Title: Burning
Author: Miss. Sly
Style: Oneshot
Type: Hetalia
Category: Angst / Drama / Family
Main Character(s): Canada, America
Word Count: 1,309
The heat was sweltering, all encompassing. The air was humid and hung heavily, clinging to his skin. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, cheek, and neck to disappear into the stained collar of his shirt.
He dropped his aching head into the palm of his hand and sighed. He was tired, bruised and unhappy. This war was exhausting, physically and emotionally. He knew he was too young to properly fight a war and fighting against his twin brother hurt in ways he really didn't want to think about.
The prickling feeling of unwelcome feet trampling his soil seemed to travel up his spine and he shivered. Matthew was still refusing to back down.
He staggered to his feet, stumbling lightly due to the heat and his lingering wounds, and began ambling home. If he let his eyes slip closed, he could picture it perfectly in his mind's eye, his home, his beautiful White House.
He kept walking, feet and leg muscles burning, never losing pace. The sky was slowly darkening, but the heat was steady and intense, never wavering. One hand rose to wipe the sweat from his brow. A soldier marching beside him gave him a concerned look and handed him a flask of water. He took a mighty sip and passed it back with a grateful sigh.
"Thank you, private."
"Just serving my country sir," He replied with an amused grin on his lips. America tossed his head back and laughed a little. He liked this kid.
As they got closer, America felt it get increasingly warmer. Each step was difficult, sweat was pouring from his every pore. His breath was coming in sharp pants and the soldier at his side was looking positively frightened.
"America? Jones? Alfred? Sir? Are you alright?"
Alfred gasped in the oppressive heat, not bothering to reply. Instead, he ground out, "Don't you feel that?"
"Feel what, sir?"
Worry gnawed at his gut and he refused to speak again.
Every step was murder. The increasing heat was becoming something very close to unbearable. He could feel his blood begin to boil and felt the flesh above his heart begin to sizzle and suddenly it all made terrible sense.
He took off at a run, tired feet forcing him to stumble at regular intervals until he was there and it was right in front of his face and oh god, this couldn't be happening.
The skin above his heart blistered and burned and he stared with open disbelief and utter pain at the roaring flames before him. From the corner of his eye he could see his boss running with his family, fleeing in absolute terror. He fell to his knees and immediately wanted to get back up and move, to try to fight the blaze or flee with his boss in horror. His head hurt and he couldn't feel his legs and shock was seeping in.
It was burning. Washington, the White House, his home, was burning.
Someone familiar was standing close by and he could hear them laughing. Drunkenly, he staggered to his feet in their direction. As he neared, he realized it was Canada, Matthew, his timid twin brother. He pitifully stumbled into the other nation, nearly falling into the others chest to keep from colliding with the ground.
Matthews arms wrapped around him in a strangle hold and he could feel his brothers chest and shoulders bouncing with his laughter and then he was held out at arm's length. Wet droplets hit his burning arms and he wondered if it was raining before he realized he was crying. He stared at his brother and couldn't comprehend why the hell he was just standing there laughing while his home was burning and everything was so hot.
An overwhelming sense of wrong crashed over his senses and he shook his laughing twin, screaming, "What are you doing here? Why are you just standing there? My home is burning! Do something! Help me! "
His voice trailed off to a whisper and he collapsed against the other nations chest sobbing. "Help me, goddamnit, help me!"
The arms around him thrust him back and away from Matthew for the second time in as many minutes and he stared at the other man's face in utter confusion.
And then it hit him. "Matthew! Wh-what did you do? What did you do Matthew? God damnit Mattie, what did you do?!"
A serene, china-doll smile was painted across his brothers lips as he shook his head and when he spoke it held a childlike innocence that felt wrong and out of place in a setting such as this. "Who do you think started the fire?"
Alfred reeled back as though Matthews touch was poison and without the support, he fell violently to his knees. Matthew just laughed and smiled that smile as Alfred clutched desperately at his hands.
"Why... why would you do that? Mattie... why? We're brothers! Twins! Family!"
His smile widened into something terrifying that must have been stolen straight from Ivan's lips. "We stopped being family the second you invaded my land."
Canada proceeded to kneel in front of America and laid a gentle hand on the other nations face. His skin was so cool; Alfred couldn't help but lean into the touch. He felt distinctly stomach sick when he smelt the soot and ash and firestarter.
One hand slipped down and unbuttoned Alfred's uniform, exposing the bubbling flesh before unbuttoning his own. He slid the open uniform to the side to reveal the pink, inflamed scar tissue over his own heart. Alfred's eyes locked onto the mass of marred flesh and he trembled.
Both hands were back on his face and he was forced to look back up into his brothers terrifying eyes, tinged with insanity. He shuddered violently and wanted nothing more than to rip his face from the others hands and run as far away as his useless legs would take him.
One of Matthews' hands held his face in a vice-like grip and the other began working its way through his hair, leaving black trails of soot in its wake and Alfred sobbed. Matthew shushed him softly, petting his hair, hands working in a parody of a caress. He leaned forward and for one sick moment Alfred thought Matthew was going to kiss him but then his lips were by his ear and he heard the other nation croon, "You burned down York. You did this to me, you burned my home, and then you moved on through the entire city, burning and pillaging and destroying everything you came across. And you relished every second of it."
Alfred retched dryly, knowledge and understanding flooding him, churning in his stomach. Matthew continued to pet his hair and stroke his face and he laughed again when he saw his brothers' horrified look.
"I endured this alone. My troops had no idea what to do. I burned and I writhed and I screamed and I was in agony. I had no soothing caresses; my flesh was too hot for my people to touch. You burned my home; you burned me."
Alfred wanted desperately to say something and for this all to go away. He wanted to wake up because this couldn't be happening and Matthew couldn't have done this to him and he never could have done that to Matthew. Oh god, he wanted to wake up.
"So naturally," Matthew continued, sardonic smile on his face, "I had to return the favour."
With that, he removed his hands from his brothers' face and stood. He watched dispassionately as he swayed on his knees before falling on his side on the ground, sweat and tears turning the dirt to mud around him.
Alfred watched through blurred eyes as his twin brother walked away, silhouetted against the roaring flames, and he cried.
Completed: July 8, 2009
A/N: I had been planning and working on this for quite some time now, to be honest. Before the influx of 1812 stories. This has been written and re-written a thousand times, and this is the closest to satisfied I have been so far. I'm still not one hundred percent happy, but I don't particularly feel like playing with this any longer.
I really was playing with this, to be honest. And I have a newfound affinity for run on sentences. Which is bad.
And am I really the only one who thinks Matthew would have gone a little Ivan on Alfred after York was royally beat down? I mean, in WWI, Canadians were the shock troops. In 1812, they won a few battles through intimidation. My head-cannon says he can get very scary.
Feedback is very welcome, constructive criticism is love.
Sly.