to that strange, nebulous fact that neither of them understood, England would scoff and shake his head and tell him that no, he was the one in charge, he was the one who took care of the Canadian—but his denial didn't make his dependence in the wake of America's independence any less true.

He couldn't leave Canada any more than Canada could leave him. Theirs was a strange love, less like a straight line tying their hearts together and more like a convoluted mess of tangled string that got caught up in other people's lives—America's, France's—too. And yet, the maze didn't make either one lost. They loved each other, despite their struggles and their pain, and that was that. Neither would say so. Neither would take the other's hand in the middle of a battle or in the joy of victory or the pain of loss and say they took heart because they were together. Canada could do that with France. England could with no one.

So they continued, redcoats together in defeat and victory, in despair and in hope. They won battles together and watched their men die side by side; they drank bitter draughts of bloodshed and territory lost and hearts broken—broken and mixed up when put back together, so England had some of Canada's where he'd lost America and Canada had some of England's where he'd lost France.

But, just as some alloys were stronger than others, so too did Canada find himself carrying England, even when he refused to acknowledge that he did need to be held, after all.

Snow

"Congrats."

Half-buried in snow, half-awake, America wasn't exactly in a position to hear anyone walking up to him and congratulating him, much less someone laughing and speaking with a French accent.

"Are you God?" He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Damn was the snow ever cold. "I hope not. I'd be awful disappointed if God turned out to be French."

"Keep talking like that and I'm not going to help you anymore. You know how generous it is of me to get entangled in your war in the first place."

"French and temperamental to boot." America chuckled and stretched out his hand. France pulled him to his feet. "I keep forgetting how cold New York can get when it wants to."

"Geez. Bonjour to you, too. What the hell were you doing out in the snow?"

"…Taking a nap?"

France put an arm around America's shoulders and rolled his eyes. What a child. He had gone into war to help this kid fight off an empire?

"You really expect me to believe that? I know you can be ridiculous, but I didn't think you were all that bad."

America let France steer him toward one of the cabins on the campground in upstate New York. He really should have resisted, he knew, and insisted upon staying outside no matter how cold it got, but the chill had eaten its way through his jacket past his uniform underneath his skin and into his bones.

In short, he was really, really cold.

"Taking a nap outside and you didn't think you would get hypothermia? Frostbite? What were you thinking, America?" France shook his head; then, in a hissed whisper, he added, "Do you really think we're that immortal? that immune to pain?"

"You sound like a mother hen."

"Hey—"

"No. Actually, you sound like England."

Had he been a little less mature and America a little bit warmer, France would have picked up a snowball and hurled it at his face. But this wound was too deep for such a juvenile response. The words hung in the air around both of them like a shield that neither protected nor defended but only wounded, as if it were designed with spikes on the outside and on the inside.

France closed the cabin door behind them. Benedict Arnold nodded to both of them but, when America held up his hand to stop him, insisting that yes, he was perfectly fine and go back to the battle plans and don't worry about anything else, did not rise from his chair.

"Like England?" France frowned, not so much because of America's accusation—perhaps the lowest blow he could give anyone at that moment—but because of how much he was shivering.

"Hey, you're the one who got after me for sleeping in the snow and stuff. You're the one who scolded me."

"I think anyone in their right mind would have done the same thing. Here, let's get you by the fire. I'll yell at you later."

Much as they hated to admit it, France needed someone to fuss over, and America needed to be cared for. They depended on each other that moment in some weird way. Yes, France thought, they needed each other on another level—he needed America for revenge and the younger nation needed him for victory—but military thoughts were far from his mind as he sat the American in a carved oak chair beside the fire and found a blanket to drape over his shoulders. Once his teeth had stopped chattering and he had relaxed a little, France tried again.

"Like England, you say."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"Like…" America thought hard, hoping to find a way to hide both from the question and the possible answers coming to his mind. "Like something else."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

The flames crackled, casting shadows on the walls as the sun set outside over the American camp. The smell of logs burning and grass and the chill of mid-December air in his nose as he inhaled conjured memories France wished he could leave dead. That was all they could be to him now. Dead. Forgotten. Lost. He had no business remembering Canada, the little toddler-nation who used to follow him around everywhere, one hand on the hem of his coat, begging not to be left behind, not to be forgotten—but to be loved, to be held.

And he had gone back on that promise.

Maybe he deserved America's insult, after all.

The younger nation looked over to his left and sighed upon noticing France's distant gaze and sad eyes. He couldn't guess what the older man was thinking—that wasn't exactly his strong suit. But he did recognize those eyes, that expression. He saw it everywhere he walked these days. War did that to people: it robbed them of their joy, their hope, their very lives.

And he was beginning to understand what it did to nations.

"I didn't mean it, you know. I really didn't." America took a deep breath. "Believe me, France, I wasn't trying to—"

"Hey." France put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay still. In the back of the cabin, Arnold had looked up from the papers spread in front of him and was giving them a confused look, one eyebrow raised. "Are you warm enough yet? You think you can stand taking a little walk?"

"I'm fine. Let's go."

France kept his hand in place as America stood up, boots clattering against the wooden floor as the two nations walked through the cabin. He hadn't noticed before how threadbare his blue uniform was, how thin his coat and how worn his boots looked. Even next to his men America seemed in terrible condition.

And yet he'd fought hard enough at Saratoga to draw the support of his leaders? He'd been strong enough to draw the French government to his side, to extract as much aid from them as they were willing to give?

Sometimes, France wasn't sure how or why he constantly underestimated the revolutionary's determination. He sure had dumb luck, if nothing else.

"The snow."

"Hm?" America stopped by one of the thin, clumsily set-up tents on the outskirts of the camp. A few young men sitting inside waved to him; he smiled back and tossed each of them a piece of licorice that Martha Washington had given him when he was last in Virginia. "What about it?"

"Why were you out here earlier?" France noticed the young men elbowing each other and whispering as they pointed at him. Had the Americans really put so much faith in him and his leaders, his military, that they'd come to help? "Sleeping in the snow, you'd said?"

America shrugged. In his mind, it was all really simple, and he didn't get why France was so insistent on knowing.

"Because they do."

The men, having finally caught sight of the handful of French troops walking into the camp together, rose to their feet and began to cheer, ragtag flags clenched tightly in their fists. Without a second thought, America ran to join them, and France did not try to stop him. He was too busy smiling at the sight of the minutemen and his militia embracing like old friends.

Congrats indeed, he thought, looking up at the sky and watching the moon glow as the sun slipped down past the horizon, turning the snow orange and red.

Clothes

America was a little confused, and not in a comedic way.

He hadn't expected his meek little brother to rebuff his attacks and practically spit in his face in defiance and protest.

Canada, of all nations—Matthew, of all people—had just beaten him down, wounded one of his greatest generals and killed another, and handed him a smarting (and resounding) defeat. None of that embarrassing engagement should have happened. Absolutely none of it. Some of his people had even fought on his, America's, side during the battle, for crying out loud. And yet he'd still won?

America just didn't get his brother. Never had, never did, never would. He didn't understand those strange purple eyes, that quiet voice and half-visible little body. He couldn't figure out why Canada preferred to sit quietly or play by himself in the woods rather than go on wild, heroic adventures with him, nor could he comprehend how he satisfied himself with books and stories rather than excitement.

Most of all, America's attempts to understand his brother (how had they turned out to be brothers, again? And why so similar looking, as if they were twins? They had nothing in common. The resemblance was laughable) fell short—abruptly so—when it came to England. Canada could have been free. Hell, he could have been free easily, if that battle they'd just fought was any indication.

Independence wasn't a pie in the sky for him, no lofty dream hanging just out of reach. But the way he shrugged at America's offers to join him (Canada please let's find our path to freedom together we can gain our independence together Canada why the hell do you think you need to live like this what are you trying to prove) suggested he didn't seem to care much for revolution and All-Men-Are-Created-Equal. It figured, America thought as he adjusted his bright blue uniform coat and kicked some dust into the fire keeping him and his men warm in the depths of the woods. It was the French in him. They probably didn't believe in equality.

Canada cried.

England had left. It was okay for him to mewl and puke like a pathetic little kitten.

The war had barely even started, and he couldn't handle shooting at his brother.

This was not going to be fun. Not that he'd expected it to be, of course. That was just a given. He was fighting a war, for Heaven's sake, not picking flowers or harvesting maple syrup.

All he'd ever wanted was peace and love. A family. Friends who would never leave him, a brother in whose face he didn't have to point a rifle. A home without fighting that he didn't have to defend, a life of ease and quiet joy and quotidian bliss. People who prospered with him. Days spent exploring not only what it meant to be Canada, but what it meant to be Matthew Williams.

Was that really, truly, so much to ask for?

Yes, it was, he thought to himself as he wiped his eyes to no avail. He needed to stop being such a sap. Maybe his weakness, his tears, had been the final straw that had driven France away. Maybe his Papa would have loved him more if he didn't sniffle at every problem and cry at every obstacle.

On the flip side, maybe England would love him more if he didn't miss France. If only he could master his English—yes, not oui; no, not non, even though that word existed neither in his English nor in his French vocabulary—and banish all his French blood, maybe he'd find the love he'd always wanted, just in someone else. It was all his fault, of course. No one else's.

And what of America? When it came to him, Canada was at a loss. America just laughed at his French and shrugged at his English. In fact, his brother didn't seem to care what language they spoke in, just as long as they talked to each other. He never tried to straighten Canada's clothes or shine his shoes (he was the messier of the two, anyway. Any attempt to polish his brother's appearance would have just appeared silly and out of place).

He loved America, he realized, brushing his tears away all of a sudden and fighting to control his breathing the moment he saw England returning to the camp. What a foolish thing to do, to cry over things he couldn't control. But how much more foolish it was to love his enemy, even if that enemy was his own brother. Whoever had given him a brain must have installed it backwards. That, or they'd given him two hearts by mistake. What an idiot he was. Guided only by emotion, craving love like a pathetic little animal.

"Good morning, Canada." England sat down on the thick log beside the other nation, evidently not noticing he had been crying.

"Good morning, England." Canada half-expected England to ask why he had mumbled his greeting or had failed to look up from his hands, folded carefully in his lap, but he said nothing. Instead, Canada pushed a question of his own. "Why did you dress me and America alike when we were little?"

"Eh?" England turned to him with a frown. "What kind of a question is that?"

"I'm sorry—should I not have asked—"

"It's fine." Clearly, Canada thought, it was not fine. England spoke with clipped words that lingered as long as the clouds of condensate swirling from his mouth. "Really, don't look at me like that. It's fine. It was because you two looked so much alike, of course. Plenty of families—well, plenty of brothers wear similar clothes when they're young."

"Oh. Okay." Canada paused, then decided he did dare ask another question. "England, did you—did you think the two of us acted alike at all?"

"You two? Good heavens, no." England laughed for the first time in weeks (maybe even months, Canada mused). "You had almost nothing in common. Maybe nothing at all, now that I think about it. You always were so different. You were quiet, he was obnoxious. You did as you were told. He—well, I'm sure you know." He paused. Canada waited, even as England's laughter died a quick, abrupt death. "I'm sure you know."

Canada knew. America did, too. Their problem wasn't a matter of knowing, not at all.

It was a matter of understanding. A level of equality they would never attain as long as America had to fight England for independence and Canada had to get dragged into the middle of it, all in the name of finding elusive love that always escaped him, no matter how long, how hard, how fast he chased after it.

And dressing them up to look the same did nothing to change that.

Flags

France had to learn the hard way not to taunt England by saying America had changed his flag. He probably should have known better, but it had been England he was making fun of, after all. Neither the Frenchman nor the Briton was exactly known for keeping a cool head around each other.

"You know what's so great about fighting with him against you?"

Then again, England shouldn't have taken the bait, either.

"You get to have your face rubbed in the dirt, too? You both know I'm going to win this."

France laughed. The other nation had again made a habit of blinding himself to reason. Even when defeat came creeping up from behind, he didn't see its shadow surrounding him.

"Do you really think it's possible at this point?"

"Of course." England practically spat in France's face. Bile burned on his lips. "That's not even a question. I'm an empire, you know."

France shrugged. He didn't find this weakling of a nation, of a man, intimidating in the least. His defiance proved neither brave nor praiseworthy. Not enough to rattle him, to make him change anything in his battle plans and strategies, to give him pause for even a moment. Just really quite pathetic, indeed.

"Not all empires deserve to be empires." He let the words linger for a moment before saying, "You know he changed his flag, right?"

"What?"

"Yeah. It's completely different now." Okay, so that at least was a lie, but a bit of deception twisted the knife just right. "Haven't you seen it? If not, you'll get to soon, you realize. He'll be carrying it into the next battle. It'll be flying over his head, full of stars and stripes and—"

France wasn't sure at what point exactly England punched him in the face, just that he'd kept talking for a few moments afterward until he tasted blood—metallic, warm—dripping down his nose into his mouth.

"You really have no idea just how good that felt and just how much you deserved that."

Next thing France knew, England had stormed off, and he was alone in the quiet clearing beside the burbling river a few feet away.

Father

When he'd charged into battle alongside England, Canada had expected to meet America again, and he'd steeled himself appropriately, donning his emotional armor without a second thought. Fighting his brother had just become commonplace, quotidian, like making his bed in the morning (another thing England insisted he do).

Fighting France was another matter entirely.

At first, Canada hadn't known what was going on. He'd stayed back with the second wave of troops, England going in first beside Lord Cornwallis. He'd stood, rifle clenched tight in his hand, at the top of the hill watching the fighting in the miniature Virginia valley, looking to the left and then to the right. There were Cornwallis and America's General Greene facing each other from behind their respective detachments. Canada couldn't quite make out either's expression, but he assumed they must have been smirking at each other. They were war men like that. Then, on the other side of the field, some man—a very young and evidently very important man—was fighting one of England's other commanders. And, of course, in the center of all the action, as always, the nations themselves were fighting, shouting, lunging at each other. Canada shrugged. Typical.

He wondered when England would need him to run in and help. Lost in his thoughts (were the buckles on his shoes in proper fashion, shining and straight? Where could he get some water—he was dreadfully thirsty, after all?), Canada was caught quite off-guard when he heard an unexpected noise. Figuring he'd accidentally missed England's signal to enter the fighting, he scrambled onto his horse, but dismounted when some of the troops standing next to him gave him a confused look.

Then, his feet hitting the ground, he heard it again.

French.

Someone was shouting in French.

Canada wasn't sure what possessed him that moment, but he began to run. Straight ahead, forward, into the arms he hadn't realized he missed so much.

He caught himself within moments—or, rather, Sir Henry Clinton grabbed him. The Englishman's words rang so loudly in his ears that he couldn't make out what they meant. Canada thought he might have been underwater, everything struck him as so distorted and muddled. Someone must have dragged him out of his body and then pinned him down, not even giving him the grace of floating away into nothingness. No. Instead, he had to watch, to grope around like a wounded man in search of something, anything, to stop the pain.

Or something like that. The Canadian wasn't quite sure.

"Lafayette." France was bleeding. Shit, Canada thought, his Papa was bleeding and limping and dragging himself across the battlefield, and shit someone was going to kill him he had to go in and save him he had to go save his Papa why wouldn't they let him go why couldn't he just go. "Lafayette, il nous faut battre en retraite."

Canada bit his lip and wished it would bleed. He'd automatically translated the French to English in his head.

No—non, he corrected himself.

He wasn't sure if the sudden, uncontrollable pulse of unidentifiable emotion in his heart was pointing its blade in on himself or out at England. Regardless, he wrestled with it for control, letting Clinton drag him back up the hill (what's gotten into you Captain Kirkland hasn't called for your assistance yet know your place) as he watched one of the French men—Lafayette, he assumed, though he didn't know what the name signified—help his Papa away from the battlefield.

Limp, paralyzed, Canada knew only one thing.

If he was going to start pulling metaphorical knives on people, he was going to pull them on himself.

"Canada? Canada. Matthew. Matthew. Oh, goodness no, Matthew. Wake up. Please. Wake up, darling."

He was warm. For the first time in years, he was warm. Someone was holding him—holding him. Holding him. And that someone knew his name.

Canada didn't quite understand what that meant. It had been so long since someone had held him or even touched him that he just wasn't sure what to make of it all, except that he was warm and the arms around him felt nice.

"Matthew?"

Canada opened his eyes. His fingers moved first, grasping the warm blanket someone had swaddled him in like a child.

Fur.

This was one hell of a nice blanket. Certainly not one someone would have found in the camp, even in the officers' tents or cabins. Maybe not even in the nearby settlers' cabins.

Whoever had fetched it for him must have gone to some lengths to get it.

Canada drew closer to the figure holding him. He knew the face, but he couldn't place it. Same with the voice: so familiar yet so distant. The accent didn't betray the figure, nor did his eyes.

Well, no matter. The nation wasn't sure he even cared at that point. Someone was holding him, and that was all that he really wanted to know at that moment.

"Good." The voice said. Canada sighed and curled closer into the figure, who gave an awkward, shaky laugh. "There you go, I guess. That's right, darling." The voice paused. When it spoke again, its words came out strained and almost strangled. "There you go."

He closed his eyes again. Being cared for was lovely, no matter how reluctant the figure seemed. Someone had called him "darling"; someone had cared enough to hold him as he slept and wrap him in a blanket and smooth out the tangles in his hair. That someone even kissed his forehead as he drifted off into sleep again.

How wonderful love felt. If he could call this love at all.

When he awoke the next morning, Canada had no one by his side. Only the blanket, pulled up to his chin and wrapped around his bare feet, convinced him the whole thing had happened at all. Without something concrete there, he might have disappeared into his mind again, cold and restrained, tied down by something that insisted he stay to watch his body disintegrate into little pieces, jumbled as if by a blizzard.

England wandered into the small room in the back of the cabin a few moments later to find Canada dressed and sitting in the bedside chair, pulling his shoes on. He hesitated, unsure what to say. How could he talk to someone who had screamed (softly, so softly; he had hardly heard anything at all) and passed out cold on the battlefield? Not that he blamed the poor boy, of course. Quite the opposite. Whatever Canada had done, it had probably been justified, although that didn't mean England wasn't dying to know the cause of the other nation's fear.

"Oh, England." Canada hurried to his feet. "How did the battle go—"

England cut him off with an arm around his shoulders. "Don't."

Canada shrank a little beneath the warm arm keeping him from falling over. His head spinning and his thoughts jumbled, he struggled to give the older man a confused frown.

England struggled to find the words-the right words, the perfect words. "I—"

"England. Are you all right?"

Shit, now he'd done it. He'd gone and made poor Canada worry about him again.

"Oh, now, none of that nonsense." England shook his head as he sat down on the bed and helped the younger nation down beside him. "I don't want you thinking like that."

"Sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize! Oh, for goodness' sake, Canada."

England could have killed himself when he saw the look in Canada's tired violet eyes.

"Well… how about this." He should at least try again, right? "I think you should sleep for the rest of the day. It was such an exhausting battle."

"I didn't do anything."

"I—well, I think you just haven't had enough time to rest between battles lately. We've had so many, you know, and you've never been able to get any proper rest. So why don't you just…"

The Englishman trailed off the moment Canada's hand touched his own.

"England, this is a war, and I am a nation." His cold fingers seemed heavy on England's palm, but the older nation said nothing as he listened with a sinking heart. "I'm going to go talk to the generals. If anyone needs to rest, it's you."

Years later, England would berate himself late into the night for letting Canada slip out of his grasp and off into the officers' tents—but that moment, he thought nothing, said nothing, felt nothing.

He just couldn't muster the strength to care for anyone anymore.

Translations:

Lafayette, il nous faut battre en retraite = Lafayette, we have to retreat/withdraw.

Oh, also: yeah, the US actually did invade Quebec in 1775 (something I alluded to once or twice). It did not go well.