Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia or any of its characters.

This was partly inspired by chapter 93 of Fruit Baskets.

Homeward Bound

England staggered down the street, still clutching his half-empty bottle. He veered mindlessly off from one direction to another, his gait stumbling, awkward and clumsy.

He could feel the cold steeping into his worn boots, but he chose to ignore it. After all, countries like him aren't affected physically by the snow, wind and winter. Unless the weather was directly affecting his country. So now, even when he was so far away from home, England could feel the feather-light snowflakes beginning to trickle down the streets of London. Unlike here.

Winters in the Americas were a different matter. Harsh. Bitter. Relentless. Many of the settlers who came here died unexpectedly, not suspecting that winter would creep up on them and steal warmth and life from them.

Even if the winter didn't do that to him, something else did.

News now that the American Revolution had succeeded and defeated the hated British spread and raged throughout the country, reaching overseas, to his own home. People cheered and celebrated, mocking him, claiming that the once great power was failing and falling. It was only a matter of time, they said. That he would crumble completely.

Their words delivered a sharp awakening and he chuckled to himself that they must be right. After all, he couldn't even defeat America, who was considerably younger than him and with less resources than him.

He knew that in his weakened state other countries will try to take advantage of him. Other countries under his rule shifted restlessly, beginning to pull and yank at the seams.

With flimsy limbs, he dragged himself into the nearest bar and ordered drink after drink, downing each of them in one gulp, forcing the searing liquid down his throat. Because maybe if he did, he wouldn't have to hear the voices of his people whispering their criticisms, the eager murmurs of the rest of his colonies fighting to become free from him.

" A little young to be drinking that much," the bartender commented after he shakily placed his bottle down for the fifteenth time.

England fought to keep the mirthless laughter from spilling out. He was hundreds of years older than the man. Who was he to speak? " Another one," he drawled, holding out his glass.

The bartender sighed and wordlessly went to comply to his wishes. But no sooner did the bottle tip into England's glass, a tiny voice piped up.

" Papa?"

A young boy with messy hair stood at the bottom of the stairs, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.

" What are you doing up so late? I thought you were already in bed." The bartender quickly hurried to the child, kneeling down. " What's wrong?"

He hiccoughed, tears dripping down his face. " I couldn't sleep," he tearfully said. " It was all dark in my room and there were monsters talking in my closet."

With a warm smile, the bartender patted the boy on the head, reassuring him. " There's nothing to be afraid of, Matthew," he said gently.

Matthew.

The name rang in England's head, echoing and drumming. He knew that name, he realized, dumbfounded.

The child said nothing, staring at the floor and he was at a loss as to how to deal with him.

" What's your name, lad?" he kindly asked.

He raised his head upon hearing his voice, blinking in confusion. His eyes flickered of distrust, fear and uneasiness.

That's when it hit him. The boy has never heard English before. That bastard France had only spoken to him in his native tongue French and that was all the boy has ever known.

" Err ... je m'appelle England," he awkwardly said, fumbling over the words, rough and unrefined. " Com-comment vous-appellez - um - vous?"

But the child lit up and a small smile played about his lips.

" Je m'appelle Matthieu," he said.

The glass slid from his limp fingers, clattering onto the counter, splashing its contents everywhere. The bartender and the boy looked at him in surprise but he didn't pay attention to them.

Neither of them said a word. At that point, nothing was needed to be said. They both knew that America had broke away from England and declared war on him.

He sat lifelessly in his chair, staring off in the distance, eyes oddly cold and blank. Canada hovered nearby, torn between wanting to approach him and wanting to leave him be.

The fire noisily cackled and hissed as England finally spoke. " Are you going to leave me too?" he dully asked.

Canada's head shot up in alarm. " Why I would do that?"

" America is your brother after all." His voice had not lost its dreamy, distant tone. " He has been with you far longer than I have. If you choose to go to him." He paused, hesitating briefly. " I would not stop you."

" Stop it."

This time, it was England's head to shoot up and gaze in stunned shock. Canada's mouth was pressed into a scolding line and his eyes flashed of disapproval. " America had declared his independence. Not me. Not Canada. Not my people. We still stay where we are and that is with you."

He tried not to show the bubble of delight spreading through him like wildfire. He tried not to run to Canada and hold him so tightly that his arms felt numb afterwards. He tried not to smile and feel light and joyous, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He failed miserably.

" You all right, kid? You've looked like just seen a ghost – hey! Where are you going? Wait!"

England was already running out the door, running through the snow with only one thing in mind.

The boy huddled in the corner of the room, tear streaks down his cheeks, raised his head in alarm as the door banged open.

Breath hitched, England stood there, clothing torn and bloodied, cheeks dirtied, with an almost desperate gleam in his eyes.

" England!" Canada immediately leaped to his feet, half-sobbing, running into England's open arms. " You came for me!"

Shoulders sagging in relief, he eased himself out of Canada's embrace and inspected him thoroughly for any injuries. If America did anything to him ... " Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?" he breathlessly asked.

Canada shook his head, bottom lip trembling before he threw himself into his arms again. " I was so scared," he whispered.

His grip on Canada tightened and England tried not to think about the rage and desperation flooding through him when he heard that America tried to take Canada from him. But he pushed those thoughts aside for now. Canada needed him.

" It's all right," he soothed. " I'm here now."

It was Matthew.

It was Canada.

It was the one who waited for him all alone in his house, waiting for him to snap out of his misery.

Waiting for him to come home.

The wind slapped smartly against his face, burning against his eyes, but he ignored it. Clumps of heavy snow threatened to slow him down, but he couldn't stop now.

How could he be so stupid? How could he have forgotten Canada? Frantically, he tried to remember when was the last time he had seen the boy. Dread stung him sharply and he mentally berated himself for letting such a thing happen.

He half-stumbled, half-crashed into Canada's house (how long has it been since he last laid eyes upon this place?) not caring that he looked like a wild man, covered in snow. For several minutes, he stood at the doorway, torn between warmth and cold, gasping for breath, gazing around the dark, empty hallways and surrounding rooms.

There was no one here.

A rising terror lumped in his throat and he began blindly running, rushing from one room to the next, calling, calling, calling. Frantic questions flitted through his mind, as the seconds lengthened into minutes and dread settled deeply and painfully in his chest as he only came across bare, deserted rooms.

What if Canada had left, tired of waiting for him?

What if another country came and took Canada away while he didn't know?

What if Canada decided to go to America, hating him and cursing his name?"

What if America decided to take Canada, knowing he was left defenceless?

What if -

" England?"

Spinning around so fast that he could barely breath, he found himself looking upon Canada himself, dressed in winter clothes, his cheeks still pink from the outside cold. He was holding a bag of groceries that nearly towered over his head and was currently staring in confusion at his guardian.

" You're all wet," he exclaimed in surprise, glancing at his dripping hair, soaked sleeves and the puddles of melted snow by his boots. " What happened to - ?"

He couldn't finish his question as England swept him up in a tight hug.

Canada was still here. He didn't leave. Nobody took him away. He was here.

He laughed in relief, barely hearing Canada's squeaks of protest that the bread was getting squashed, nuzzling into the baby soft hair, inhaling the familiar scent of maple syrup and home. How could he have forgotten all of this?

Then, the guilt and shame returned with a savage vengeance and it took everything England had to not break down.

" I'm sorry," he choked out. " I'm sorry for everything. I made you wait. You must have been lonely here, waiting for me. Waiting all this time. Even when I didn't come back. Please forgive me."

The soft ticking of a nearby clock and Canada's own silence made him feel more terrified than anything else. Finally, he released his grip and withdrew to look at Canada properly.

To his amazement, there were tears steaming down Canada's face and he was smiling, smiling wider and happier than he had ever seen him smile before.

" I knew you would come back," he said, half-crying, half-laughing. " I just knew you would."

Laughing himself, England grabbed him and lifted him high into the air. The mingles of squeals and giggles and happiness were enough to drive any hate and dark whispers from his mind.

He was home.