((AN: I don't really have a good explanation for this fic. Admittedly, a good chunk of this is just nostalgia, my love letter to the 90s, if you will. Partially this is just to indulge in my alternate character interpretations (no, really. If you're not into the concept of religion-hopping, paranoid, awkward but nice Alfred, or cynical, crass, but occasionally sentimental Matthew, you should probably hit the back arrow now). And some of this might be a result of the current conspiracy theories and 2012 nonsense. Who knows, really?
Anyway. General warnings for odd headcanons and such. Some offensive language and terminology. I'll admit, there will very likely be smut later on. I'm a big fan of the sexy times, I'm not ashamed to admit it. Awkward pop culture references, maybe a few blaring anachronisms (I'm really trying to avoid that, but I'm sure it'll happen). Probably a shitload of cultural fuck ups (which is probably a crime punishable by…hell, I don't know, something graphic, given this fandom is sort of all about multiple cultures and stuff, and I should be more sensitive if I'm willing to dive in). Also gratuitously long author's notes, apparently. Wow. This is awful. Oh. And typos. I tried to proofread through this, but, I'll be honest, this is for fun. I included a bunch of things that make me smile, and will probably just serve to make everyone else roll their eyes.

Oh yeah! This is USCan. Or whatever name is used for the pairing of America/Canada. Probably should add that too.
Also, while the chapter titles are based on songs, they're not all from 1999. Just the decade in general. I should probably say that now.
I should also add the obligatory "I don't own shit" but I don't think anyone's going to look at this and think "Hmm, yup, this was Himaruya. This is truly his magnum opus, right here."
If you were thinking that, you better take a seat, because this will floor you: I'm not him. I know, I know. I'm sorry. Do forgive me, please? I don't own Hetalia. And I sincerely hope that you can forgive me for this bit of prose I'm about to unleash on the internet.))

July 4, 1999.

That was the day Alfred F. Jones disappeared.

At least, that was the date according to the rest of the world. Every nation huddled on the front lawn of his Washington D.C. home, huddling in fog on that sizzling 98.1 degrees Fahrenheit day(damn Alfred and his insistence on the Imperial System).

Wrapping paper wilting, bows undone, anxious feet kicking the shaggy, overgrown lawn.

"Oh, were you looking for Alfie dear?" The gravely tones of the widow Anderson, Alfred's perpetually moo-moo clad neighbor, cooed through the bleak dampness of the polluted outer city breeze. She hacked on her esophagus for a few phlegmulent moments, the blue veins in her gnarled hands bulging as she gripped the handles of her walker. The tennis ball-covered feet of the metal frame clutched the planks of the wooden ramp Alfie dear had built for her last summer after the second stroke had limited her already teetering mobility.

At any rate, it was Arthur who ultimately spoke for the crowd of discomforted nations (as most immortals were inclined, the sight of the elderly was a disconcerting and discombobulating attraction, facing that which science dictated they should have become centuries ago instead of their continued façade of youth). "Yes. We're here for his birthday. Do you know his whereabouts?"

The grizzled wad of varicose veins and cellulite which had once been a buxom beauty in her day fixed her spectacles, squinting her crow's feet towards the crowd of gatherers. The wind gathered the wads of the frayed grey fuzz of what had surely once been human hair, blowing it every which way but flat. "Oh dear," She croaked, shaming whatever frogs might have lingered in the industrial pits of the District of Columbia. An apologetic crease chewed at her brow. "Alfie dear has gone to join a seminary. He's off to become a priest, you know," She sighed. "Normally, now, I don't care for Catholics, but I know he'll do a real good job, keeping his hands off those altar boy—"

Clearly, this woman was suffering from the late stages of Alzheimer's. And Arthur Kirkland had not lived this many centuries, ruled the seven seas, watched the sun fail to set on his empire, and survived the soul crushing anguish of Geri Halliwell leaving the Spice Girls just to be dicked around by a senile she-beast who couldn't even be arsed to put in her dentures.

"I do apologize, but Alfred is certainly not a Catholic. In fact, just last month he was dabbling in Buddhism." This statement earned audible snorts of derision from several Asian nations. Arthur squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, the formidable opponents that were his eyebrows meeting midway between his forehead. "He coerced me into helping him purchase a Buddha which would match his drapes." Damn Americans and their spiritual cheapness. "And were he to join the priesthood, I assure you I'd have been informed long before you."

Mrs. Anderson, the great woman-walrus that she was, huffed and puffed and straightened the bow of her back until she could almost be mistaken for a natural human form. "He's told me about you. You must be his unsupportive older brother. Shame on you. Shame on all of you!"

"What did I do?" Ivan chimed from the midst of the crowd, the innocent booming timbre of his voice sending several Baltic nations into fits of nervous epileptic shakes and pants-pissing. This was all metaphorically speaking, of course. Aside from Latvia. Everything is always literal for those Latvians.

Kneecaps screeched and cracked under the mighty tremulous weight of Mrs. Anderson's great mass as she took another lumbering step down her ramp. An arthritic stump of an index finger wagged judgmentally in Arthur's direction. "Now you listen here, Limey. I understand being sore and what not, about our country saving yours during World War II, but to hold a grudge over your brother's citizenship, and over his attempts to better himself with God—"

Arthur rolled his eyes at Francis. "Alfred's citizens are insufferable. Fine. If the wanker doesn't wish to celebrate with us, I don't care. I can still refund his gift."

"But mon ami, you didn't buy him a gift."

"Shut up!"

As the nations streamed out to catch their respective flights, it might have done them well to note the absence of yet another personified North American landmass.

Canada alone knew of Alfred's missing status. Perhaps it was due to proximity, perhaps because of NAFTA, or maybe just from the joy of having someone share just enough in common to actually bother paying him any mind, but Alfred and Matthew had become, if not inseparable, then pretty goddamn close.

Matthew's birthday fell on the first. Alfred's, the fourth. And they always, always celebrated privately, together, on midnight of the second. But this year, it had been Matthew, alone, sitting in the bed of his pickup with a two four of Molson's, a mixtape of Tupac, Pink Floyd, and Celine Dion, and a clinically depressed box of unlit fireworks.

And no Alfred. Not so much as an embarrassed phone call the next day.

And not so much as an opportunity for fury or passive aggressive sarcasm for Matthew. Alfred stole that too, along with any hopes at exploding away his loneliness in a show of overpriced pyrotechnics. Instead, he filled Matt with nervousness and a sour taste of dread and horror and regurgitated alcohol.

Maybe he forgot. After all, Alfred could be forgetful about things that didn't matter.

But he always, always treated Matthew as though he did. Like he wasn't disposable or boring or uncool or expendable.

Even if all of those things were the gospel truth.

(Speaking of gospel, Alfred's southern Baptist phase had been equal parts hilarious and humiliating to witness. Watching him try to sing in the all black gospel choir? Painful in the very best of ways. But this wasn't the time to reminisce.)

So Alfred couldn't have just forgotten.

Had he not come out of spite?

That didn't sit well with Matthew, either. Alfred could be cruel, sure. But it was the sort of cruelty a child was capable of—no, not even a child, but a toddler. Unthinking of consequence, and confused regarding any signs of hurt in the effected party. And he could lash out immediately, snap at an attacker, sure. But Alfred wasn't the sort to hold prolonged grudges, not really, not without constant provocation. His people might have been capable of blind hatred, his government easily clinging to hateful passions long past, but not the nation himself.

And even if this had been some sort of hurtful prank, Alfred would have cracked and shown up within an hour. How could he avoid the allure of loud explosions and excessive alcohol? Matt wasn't vain enough to assume his company alone would encourage Alfred's arrival, but he'd actually made a good mix tape this year! They could both pretend not to love the Titanic theme as much as they did until they were so pissed they couldn't even blabber the second verse. It would have been good memories they'd have half-recalled during the vibrating agonies of their twin hangovers! Alfred wouldn't have willfully missed this!

So no, this wasn't forgetfulness or cruelty. Something was wrong. Something had happened to Alfred. He wasn't answering his phone. He wasn't answering his door. Clinton hadn't heard from him in weeks (weeks! How had Matthew not realized he was gone until now? How had his boss not realized? Monicagate be damned! The goddamn United States was missing, and nobody thought to sound some sort of global alert?).

Somebody had abducted Alfred. Or Alfred was hiding out for some reason himself. Either way, it couldn't be good.

Matthew would need to bring in the other nations. Get them to pay enough attention to him to rally up support. One of them may at least be able to sense his presence within their borders, if he wasn't somewhere in the US. Or maybe someone would know someone who might have wished Alfred harm. Evidence needed to be collected. Helicopters needed to monitor the cities. Flyers needed to be printed. Milk cartons needed to display his boyish good looks. Have you seen this hero? Somebody, somewhere, had to know where Alfred was.

Matthew fell asleep on July 3rd with his fingernails chewed to bloody nubs. His polar bear had withheld any cries of "who?" at the sight of the panic-stricken black circles under the hungover eyes of his master, instead nuzzling close and trying to will good dreams which failed to blossom.

And Matthew awoke on July 4th to the scent of semi-overcooked (see also burnt beyond identification) pancakes and a pot full of coffee which would need to be watered down in order to be ingested. An unlit cigarette sat poised and prepared in an ashtray, beckoning Matthew near (the nicotine patch on his upper arm whispered no, but his stress sang yes, yes, yes!). A clumsily wrapped polar bear beanie baby sat on top of an envelope with his name scratched in graphite onto the front.

Alfred's handwriting.

Matthew let the nicotine curdle in his bloodstream, a noxious cloud of smoke hovering like the most cancerous of halos over his head as he wrestled open the greeting card. It was dopey, cheap, the googly eyes of the knock-off cartoon character following him with every twitch and movement.

Shalom, Mattie!

Please don't worry. I'm sorry I missed your birthday, but I didn't forget, see? I just haven't been able to get to Canada until now, and I couldn't trust the postal system.

I know you're probably worried, but I'm alright. Please don't look for me. Stay safe.

Love,

Alfred

Matthew watched the embers of his cigarette glow as he inhaled, overlooking the use of love (Alfred tossed it about so easily it had lost its weight). His first reaction was, admittedly, a small snicker at the fact that apparently now Alfred was convinced he was Jewish.

Was he aware of kosher law? Matthew doubted even God Him (or Her) self could separate Alfred from a deluxe double-decker bacon cheeseburger.

But then, once the stereotyping faded, he actually processed the card. Alfred was gone, yes, but on his own accord. Couldn't he have provided more information? There was a completely unused cardflap he could have utilized for more detail!

But he was okay, at least. Okay enough to break into his home and attempt to make up for missing his birthday, at least. Even if the breakfast he'd tried to make was largely inedible (though Matt would later open the fridge to find a box of Timbits neatly poised on the top shelf with a "sorry I burned your flapjacks" post-it attached and very nearly squealed).

So what was Matthew supposed to do now? Just because Alfred had broken into his home to leave him a belated birthday present didn't mean he was really any nearer to knowing where he was.

The dull warmth within his chest, which had earlier been mistaken for the rush of nicotine, thumped and sparked and indicated that he was at least partially incorrect. He did know where Alfred was. Technically, at least. He was still within the borders of Canada. Granted, he could have logically figured that much out without his national precognition and sense of foreign bodies within his borders. Alfred couldn't have returned to his own nation so quickly after coming all the way up north.

But maybe, just maybe, he planned on hiding out in Canada for awhile. It would make sense, after all. Nobody would look for him here. And the land was just familiar enough to him that he probably wouldn't have any fear of the terrain.

It was so typical of Alfred, to remain unworried regarding moose and bears and wolverines. It was irresponsible, frankly, for Matthew to leave him unsupervised.

But he'd asked so nicely to be left alone.

Matthew fingered the outline of his nicotine patch for a few languid moments before caving and seeking out his hidden cigarette pack. As he lit the white stick, poised so comfortingly between his lips, his weighed his options.

"Goddammit, Alfred," He scowled, tossing the cigarette across the room. "I'm trying to quit! And you're going to get yourself killed. And I'm going to be stuck explaining it all to your slimy boss, and…ugh! You can be such a…such a…"

"Who?"

"There's no time for that now, Kumadoobiedoo." Matthew slipped his arms around the polar bear, hefting him securely into his arms for support. And to avoid lighting yet another cigarette, as he shuffled over to retrieve the one he'd thrown moments earlier in order to prevent any fire hazards. "Yet again, I'm off to rescue Alfred from mortal danger."

"Doesn't 'yet again' imply you having rescued him on multiple occasions, whoever you are?"

Okay, that bear's sass was really ruining his underappreciated, overworked sidekick shtick. But Matthew would not lower himself to the standards of his ursine companion. And that certainly wasn't just because he knew he'd ruin any witticism by chasing it down with a mumbled apology to smooth over their relationship.

"I bet the most heroic thing you've ever done was conceptualize that compost heap. Which didn't you give up on anyway?"

"What? No! I'm still, um…look, compost's not really my thing anyway, and you need to go pack. We need to find Alfred. It is his birthday, after all." He smiled faintly, picking up the stuffed toy he'd been given. Despite himself, he hugged it to his chest. These things were collectables, after all! He was allowed to delight in it, just a little. And they'd be worth a fortune in a few years. How did Alfred know he was a collector?

"Hey, stranger? If we alerted some of the more noticeable nations, don't you think we'd find him faster?"

After setting down the toy, Matthew drew his thumb lovingly over the outer shell of his lighter. Oh, how he'd love to blow a few victory smoke rings for his prompt decision making abilities today. Those thoughts evaporated as he shook his head, curl bobbing frantically through the air. "No, no, there's no reason to get anyone else involved."

After all, Alfred had asked so nicely for Matthew not to look for him. And even if he broke that rule, it would seem too cruel to alert everyone else. He was a Canadian, after all! And he was a sucker for politely worded requests.