I'm so sorry that this took so long. Here's the next part. Unfortunately, Canada has yet to wake up. I felt it was important to set up Alfred's frame of mind before we get into their relationship. I did a lot of research on PTSD and I wanted to get it right for this chapter, so that is partially to blame for the wait. Real life is the other reason. Ha ha. Also, thank you so much for the kind reviews. I love you guys so much and I'm sorry I didn't respond! There was just so much going on I had no time.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
The machines beep away, and America knows his brother isn't there. The face is the same, but there's no life behind it. It could be made of wax for all the similarities to Canada it possesses. Two years have been spent like this. Everyday America comes and watches the machines blip and stare at the statue that used to be his brother.
The gunshot wound has healed, and Canada's hair has grown longer. America makes a mental note to get it cut again. Canada never liked it long, contrary to popular belief. America would know. He looks out the window and into the world so he can have a few precious minutes where he's not stuck waiting in this white-washed hell.
France has been inconsolable since that day, and England does his best to keep them afloat. Half the time he forgets why everyone is so upset. Through the window, Alfred watches how the world keeps moving, while his brother is frozen in this room. Alfred hates it for that. He hates the universe. Whether it's made by intelligent design or random events, he hates it because it made Matthew walk in front of that store. He hates his people, and he hates his government for allowing them to carry guns. Maybe Japan is right about banning them from civilians. For a moment he hates England for taking his brother from France and introducing them in the first place. This might not have happened.
He doesn't know for sure. All he knows is that until Canada wakes up, he's going to be stuck in this room too, with no one to talk to but the stupid machines. America has half a mind to toss them out the window. They taunt him daily, telling him that Canada is alive, even though he might as well be dead.
With a heaving sigh, America returns to Canada's bedside. The plastic chair is uncomfortable, but that's okay because someone has to be here. Canada has been alone for far too long. England tells him every chance he gets that he's wasting his time, but America replies that as nations they have all the time in the world. Sometimes too much time.
But that surplus of time serves him well in this case. Carefully he leans forward and presses his lips against Canada's forehead. The antiseptic stings his nostrils and America closes his eyes against the tears burning in his eyes. He's cried enough already. The first few weeks had been the worst. He had sobbed until he started to hyperventilate and England had to come to his rescue.
America had cried into England's lap every night, while the elder country ran his fingers through his hair and whispered reassurances. France had been no better. He invited America over for tea about a year after the incident and America can't forget the hollow look in his eyes...
"I think I'm ready to stop pretending you're him," France said while he attempted to pick up his teacup. His hands constantly trembled now and most of the tea sloshed over the rim of the cup before it made it to his mouth.
"Is that how you've dealt?" America asked. He figured he should be angry that France was using their identical faces to curb his own grief, but he remembered all the times Canada was mistaken for him. It shouldn't matter anyhow. Grief was a monster that kept you in an inescapable cycle. If France needed his face to be Canada's, he had America's blessing.
"I'm sorry." France looked away. "It helped me to see him in you."
"We're twins. I get it." America stared into the black abyss that was his coffee. Before Canada's coma, he used so much sugar it turned into syrup. Now just a hint of sugar was enough to make him nauseous.
"I know." France reached across the table and touched his hand. America remembers thinking it was almost unsettling to have France touch him in a way that was strictly platonic. France didn't do platonic, or if it were up to him he wouldn't. One thing about France though was that when it came to reading people, there was no one better. "That's why I'm worried. You haven't been yourself."
"No, I guess I haven't." He spared France a quick glance and let his eyes fall back down to his untouched coffee. "Why do you even care?"
"Because despite all the trouble you've caused me, I do still care for you. Politics are politics, but I'm human too, and on that level you will always be important to me." France's lips thinned with hurt and he poured himself some more tea. It was a poor attempt to hide the tears brimming in his eyes.
"I'm sorry." America's mouth formed the words he couldn't feel. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's fine." France waved a hand. "Where are your glasses?"
"I didn't want to wear them today." Every time he looked at them, the frames would twist and the left lens would shatter. He'd be back in the street looking into his little brother's dead eyes. Then the blood came: on the gurney, on the glasses, and leaking from the gaping wound on the side of Canada's head.
"You haven't worn them in almost a year." France's brows furrowed.
"It's not like I need them." America's eyes drifted out the window to France's rose bushes.
"America, forgive me if I'm being intrusive, but I think you should talk to someone."
"There's nothing to talk about." America's fingers tightened around his coffee cup. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to break it. It was becoming hard to keep his anger in check. He and England had been at each other's throats as of late, and it wasn't because of the teasing banter America used just to rile him up in order to get a quick laugh. It was the personal stuff. The stuff neither of them had touched in over a century.
"We've all gone through it before." France's voice was gentle. "We're countries, yes. But inside we're still human."
"I don't get what you're saying."
"America," France paused for a moment. Whether it was for dramatic effect or because it was actually hard to say, America didn't know. "You're showing all the signs of having post traumatic stress."
America slammed his mug on the table so hard it was a miracle it hadn't shattered. Anger was seeping into the back of his head like poison. For France's credit he didn't flinch, but the look on his face told America all he needed to know. The slight widening of his tired blue eyes and the tightening of his mouth was alarm. America was probably going to get a call from England tonight because of it. "That's impossible," he heard himself say. "I've seen worse things." His mouth moved without his permission, but his heart agreed. He had seen worse things than a single gunshot wound to the head, but none of those left him feeling like…this.
"Have you really?" The doubt in France's voice made America choke back a scream. He gritted his teeth against the curses and returned his gaze to the coffee. He saw his own reflection on the glassy surface. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the past one. It might have been unsettling before, but now he simply lifted the coffee to his lips and took a drink. "America, you've always been obnoxious, rude, and way too optimistic for your own good, but you've never been…"
"Never been what?" America asked after France tapered off. His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
"You've never been mean." France slammed his hand on the table. "The things you've been saying to England are unacceptable, and I know he's not entirely innocent either, but you push him too. This is affecting you more than you want it to, and that's okay. You lost your brother, and it's okay to feel hurt."
"Hurt doesn't even begin to cover it." America calmly took a sip of his coffee, even though it was still scalding hot. He liked it that way. It gave him a chance to feel something other than numb.
"Then what does?" France was trying to reach him, America knew. Problem was, he couldn't even reach himself. Since that day, the tethers that held him in place all snapped and left him floating in a sort of between realm.
"Nothing." It was the truth. Since then America felt like nothing. He couldn't get sad or happy. He only got angry. The nightmares plagued him at night, while during the day images of Canada's dead eyes floated before his vision. "I don't expect you to understand."
"I do," France said. "I'm old, America. I've seen a lot. What you're dealing with is natural. Canada is your brother and a fellow nation. Seeing him like that…" France's throat shifted and tears bloomed from his eyes. "I think you need help."
"I'm fine," America said. "I'll be fine when he wakes up."
Now a year later, America is staring into Canada' relaxed face, waiting for what everyone says won't happen or at least won't happen for a long time. America can't stay away though. This is his other half, his neighbor, his brother. The only time he feels as if he's in his body is when he's here. His life stopped when Canada's did.
"I miss you so much." America grasps Canada's hand. His fingers are warm, showing America that he is indeed alive. America remembers when they were young and Canada marveled at how their fingers fit together. "I snuck in Kumajirou." He reaches into the backpack he carried in and takes out a small polar bear.
"Still sleeping," Kumajirou observes with an almost mournful tone. America lets the bear stand on his lap and lean his front paws on the edge of the bed. The bear's little black nose sniffs at Canada's hand. "Who is he?" It's such a simple question, and one that is expected from the amnesiac bear, but all the same it causes such a violent pain in America's chest that he has to gasp to hold back his tears. He can't cry anymore. It's been two years. Now is his time to be strong.
"That's Canada," he says instead. "That's my baby brother." He puts Kuma on the floor and slides his chair closer to his brother's bedside. He rests his head against the edge of the bed, his fingers still entwined with his brother's. He hasn't slept in so long, and when he does sleep it's only for a few hours at a time. He's running himself ragged and everyone is quick to point it out. Russia has taken England's place in nagging. Enlisted by France, no doubt.
America had become so hostile at the thought of his former caretaker, Russia is the only one who can handle his strength and isn't afraid of his newfound anger. America isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the irony.
He closes his eyes, falls asleep, and is assaulted by another nightmare. Canada is so far away, bleeding and unresponsive, while faceless men in uniforms hold him back. America struggles against them, because he needs to be there. Everything is hurting and he's so scared that he wants to cry and hide his face in England's chest, but not before getting to his brother.
The grip on his arms becomes too much, and pain laces through him. He strains with everything he has. A red puddle starts to form a ghastly halo around Canada's head as he lies prone on the street. America knows he needs to be there, and his muscles strain while tears slip down his face. Memories of his twin wash over him until a new hand clamps down on his shoulder. It's different from the others. It's more solid, but most of all, it's warm and heavy. The new sensation startles him and he jerks awake with a scream of,
"Let me go!" He jumps up, knocks the plastic chair away, and whirls around so his elbow connects with the person's face. There is a dull snap of a jaw breaking and America turns around in time to see a nurse sprawled out behind him, out cold. Immediately fear consumes him and he rushes over to her.
"Ma'am?" He prods her shoulder the way a child might do to a dead animal with a stick. He suddenly wants to throw up. He might have killed her. "Ma'am, please, I'm sorry! It was an accident. Please!"
Suddenly, the door to the hospital opens and England rushes through upon seeing him crouched over the nurse. He apparently remembers Canada today and had come to visit judging by the fresh flowers now now on the floor. It all happens in a blur. America scrambles away when England starts yelling words he finds he can't understand. Kumajirou is in his arms the next moment, licking his face in a way that's meant to be comforting. The nurse is taken away and the next thing America knows he's sitting in the passenger's seat of England's car with a blanket over his shoulders and the polar bear curled against his chest.
"America." His name comes out soft and gentle from England's lips. The older nation's green eyes are soft and worried. America doesn't know what to say. He's been awful and his mind keeps going back to the nurse and how easily her jaw shattered from the impact. "Alfred, you need help."
Like Kumajirou's question, that statement is enough to break him. Alfred can almost hear the snap of something in the back of his mind, and he feels pathetic. All this emotional bullshit is not fitting of a hero, or even a nation. He needs to pull himself together. Instead he presses his face into Kumajirou's wiry fur and wails like an infant.
I swear, it won't stay this depressing. But this is where America is going to be when Canada wakes up. Thank you so much! Reviews make me smile and mean the world. I swear I won't take too long next time.