A/N: Let me be clear: I am only posting this right now because I finally have internet connection (not my own connection, a fickle neighbor took off the security-I'm sure they'll secure it in a few days). I won't have internet for long.

Thank you.

Disclaimer: I only own the fic, not the characters, places, or things mentioned.

Matthew is certain of one thing only, and that is his own irreparability.

The blond has been damaged for a long time: a nervous, furious, untrusting, naïve mess. He is abnormal and also the epitome of normalcy, a contradiction, and Matthew cannot remember a time when this was not true.

Forgotten by most and cherished by none, he is unnecessary; he is a pointless extra in the never-ending movie entitled Life, yet somehow also an important contributor.

Having long since abandoned all faith in any sort of celestial entity, Matthew can say that he is the only one aware of his own nihilism: those who can bring themselves to recall such an insignificant tidbit of information as the Canadian's religious views believe that he is a devout Catholic, taking after a certain Frenchman in that respect. They are wrong: Matthew cannot say that he has ever willingly emulated France (he only refers to nations by their human names when it is requested of him, but cannot bring himself to do so otherwise), sans the time he spent as his colony and his continuing usage of the man's language (it is his first language, so Matthew cannot deny his fondness of it).

Matthew would be lying if he said there was a nation in the world that he cared for, for he can only bring himself to feel irritation and frustration towards them, the warmest he ever felt towards anyone having been during his younger days.

Those were the happiest times of his life, beginning with his earliest years: the years spent spent with France.

Then only a toddling colony, Matthew's entire life was centered around his darling Papa, whom he adored beyond belief, relishing in the love and affection freely bestowed upon him. Matthew, then known only as Matthieu Bonnefoy, was a wide-eyed, innocent child; he was completely unaware of the trials that he would soon be subject to.

Arthur had seemed like such a horrid scoundrel when Matthieu first met him, harshly informing the befuddled boy that his Papa had lost the war, and, consequently, him. Matthieu had given his Papa a beseeching look, his lower lip trembling as the man departed for his homeland, leaving his former charge with his archenemy. Matthew Williams, as Arthur had dubbed him, spent the first few weeks doing nothing but crying and sulking in his bedroom, until Arthur tactfully threatened to use the switch on him. Over the years, he grew into a respectful, polite, and presentable young man and Arthur became accustomed to the (oh, so) eager to please colony. They visited Alfred frequently, and Matthew became enamored with the dashing young man who so effortlessly placed himself in Arthur's good graces and captured Matthew's heart without even knowing it. Matthew yearned for Alfred to hold him in his arms, to caress his face tenderly, to make passionate love to him; Matthew loved Alfred so very much that his heart ached for him.

In retrospect, Matthew is surprised that his, albeit lonely, happiness remained undisturbed (he would be lying if he said that he was distressed by Alfred gaining his independence, although he was a bit irked by the attempted invasions) for so long; the War of 1812 changed that.

Matthew was not sure why Alfred did it: Alfred's discontent lay with Arthur. It seemed as if Alfred saw him only as an English colony, ignoring how the war would affect him in favor of making a statement against Arthur.

Matthew man cannot help but resent his younger self for being so open and trusting; he will never forgive himself for falling so helplessly in love with Alfred.

Alfred, who marched into York with a blank face and steely eyes, lighting the night sky with violent flames and watching unrepentantly as Matthew wailed in agony, deaf to his neighbor's desperate pleas and blind to his dampened face. Alfred, who left Matthew in an alleyway only lit by the nearby fires to suffer in isolation, shattering his heart. Alfred, who only minutes before that had pinned the weakly struggling Matthew down (he did not have the strength or willpower to fight him off, and, after all, this was Alfred; what did Matthew have to worry about?), spread his legs apart and rid him of his trousers. Alfred, who ignored his shuddering cries and gasps of pain.

Alfred who broke him.

Alfred who burned him.

Alfred who raped him.

And that was it: after all that Matthew had been through, all that he had endured, it was Alfred who drove him to his breaking point. By the time Arthur had found him, shivering and sobbing in that damn alleyway (he had mustered up the strength to redress himself, not wanting anyone to know), and rushed him to his home for rest, the Matthew had ceased to be his former self: the traumatic experience, as most are wont to, had completely changed him.

When he awoke from his restless slumber, Matthew was nonchalant and distant, shocking Arthur greatly by referring to him as England. After further examination, England discovered that his charge was being cold not only towards him, but to all nations, and that he was especially formal with his southern neighbor.

By the time the war had ended and Matthew had avenged himself by torching America's capitol, America was acting as if he had never stolen the Canadian's innocence, and no one besides he and Matthew had any idea of what he had done.

Matthew had continued to emulate an empty rag doll, easily complying with his government's decisions without voicing any protests, and terrifying his enemies on the battlefields (be it a trench or a beach) as he released his pent up rage and sorrow. He pointedly ignored France's startled expression when he shouted out America's human name as he brought down yet another German in 1916, and dismissed England's pensive look when he refused to reciprocate the hug Alfred gave him when he arrived (late, again) in 1941.

Not that he was surprised: they probably thought he was still in love with the idiot (the pair had always been fairly perceptive; Matthew had never confessed to them but did not doubt that they had known-he wondered if America had any idea about his previous feelings).

He could not help but be a bit surprised, however, when they asked him if he would care to join them in the now empty conference room: it was 1946.

"Matthieu, mon cher, what is wrong?"

Matthew did not reply, choosing instead to examine the Frenchman's face, which was still gaunt and bruised, and wondered how France had the audacity to care about him. He did not doubt that France was worried, as his eyes were overflowing with sincere concern and he was standing close enough to pull him into an embrace, but this was the man who had betrayed him in a way worse than all the others-this was the first person he had ever loved. England stood behind him with furrowed brows, staring contemplatively at Matthew's face, perhaps in an attempt to look past the uncaring façade and see whatever it was he thought that Matthew was feeling.

They had no idea what was wrong.

Two minutes, and France had not received a response, so England grabbed him by the elbow and gently pulled him back, taking a tentative step towards Matthew even as he pressed closer to the wall behind him. Running a hand through his ever-disheveled locks warily, England cleared his throat.

"Why are you this way, Matthew?" England met his eyes fully, and Matthew felt something painfully familiar stirring inside of him, "What did Alfred do to you at York?"

For a moment, Matthew was overcome by a surge of anger and his face darkened, but then the stirring became a tug and he realized what it was with a stifled gasp: he wanted to tell them. The urge had presented itself before, but Matthew had always crushed it rather than succumb to it, convinced that no one cared enough to know; perhaps he was wrong. There they were, standing before him and patiently awaiting an explanation of his actions with earnest expressions when they could be sitting in their homes (or hospital beds) recuperating. France looked so worn out that Matthew wondered if England's pain could even compare, but then he took note of the man's clenched fists and gritted teeth and realized that he could.

'Then it's decided.'

Matthew opened his mouth to speak, feeling like a child once more as he looked nervously into his former caretakers' eyes and hoped that they would believe him, "You-you're right, it was in York." They both looked up in surprise, green and blue eyes training onto him apprehensively, "I was alone, because the patrol that I was with had left me in an alleyway to tend to the fires and I was unable to go with them." England nodded, eyes glazing over slightly as he (undoubtedly) recalled the state he found him in, but France frowned as he noticed the tremble in Matthew's voice. "America found me there, writhing in agony-" A hand trailed up to rest above his heart as he winced in remembrance, "-and just watched for a few minutes although I was begging him to help me-help me or kill me-but he didn't say anything. Instead," Matthew's voice catches in his throat, his eyes tearing up as he watched realization dawn on their faces, "he shoved me down, pulled down my pants, and-" France and England's eyes were both wide in disbelief, their eyes begging him not to say what they both suspected had happened: they didn't want a confirmation.

It didn't matter, because Matthew couldn't speak, instead sobbing loudly as the memories came back to him and wishing fiercely that he hadn't unearthed them in the first place. His knees buckled underneath him and he collapsed, sliding down the wall before crumpling into a heap on the floor, not looking at either of the room's other occupants as tears streamed freely down his face.

Francis (he had just shared his darkest secret with the two, they didn't fall under the category of people he didn't trust-not anymore) crouched down beside him with a wince (his knee had been blown out a year ago and was still healing), wrapping his arms around Matthew and holding him while he cried, although Arthur only stood there with a shocked expression.

"Matthew, love." Arthur called his name softly, waiting until Matthew looked at him, "You're saying that he took you?"

Matthew lifted his head from Francis's shoulder with great difficulty, and answered his question with a short nod, not trusting himself to voice the words without his voice cracking. Arthur sank into a nearby chair, holding his bandaged head in his hands as he murmured apologies that were barely audible.

"I'm sorry, Matthew: I should have been there to protect you, I shouldn't have driven Alfred to an invasion. I should have known…"

Francis only shed a few tears and ran his fingers through Matthew's hair, undoubtedly feeling immense guilt: England had needed those sailors to aid in their efforts against Napoleonic France.

Matthew gave a strained smile as he wiped the tears from his face, "I can't blame you for that: neither of you control your governments."

Francis softly kissed the top of his head, inquiring softly, "Matthieu, how do you live next to him? Has he-" He paused hesitantly, but continued nonetheless, "-done anything else to you?"

Matthew shook his head, brightening ever so slightly at their sighs of relief (he forgot how fantastic it felt to be cared for), replying bitterly, "He acts like it never even happened."

He still does.

A/N: I feel awful for writing this, but I was depressed and needed to channel those feelings. I didn't intend for Alfred to rape Matthew, but it just happened, and I can't change it without the one-shot falling to pieces, although I did refrain from writing a rape scene because I honestly can't picture Alfred doing that (I portrayed my abridged version of the invasion in Fifty themes USCan) and it's difficult for me to make him the bad guy.

The last line actually rings true: I was not taught about the War of 1812 in school, I'm an American and I learned everything I know about it from the internet (mostly fanfics). We seriously skipped it and talked about Industrialization instead, and then the Civil War-the most I learned about the war in school was that the White House was burned down in 1814 and that the British apparently did it. I didn't even learn that in History class, my 6th grade music teacher told us when we were learned about Francis Scott Key (he wrote the Star Spangled Banner, which is the American national anthem, while imprisoned on a British ship off the coast of Baltimore). The first textbook that had any mention of it was my 8th grade History book, but even then it had only two pages and completely failed to mention certain crucial details and events (the Burning of York and the Canadian involvement, for example-they pretended that it was just the British).

Adding to my frustration, I recorded a History channel special on the War of 1812 a few months ago, only to find that the entire program depicted the Americans as heroes and defenders of their land while painting the British as tyrants and ignoring the Canadians (this happens far too often). I expected it to be biased, but not to that extent, and was pretty pissed.

History fail.

Does anyone else want to share their stories about the history fails that their schools (or programs they have seen) have managed to pull off? I'm curious.

French translation;

Mon cher- my dear