A/N: I've wanted to write an 1812 AmeCan story for so long...what a better time than the war's bicentennial?
And I've also always wanted to write a story tracing America x Canada throughout the years (for the most part).
I hope you enjoy!
You'll always be my hero...even though you've lost your mind.
With a shuddering breath, Matthew lifted his head and felt the heat coursing through his body as it scorched his skin. No matter how desperately he wanted to shut the image from his mind, wanted to go back to how it used to be, no dreaming can take the sight before him away. Luckily the pain was slow and appeared as minor stabs whenever he breathed too deeply, pushing his way through the town with his men, his people.
The smoke around him was suffocating, polluting his lungs and choking him as he tried to see through the haze, see where the enemy is...see where Alfred is.
He knew Alfred was out there. Somewhere amongst the bluecoats was the tall blonde and Matthew knew that he was looking for him. His skin prickled, the hair stood up on the back of his neck, and if he stilled his thoughts enough, Matthew was sure he could hear Alfred's manic voice.
Mine. You're mine.
Gritting his teeth against the pain and anger, Matthew held his musket tighter, pulled the trigger harder, and ran faster. He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let Alfred win.
Forever, right, Mattie?
No Alfred...not like this. Images of lighter times came unbidden to Matthew's mind, and for a moment he could feel the happiness that he used to feel as he stared into those eyes that seemed to hold the sky. Their little promises to each other of always being together no matter what; how their hands would fit together so perfectly, and how Alfred would comment that Matthew fit against him as though they were made for each other.
Never did he think it would become this twisted.
It started with his desire for independence, when Matthew first saw the hairline cracks in his patient veneer. Gentle hands would become painfully tight as Alfred shook Matthew slightly, anger the dominant emotion with desperation a close second.
"Why? Why won't you leave with me?"
"Alfred, do you hear yourself? You can't just leave-"
"Just watch me, Matthew."
Matthew's eyes widened as not only the words washed over him, but the way Alfred uttered them. Low. Quiet. And utterly terrifying.
It was a while later that he encountered Alfred on the battlefield with the Battle of Quebec. Luck and determination favoured his side, and he had to admit- he felt a form of sadistic pleasure watching Alfred retreat off of his land. There was no way he was going to side with him...he couldn't do that to Arthur, or to his people.
It was the year following that Matthew heard the cry that echoed through Alfred's land; the statement that sent a cold, permeating chill down his spine.
"Canada must be ours; Quebec must be taken."
Matthew just cleaned his redcoat, lips pressed in a firm line, and eyes harder than they had ever been before.
But Alfred's people and leaders were confident, assuming that it would be simple for Matthew's land to be conquered, even with the combined efforts of the British, Canadians, and aboriginals. Weren't they surprised once more at Queenston Heights.
He had shed more than a single tear for Brock.
As he moved his way along York, he watched as men cut down other men, witnessed their light fading away, the crimson life flowing from them and tainting the clothes and ground around them. He didn't want to admit it, but Matthew was losing hope and it was deteriorating quickly as the Americans pushed them back even farther.
It was when a huge explosion sounded that the force knocked Matthew from his feet, his body hitting the ground with a bone jarring thud and he felt a sharp pain that took his breath away. The tremulous motion in the earth resembled the shock of an earthquake; and looking over to the spot of where it sounded, Matthew saw an immense cloud ascend into the air. All around him was a mass of smoke, timber, men, and earth with the smoke appearing as an ominous balloon. His ears were ringing, and he coughed harshly, spitting to the abused earth below him, not noticing the red hue.
"There you are, Mattie."
The words surely weren't a whisper, but the way they were breathily called out it could have been. The catch in Alfred's voice, the sound of complete and utter innocent joy in finding him was more terrifying than his anger. Matthew looked up towards the direction of the voice and he was faced with an image that surely was the devil himself. Alfred was walking towards him with his head partially lowered, a merciless and crazed look in his ice cold eyes as he stared at him. The smoke from the explosion split, parting for the man as it billowed behind him, and he appeared to Matthew as a demon fresh from Hell.
"No...Alfred don't-"
But Alfred wasn't hearing him. "I've been looking all over this retched town for you! Were you hiding from me?"
With weakened arms Matthew pushed himself up onto his feet and swayed a little as he tried to strengthen his legs. It was becoming difficult for him to see and the feeling was slowly draining from his body as he flexed his hands, breathing deeply.
"Leave here, Alfred. Y-you're not wanted." Matthew hated how weak his voice sounded.
Alfred found it amusing, and clicked his tongue as he stood a few feet away from him. "Don't strain yourself. But it looks like you have no say in the matter, baby. Your defenders are evacuating." When Matthew tried to look around him a sharp pain blossomed from behind his eyes, resonating about his mind and causing him to stop the action with a pained sound. Alfred noticed this and tried to move closer, cooing to him. "Mattie? Are you hurt? Did any of my men hit you-"
With a frustrated growl, Matthew lashed out and pushed Alfred back, his sudden outburst catching Alfred off guard. He recovered quick enough however, and laughed as he rubbed his chest.
"Stop it!"
"My, my, Mattie. What's wrong? Upset to realize you can't beat me this-"
Once more Matthew cut him off as he punched Alfred in the cheek, blinded with rage.
"How dare you!" Matthew cried out as he followed through with another punch only to be blocked by a forearm.
Treating it like a game, Alfred effortlessly blocked each punch, all the while smiling and taunting Matthew. "Easy does it, Mattie, don't want to hurt yourself. You look awfully pale..." His voice was tinged with an edge of concern.
"How could you..." Matthew cried as his punch was blocked yet again. He could feel each punch becoming weaker, breathing was now extremely difficult and darkness curled in the corners of his vision. "I...I trusted you. I cared for you, Alfred! How could you do this to me? I lo-"
He couldn't finish it.
"How could I not?" Alfred cooed sweetly, his face radiating with adoration even as the surroundings spoke otherwise. "I promised you all those years ago that we'd always-"
"Don't!" Matthew cried out brokenly, his punch landing weakly at Alfred's shoulder, remaining there to collect the fabric in his fist. "Don't talk of those times; don't take them away from me..."
Images flashed through his mind of the two of them lying against the cool grass. Alfred was pointing up to the stars as his other hand held Matthew's tightly. They spoke of their future together, and Matthew would giggle over Alfred's version of the fairy tales Arthur would read them. He would always play the knight in shining armour, the hero, and Matthew would be the one in distress (never the princess). They would spend the days away by the lake, swimming or climbing trees. He distinctly remembered one time they climbed to the very top and felt like giants, just the two of them together on top of their world.
Hoping to use their memories to his advantage, Matthew tried to appeal to the little boy that used to speak of heroism so passionately. "Alfred, look at what you're doing! This isn't what anyone wants! You're destroying everything a-and you're hurting me..."
Alfred reached out and ran a hand over Matthew's cheek, frowning when the blonde flinched and moved away as if it burned him. "You just think you don't want this, Mattie. I know what's best for you- more so than that fool Arthur. He's never known you, so how could he know what's best? You're blinded, but with me you won't be. Wouldn't you want to be with me instead? I know you, I know what you want, and what you need. I know what you're thinking without requiring a single word. Can Arthur say that?"
"You're missing the point..." Matthew gasped, hands flexing as he was losing his grip on Alfred's coat. "I don't want this. I know what I want, and what is good for my people...We are not Americans."
Matthew could have sworn he heard, 'yet' under Alfred's breath.
The sounds of people screaming along with the deafening sounds of gunshots echoed around them, but they appeared distant to Matthew as he leaned heavily against Alfred. As he was trying to keep consciousness, Alfred was free to let his hands roam over Matthew's body, his mouth working against Matthew's neck.
"Oh, Mattie, how I've missed touching you...How long has it been since I've been able to kiss you?" He whispered just as he was about to connect their lips together. Unfortunately, Matthew's gasp of pain stilled the descent when Alfred touched something warm and wet on his back. "Mattie?"
"Al..."
Matthew finally allowed the tears to escape as his legs gave out, Alfred falling to his knees along with the blonde so he didn't hurt himself. Heart beating out of control, Alfred's hands were frantic as he tore the maddening red jacket from his body and pulled at his torn, dirty white blouse to discover a gruesome wound across his back; his blood still oozing out over what was dry.
"Mattie! Oh my god, Mattie..." Alfred ran his hands over Matthew's pale, cold face fervently as he tried to get those beloved violet eyes to focus. "I didn't know...come on, I need to get you into a house. I-I need to tend to your wound." He hadn't felt this scared in years, not since Matthew fell from the tree and he thought he broke his neck. When he ran up to him he saw the blonde was conscious, but Matthew was so scared it was hard for Alfred to keep his composure.
"W-wound?"
Alfred licked his lips and smiled weakly. "Yeah, but don't worry! I'm right here with you, baby, everything is going to be okay." He knew Matthew would survive this, but the fact didn't calm his mind, nor did it quell his tears. When he opened his eyes and looked to him, the violet orbs were clouded and it didn't appear as though he was looking at him, but was in a different time and place entirely.
"Always my hero...my Alfred."
As those violet eyes shut, sending Matthew into a state of unconsciousness, Alfred cradled Matthew's head against his chest tightly, breathing in deeply as he enjoyed the feeling of Matthew fitting against him once more. He let the feeling seep into his pores for a moment before lying Matthew down so he could strip off his jacket. Wrapping Matthew in his uniform, Alfred picked him up gingerly, bridal style, and moved with fast footfalls towards a house they had taken control of.
He looked down at Matthew's seemingly sleeping face, and felt his heart skip a beat as he took in the beauty that was his obsession. That strong, straight nose, his defined jaw, higher cheekbones, and the soft curve of his lashes against his silken cheek. His hair was damp with sweat and it curled adorably, perfect curls instead of his golden waves. Humming softly, Alfred whispered, 'I love you' close to Matthew's ear and kissed his cheek before pulling away. He didn't want to lock lips just yet, not while he wasn't awake to feel it. To feel him.
" 'A mere matter of marching'..."
Alfred looked down to Matthew and smiled once more, albeit a bit cracked.
_
Historical notes:
-Sir Isaac Brock: Died defending Niagara from the American invasion at Queenston Heights on Oct. 13, 1812. His military actions in the War of 1812, particularly his success at Detroit, earned him a knighthood, membership in the Order of Bath, accolades and the sobriquet "Hero of Upper Canada."
-The Battle of Queenston Heights: The battle was a British victory early in the War of 1812 that turned back the first American attack on the Niagara front.
-The Battle of Quebec (1775): The British and Canadian garrison drove off the American attack and ended the threat to the British control of Canada.
-In 1776, while serving as a delegate to the Continental Congress, John Adams stated, "the Unanimous Voice of the Continent is 'Canada must be ours; Quebec must be taken.' "
-The grand magazine at Fort York was set on fire and this last act of defiance, later seen by the Americans as a deliberate, cruel trick, was devastating. The ammunition and powder stored in the stone-built magazine exploded, launching heavy rocks and debris through the ranks of the American forces and spewing a terrifying column of smoke and flame into the air. The blast instantly killed nearly 40 men and wounded more than 200, many of whom did not survive their injuries.
-In 1812, in a letter to Colonel William Duane, Thomas Jefferson wrote, "The acquisition of Canada this year, as far as the neighborhood of Quebec, will be a mere matter of marching, and will give us experience for the attack of Halifax the next, and the final expulsion of England from the American continent."