Butterflies

"Alfred?" the Canadian peeked his head through the door. Where was his brother? Usually the obnoxious American was playing some sort of video game in his living room, yelling curses and jamming down the buttons on the controller. "America?"

Still no answer. Matthew sighed, blowing the stubborn curl away from his face only for it drop right back into his vision. A second sigh escaped his lips as he traveled further into the house, opting to check Alfred's room. He slowly pushed open the door, "Al, are you in here?"

And there he was. But not how the Canadian would usually find him. "Alfred! What are you—?" He ran over to his brother, who was sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed, fresh blood falling like tear drop from his wrist. Matthew pulled the knife from the other's hand, setting on the opposite side of himself, out of reach for Alfred. "Alfred!"

"What?"

"W-why are you doing that? What were you thinking?"

The American teenager shrugged. "It's not like there'll be scars. It'll fade away soon enough."

"But—!"

"Mattie. I'm fine, see? The blood stopped already, and it's closing up." They both looked down at his wrist. The blood has stopped falling, some remaining blood sliding quickly down his arm, and the cut was stitching itself together, soon turning to an irritated red line, then nothing.

"You shouldn't do that! Even if—"

"You have before. It's not like you can say much."

"Alfred! Just don't—!"

The Canadian shivered slightly, shaking his head. Now he was back in the conference room with the rest of the countries. Or, most of them. His brother was missing.

"That bloody git! Why can't we just start without him?"

"We can't—" Germany began, but was cut off by the doors flinging open.

America stood there, in his suit, looking almost formal, save for the bomber jacket he'd been wearing for such a long time. "Sorry I'm late!" he announced loudly, laughing like usual, "But you can start now! The Hero is here!"

Most of the countries groaned in response to him. England frowned, "America, what's written all over your hand? You know it's bad to write on yourself, yes?"

America rolled his eyes. "Iggy, we're countries. I'll be fine. And they're butterflies."

"What the bloody—?"

"It's called the Butterfly Project."

"And how does that work…?"

He took his seat, which was between Russia and Canada and across from England, making it easy to keep eye contact with him. "You basically draw a butterfly when you want to cut. And if you do cut, you kill all of the butterflies you've drawn, same if you wash them off."

America, cutting…?

Hearing that from the annoying and happy go lucky American was a bit of a shock. Yet again, even America had a serious side, but it usually only showed when he was at war.

"It's been pretty helpful, actually…"

"That's, ah, good for you, then…" England didn't know how to respond. If the rest of the world hadn't been there, he might have been clinging to the larger country.

The meeting started then. Under the table Canada grabbed America's hand and squeezed it. America squeezed back, and quickly wrote a something down in his notebook, then pushed it in front of Canada.

Thanks bro.

A/N: Okay! Thanks for reading!

And also, if any of you are thinking about cutting or have been (or self harming in any way) try the Butterfly Project. I don't like to see anyone hurt themselves! Just look it up on Google!

Anyways, I don't own Hetalia, blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer, always fun, yes?

This is just a short little drabble I made, but if anyone wants more, maybe I'll write it. Maybe. I don't really have any sort of plot…

Peace. Love. Anime.

~hetalia-deathnote-kuroshitsuji~