So I ditched school for a couple of days and worked on props, but somewhere in between, I managed to find the time and inspiration to come up with this. I wanted to experiment again on another kind of writing style, with subdued flangst/more subtly sad endings...I hope that I was able to accomplish that and make sense and give meaning to this plot. My best bud whaddapack was busy with school, but my wonderful violist friend helped beta this for me instead. Accident stories always crush my feels, so I wanted to try making my own. This works around the issue of paraplegia, and I researched quite a bit before working on it (6 freaking tabs of medical info sites ugh science hahaha jk), so I hope I didn't make any make any mistakes in my judgment and interpretation of whiplash. My narration style was loosely based/inspired from the concept of the 4 seasons, with subtle references to various FACE-related ships - there's implied!USUK, past!FrUK, and established!FraNada (finally, my first fic for this ship yay!).

Please leave a review. I love reviews. :)

Disclaimer:I don't own Hetalia.

The first time he wakes up, he is greeted by the darkness.

And of distant voices calling out his name.

"-ttie…Matt…Matt…Mattie!"

"Matthew," the voice of an Englishman whispers. "Are you with us, honey?"

"W-who?" he croaks, and he realizes at once that his throat is parched dry.

"Maybe if you turned the lights on, Artie," an American interrupts, "he wouldn't act so scared."

He feels the chill of the air-conditioned room, the rough cotton wool of the sheets, the overwhelming scent of antiseptics. He is in the hospital, expecting a vision full of dreary white, but as he opens his eyes, he is met instead with the vastness of black.

"Oh hush, Alfred," he hears the Englishman huff. "You know he might be experiencing photophobia due to the impact of the trauma! I don't want to risk these things."

The boy gropes around his surroundings, unaccustomed to the dark. A hand rests on his own, stopping his movements. He feels the shudder of another's breath, the tickling warmth of a whisper against his skin, the sound of a voice pressed closer towards him.

"T'inquiète pas, je suis ici, Matthieu."

"M-Ma…tthi…eu?" he says slowly. Carefully. Cautiously. Like a child learning his first words; like the first flower bud blooming at the beginning of spring. Awkward yet mellifluous, the sound of his own name remains, still foreign on the tip of his tongue.

"Oui, oui. Vous êtes Matthieu. Don't you remember?"the voice prods on, cooing to him, a gentle lilt caressing his ears. "C'est moi, Francis."

He wants to tell him that he does – remember, that is –but the warmth of the sheets and the softness of this voice just make the world seem so much safer now; the darkness no different as his eyes flutter shut, the power of sleep wrapping itself tightly around him, cradling him in a soft embrace that robs him of the strength of uttering a single word more.

When Matthew falls asleep again, Francis takes it as his cue to leave the room.

-x-

A quiet breeze brushes past him amidst the sweltering summer evening, his quiet steps racing upwards to the roof deck of the hospital building. His gaze falls far away to face the evening sky, relishing in the tranquil ephemerality of the star-lit night.

"You'll catch a cold staying out here at this time of day," a voice calls out to him from behind, interrupting him from his train of thought.

"Non," Francis scoffs, brushing off the Briton's warning with a flippant wave of his hand. "It is summer, Arthur."

"Suit yourself, git," the Englishman acquiesces, leaning on the railings next to him. "But don't come crying to me when you actually do bloody keel over with the blasted flu or some other viral infection of that sort."

"But I think you'd be more likely to get sick than I am, no?" the Frenchman teases."You're much more delicate than I am, after all, mon lapin."

"Sod off," Arthur jeers. "We aren't together anymore, Francis, so I do appreciate that you would stop calling me that."

"Ah, yes, désolé. You have Alfred for that now, oui?" he placates, and tries to laugh. Strange, though, how it seems too difficult, so he offers a smile instead. "How are you two now, anyway?"

"We're fine. A couple of arguments here and there, but we're holding on steadily."

"Ah, bien. That is good to know."

"Mathew must be happy to be with you now, too; I'm certain."

The silence washes over them as the Frenchman pops a cigarette into his mouth, ashes falling as he watches the smoke trail upwards in the wind. Green eyes watch him carefully, opting to scold him for his actions, but in the end, deciding against it.

"You shouldn't blame yourself, you know," Arthur says instead, his words shattering the fragile calm of the evening.

"But this is all my fault," Francis sighs. He clutches onto the steel cylinder of the railings, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to turn white. It hurts after a while. He loosens his grip, fingers laying slack on the edge. "Sometimes I wonder why I still even bother to hold on."

"I'm sure Matthew doesn't think that way," the gentleman reasons. "And if you keep on saying that so many times, maybe someday, you'll start letting yourself believe in those things, too."

He coughs into his fist, turning on his heel and taking to leave, the chill of the summer evening slowly seeping into his bones.

"Things will get better, you know, Francis. " Arthur says as he pauses in his step. "And regardless, " he adds. "I'm sure that Matthew will forgive you."

The Frenchman cocks an eyebrow in askance, watches as Arthur's figure disappears slowly back into the hall.

He never would have thought that the sight of his retreating back and the distance that grew between them would be more than enough to bring a prickling in his eyes and make him want to cry.

But he doesn't, though. He stays silent instead, pursing his lips shut and waving his friend away with a quiet murmur of 'bonne nuit.'

Francis is left with the half-lit cigarette as his only companion for the remainder of that evening.

He exhales.

The ashes taste bitter on the tip of his tongue.

-x-x-

"It's a case of whiplash," the doctor explains a day after admission, underneath the flickering fluorescent bulb of the dimly lit room. "Mr. Williams, I'm afraid, has a spinal injury affecting the high-cervical nerves of his vertebral column."

"Pardon me, " Arthur raises a hand to interrupt, "but what does this imply?"

The doctor takes hold of the results from the x-ray, index finger pointing to the area on the upper half of the image of the Canadian's spine.

"The damage can be seen on the C4 and C5 disks of his vertebrae. As this is the most severe of the spinal cord injury levels, the patient may have trouble breathing at first, impairing or reducing his ability to speak as well. He would have paralysis in his arms, hands, trunk, or legs," the doctor recites, as though directly from a medical textbook. "In Mr. Williams' case, luckily, it is only his lower limbs that have been affected, so he would suffer from what we call paraplegia. As such, he would require complete assistance with activities of daily living, such as eating, dressing, bathing, and getting in or out of bed. As of now, he may also have photophobia, but his vision problems may cease after some time – give or take, two weeks."

"But the paralysis?" Francis asks, horrified; eyes widening from utmost terror and fear. "Will that–?"

"My apologies," the doctor replies with a firm shake of his head, a morose gesture that is brimming with regret. "I am afraid that it is irreparable."

Francis stutters and gasps, unable to think straight; the heavy weight of guilt far greater than what he alone could ever bear.

"But he used to play hockey, he was a varsity member in their school, and the best one in the team and–"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bonnefoy. We could give him therapy sessions to alleviate his condition, but I cannot assure you that it will deem Mr. Williams capable of playing once again."

Across the room, the boy in question remains silent, turning his languid gaze past the venetian blinds and outside the glass window. His eyes are distant and unfocused, watching as a stray leaf plucks itself off of the branch, flitting in a downward spiral as it plummets slowly towards the ground.

Autumn is coming, and it won't be long until the winter falls upon them, too.

But for now, all he will have is the view of decaying branches and falling tree leaves.

The heated sting of saltwater on his cheeks.

-x-

"I'm sorry, Matthieu. I'm so so sorry."

Matthew doesn't know what to say to that.

-x-x-

"Matthieu," Francis says as he tugs the blinds of the dreary ward open, revealing a crisp morning at the brink of dawn, the bright promise of a world wrapped in an ethereal shroud of white from the snow. It is winter, once the boy's most favorite season, but now, only an empty shell of what he had used to love in the past. "Nous devons parler. It's about the accident."

He remembers it clearly – the rain pelting down on that evening, the new moon rising above the sky, the sound of the Canadian's 'hello? Yes, hello, I'm on my way…wait–' before the screeching tires echoed through the receiver and he could hear the faint noise of 'oh god,' and static, and 'crisse-' and ragged breathing and 'please-' and a broken voice whispering "Francis I-"

'I love you,' he was supposed to say, but the oxygen is cut off from his choking lungs as the darkness swims in, consuming him, and taking over his vision. He begs for more time, for more breaths, for more patience, for more air. But the words linger still in his slivered, ruptured heart. Inaudible. Unfinished. Incomplete. Unspoken.

The roads must have been slippery that night. Francis should have known that the boy would be driving. He should have known better than to have called.

It was his fault.

This would never have happened if he didn't call.

"I'm sorry, Matthieu," he says as he rests his hands on the younger's bony shoulders, eyes falling onto his petite frame. His pallid skin, his ashen face, his twinkling eyes – everything all intact, the features of the boy still so beautiful, but seemingly so much more fragile.

"Francis…?" the boy asks, his amethyst eyes gazing back at his caretaker, half-curious and half-expectant. "Qu'est-ce qui–" he stops. A pause. Inhale. Yet another small puff of breath, he takes it all in and tries again. "Qu'est-ce… qui ne…va pas?"

And Francis is lost in this vast bundle of words, in this tangled mountain of emotions, in this encumbrance he alone cannot solve. The rain falls down on his cheeks, drops of liquid spilling endlessly from the corners of his eyes. He is conflicted; overpowered with the feeling of endless want - the want to shout, to cry, to scream. Why? Why did this have to happen?

"I know I'm asking for too much but I just can't help but feel so guilty." He seats himself onto the edge of the patient's bed, the mattress dipping from the weight forced down upon it by his body. "You don't deserve this, Matthieu. You should've still been able to walk, to play hockey, to be free –" Francis says before he pauses, as reality comes crashing down on him, the burden of sin weighing down more heavily on the Frenchman's vulnerable form. "Would it be alright, I wonder, to ask for you to forgive me?"

And Matthew wants to say yes, yes of course I forgive you, how could I not? I love you, Francis, I love you too much not to forgive you.

But his emotions catch in his throat and his breath falls short in his lungs, and words tumble out of his lips, unable to let the meaning get across, all awkward and clumsy and sounding so so wrong.

"Yes…of course…forgive…how could I… love you…too much…"

But even then, Francis understands.

And in that quickest flit of a moment, there is the briefest touch of their lips. He tastes like pancakes, Francis thinks, coated with the sweet syrup of maple and honey. Then his hand slips into Matthew's own as arms wrap themselves around him, two souls colliding and two hearts beating together as one.

"Merci," he says instead, "and I love you."

-x-x-

When Matthew rides a wheelchair, Francis is always the one to push him from behind.

…Well, almost always.

Alfred likes to pitch in and show off his heroic strength every once in a while, too.

-x-

"It's a nice day today, isn't it, Matthieu?" Francis comments one morning, underneath the vibrant flourish of greenery and sugar maple trees, amidst the soft hum of hospital generators and the gentle whistle of warm continental winds.

"Ah," the bespectacled blonde pauses to breathe; spindly fingers reaching up to adjust his glasses. "So it is."

"I'm terribly sorry!" the Frenchman falls into a terrified frenzy. " My poor petit ange, is it too bright for you now? Does the light still hurt?"

"No," he shakes his head, "I'm fine."

Matthew turns to look at the sky and Francis soon follows suit, noting how the months have come and gone as the seasons change ever so slowly – watching as the snow melts away into tiny flakes, dispersing and dissolving and then falling on their heads; strands of hair forming damp tendrils that framed their faces.

'I'm sorry,' Francis wants to say again, after a moment's breath, before he changes his mind and mutters a multitude of soft 'thank you's instead.

Thank you for forgiving me.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

And he'll say it again and again for as long as he needs to, for as long as he can be forgiven, for as long as he can forgive himself, for as long as he can be assured that it will indeed be all right.

And when Matthew smiles, Francis knows that it is.

Then the feeling grows and thrives and sprouts from within his chest, a viable plethora of emotions ready to surge, a wave of gratitude and relief washing all over him.

"Such fine weather, it seems to be absolutely perfect for a walk today," Francis invites, with a playful, flirty wink. He reaches a hand out to the other, offering to guide and push the younger's wheelchair. "Would you care to join me?"

For a while, there is only the soft creak of the ajar door, the silent crinkle of steeled wheels, the quick thrumming of a heartbeat that rang too loudly in Francis' ears but went unheard by Matthew's own, and the young boy's quiet smile.

"Oui." A clock ticks two seconds later; a pale hand reaching out to cradle another, sentiments exchanged from the bristle of contact, the gentle brush of skin against skin. "I'd like that."

Two hands clasped together.

The sensitivity of a single touch.

Apologies scattered in the wind.

'Thank you.'

'I love you.'

The resonance of their spring.

Translations:

Oui – yes

Non – no

T'inquiète pas, je suis ici – Don't worry, I'm here

Vous êtes Matthieu. – You are Matthew.

C'est moi, - It's me

Mon lapin – my rabbit

Désolé – sorry

Bien – good

Bonne nuit – good night

Nous devons parler. – We need to talk

Crisse - a cuss word, to be specific: a Quebecois swear word, said to have been derived from the name 'Christ'

Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas –What's wrong? / What is the matter?

Merci – thank you