Thanks to XxFuyukaina-BakaxX and Dead-Knight-of-Darkness for your wonderful reviews.

Characters: (Human Names Used - More May Be Added/Cameo In The Future) America, Canada, England, Hungary, Prussia, Austria, Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia, Russia, Switzerland, Germany, Germania, France, OC!Historical Figures, OC!Civilians
Rating: M
Warnings:
Angst, Drugs, Substance Abuse, Religious Overtones, Child Abuse, Rape, Swearing, Violence, Mentions of Suicide
Disclaimer: Hetalia: Axis Powers © Himaruya Hidekaz, this is a fan created story.

Chapter Eleven: Still Thankful

The silence between us had never led to more conversations.

I was watching over my brother quietly and carefully. I felt like at any moment he could come tumbling forward. Crashing and burning. But I also felt like I was going to be there because, for the first time, I really understood what reaching the bottom was.

And I also knew what it was like to never, ever wish that on someone you loved.

But things are never that simple. My brother both rejected my attention and clung to it desperately. He didn't know what he wanted. Which was fine.

I didn't know either.

Still, as we would sit and work huddled around our desk in the corner of the dorm room, we sat in silence. But we talked through our eyes and how we would flinch each time Toris or Eduard opened or closed the door. Or how we went no where without checking with the other first.


Thanksgiving was not nearly as celebrated in Mr. Kirkland's English class.

In fact, he ignored it almost entirely. He claimed the festivity was all too much pomp and circumstance and that if we asked for Thanksgiving related assignments or stories in History or English again he would assign three chapters of homework.

Then he glanced to Alfred.

Alfred never said anything to Mr. Kirkland once class started anymore. Instead he crumpled up another picture of a cow and shoved it in his pants pocket, oblivious to Mr. Kirkland's gaze and also oblivious to mine.

It had been almost two weeks and, sometimes, I could see my brother physically cracking.


In Reading, Miss Hedervary seemed completely unfazed by the loss of one of her numerous crushes.

The delightful feeling of butterflies was all but gone in my stomach for her or anyone else it seemed. Everything felt cold and mean, even the phantom touches of her hands as she would lean over my shoulder to check on my work and ask questions about our favorite part of the story so far.

I kept praying that Gilbert would start knocking frantically on the door like he always did.

He could barge in, claim he was at the end of his days and sway weakly until he 'accidentally' fell against Miss Hedervary's chest. Then, in his ever proven honor, he would request that, before his last days, the beautiful Reading and Art teacher would accept his offer of wedded union.

But he had not stopped by in weeks.

There was a rumor that his father had finally stepped in and said enough was enough. Another rumor said he found Miss Hedervary exchanging kisses with Mr. Edelstein in the faculty lobby.

I wasn't sure which one would be more devastating. I did think to myself, however, that neither of those seemed like enough reason to stop Gilbert.

The boy had broke down the Art Room's door before to get in before lunch.

He fixed it, making it even better than it had been before, but the hilarious image was still engrained in everyone's minds.

When Miss Hedervary had moved away from us, I looked over to Al. Once he was sure that our teacher was not looking our way anymore, he folded his arms over his literature book and hid his face in the nook created.

I felt a tug at my heart and reached over to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder which, for whatever reason, ended up being a gentle back rub.

He never flinched away from my touch, not even the days directly after he was raped. It was as if he couldn't anymore, his muscles were too stiff and sore from being tensed at all hours, even in his sleep. In some ways I could find evidence for how he was handling so much better than myself.

But I knew I was looking past obvious pain in order to do so.

When I heard the familiar scratching of chalk on chalkboard, I turned in my seat to look at whatever new assignment Miss Hedervary was writing out for us.

What are you thankful for? Write a 200 word Theme over the break.

I scowled at this.

How the hell were we supposed to answer that? There was nothing for us to be thankful for.

I seriously contemplated writing just that …


Eduard packed up his things for the week break. He then looked us over cautiously.

I smiled slightly to him. Words failed me once again.

There was no way I could thank him enough for simply staying in the room with my brother and me after Toris had moved halls. There was no way to thank him for being a friend to us when we had little to no one we could trust anymore.

And I couldn't help but feel like I would be able to thank him if I could honestly appreciate all those traits as much as I could spell them out.

I knew I should have been more grateful for him than I was.

"The offer still stands," he said genuinely toward both Alfred, laying on his top bunk staring at the ceiling, and me. "Mom and Dad wouldn't mind at all for me to bring some friends over for the week. I brought Toris and Raivis last year."

"Sorry," Al hissed from the top bunk. "Our names don't rhyme."

Eduard looked hurt so I swooped in to save the situation.

"We're still a little upset about not being able to go home to our grandma for the week, Eduard," I explained hurriedly. It wasn't entirely untrue. "I don't think we really feel like going anywhere else if we can't make it to her."

He said he understood and we parted for the week.


I tapped my pencil against notebook. The hall was quiet for only being eight at night.

Alfred was cussing at his math, occasionally wadding up the entire page and throwing it in the trash bin with stunning accuracy.

"You realize," he breathed, "without the rich boy, there's no reason for them to not come in here. Especially with Vash gone for the week."

Stopping, I gave him a look but said nothing. He returned my gaze but, like all the times before, it was hollow. He was looking through me.

"Stop bringing it up," I snapped, at last working up the nerve.

"I hope they come."

"Alfred!"

"I have a pocket knife now," he informed me, producing said item from his back pocket. I gaped at it and then glared at him. "Don't look at me like I'm a Hell's Kitchen thief. One of the older boys at the farm gave it to me when I was working in the hayloft and the rest of you were on feeding duty."

I faintly recalled it and turned my head to the side. "Who?"

"The creepy Russki," he spat, before smirking at the blade. "He gave it to me to help me cut through the bales quicker. I tried to give it back to him, but he said it wasn't his. Creeper. He's crazy is what it is. Communism does that to people. Anyway, it's mine now. And I hope those guards have the balls to try to come in here."

When it became obvious that I had lost my brother to one of his fits of insanity, flipping the pocket knife open and closed over and over and over and over and over, I turned and looked back to my notebook.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for

My pencil went to work.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for pocket knives.

I crumpled up the page and threw it into the waste basket. It went in.


When neither of us could go to sleep, we sat our chairs side by side, ten feet from the waste basket which had been pulled away from the wall.

We ripped up two whole note books for paper wads.

Even after we began to joke around and shove each other during the other's attempt to shoot, our goals far out numbered the missed wads decorating the floor.

After Alfred fell asleep on the floor, I shoved my chair against the door knob and then went to the desk.

Pulling out the spare notebook I had, I began to write.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for waste baskets and paper wads. The way they can be thrown away or picked up later reminds me of the way problems used to go away. I used to get my mom or my dad or even my brother to pick them up, crunch them into almost nothing, and then toss it far away from me where I thought I would never see them again. I am thankful that at least paper is still like that. I am thankful we did not get any paper cuts.

It wadded up nicely and made it in the bin with one shot.


Thursday morning had come too soon.

The two of us had yet to leave the room for anything other than the restroom, quick two-hour shifts at the farm, or eating. Sometimes we even decided against those things in favor of doing something together in the room like Tic Tac Toe, waste paper basketball, or table top football.

Sometimes we just sat there and I pretended to write down my thoughts while Alfred drew cows with a longing expression. I wasn't sure why he still drew them, it was obvious they no longer gave him the same satisfaction that they once had.

It was also the first time in a long time we could afford to sleep late into the day without consequence.

But then Thursday morning came and with it a knocking on our door at nine o'clock.

Alfred, whose head was tucked somewhere near my feet, kicked at my shoulder as he rolled over.

I laid there and stared at the bottom of the top bunk, hoping the knocking would eventually stop. It didn't, though. I was going to have to answer it.

One look to my brother, whose American flag underwear was stuck up in the air, told me that I would have no back up when I did so.

Moaning and running my fingers through my hair, I finally forced my limbs into motion and got over to the door. I stupidly opened it without checking the peep hole first.

Fortunately, it was only Gilbert.

"Are you lazy bastards still sleeping?" he asked, crossing his arms and looking particularly miffed. He did not wait for an answer, though, as he waved his hand and looked me over. "You've been here this entire week and you've not once come over to tell me? Say 'hey, Gilly, want to hang out and buy our shit again?'"

I frowned at this and truly did feel slightly ashamed. No one had been as helpful to us as he had.

"Well, whatever," he sighed before spinning me around and pushing me back into the room. "Get dressed. Wake up your brother. And get back down to the kitchen for Thanksgiving dinner. It's at one, 'kay? Get a move on!"

Then he shut the door.


"I'm not going," Alfred said when I woke him up and explained.

"It's the least we could do," I said. "The school is throwing it for the faculty and remaining students."

He scowled. "You say that like we owe them something. We're just here because we have nowhere else to go."

It was true, but we did owe Gilbert if no one else.

So, even though it burned my throat to say it, I retorted with, "Mr. Kirkland will be there, I bet."

He never responded to it, but he did start getting ready to leave the room.


There was an agreement we never said out loud to each other but it was still considered a promise. We were never to leave each other's sights.

As twins, it was not a new thing for us to go everywhere together, to participate in near identical events, but it hadn't been as common in the months before the attacks.

Until that point we had been gradually developing into our own people, still just as similar as twins could be but with a sense of individualism. It was refreshing and well accepted. We were different people.

After the night in the bomb shelter, Alfred and I were conjoined once more. We were reborn, not as people but as something that dimly walked the line between dreams and instinct.

The only time it felt safe to be myself again was alone with my brother. And it hurt that the sentiment was not returned in full.

He was himself when we were in the room playing waste paper basketball, but his shoulders never slacked. He was guarded, wishing for an attack, an excuse to lash out. He was going to protect me no matter what happened, like I was some damsel in distress.

The only time Alfred was like his wide-eyed, innocent self again was in the presence of Mr. Kirkland. He dropped all defenses around the man.

So, when I was looking up from the carved turkey in the buffet line and saw my brother head straight for the only table that had only one person sitting at it, I was not surprised.

Mr. Kirkland looked at my brother, said something scathing with sarcasm and then nodded to the chair next to him.

I resigned to my fate of sitting at my brother's left hand and concentrated on the food.


Fate is funny that way. I never did make it to Mr. Kirkland's table.

As I prodded the cranberry jello with a mess spoon, someone seized me by the shoulders and squeezed me close to their chest.

The immediate response was to become completely and utterly rigid, unsure of who it was, but it did not last long. All my worries deflated when I realized it was only Gilbert, who was excited and feeling rather triumphant as he squeezed me to death.

"I knew you were going to come, Matthew!" he said with a laugh. "And Vati says that everyone ignores me! Ha! Proved him wrong!"

I gave a muted smile and looked over to notice Gilbert's family, all stone faced, pale, and blonde, were sitting with some man who seemed very effeminate and loud. While I had seen Ludwig, Mr. Beilschmidt, and occasionally even Mrs. Beilschmidt, the livelier blonde was completely new to me.

He seemed like family, even if he lacked the uncanny likeness of the Beilschmidts, so I could not help but wonder if perhaps this was where Gilbert got his unruly and somewhat obnoxious character.

"Where's your brother?"

I looked at him and then over to Mr. Kirkland's table. Gilbert's gaze followed and then he theatrically shuttered.

"Damn, I don't get that," he muttered to himself.

It took a lot for me to not voice just how much I agreed with that sentiment.

"Well, how about I spare you from an awkward dinner with the limey?" Gilbert questioned with a knowing raise of his eyebrows. "There's an extra seat next to me, Ludwig won't sit beside me today."

"I find that hard to believe," I said with a sigh. In his own way, Ludwig worshiped his brother that much was apparent.

"You would, Mr. Siamese Twin," the albino scoffed before waving his hand to the family's table in an over exaggerated gesture. "Fine, you can sit next to Francis then, I'll sit by the brat. Maybe you'll get your ass pinched instead of me."

So I looked at the mysterious blonde and then nodded.


Francis, as it turned out, was indeed a distant cousin. His mother had died recently and left him with quite the inheritance.

And name.

I gawked when we had first exchanged introductions.

"Francis Bonnefoy?" I asked with a flip of my gut. "The dorm I live in was named after you!"

He gave a quick, lofty smile and cocked his head to the side. "Oui, though it was my mother's investment at the time."

"Alf—Matthew Jones," Mr. Beilschmidt corrected himself quickly after his eldest son's warning look, "Francis currently stands as the largest benefactor to the school outside of the church itself. Naming a dorm after him, I'm afraid, is the least of the rewards he should receive from our institution."

I stared blankly at the science teacher. It was the most I had heard him say about anything that didn't involve dead frogs or the atom.

"Mon cher, I do hope that you did not invite me to this lovely Thanksgiving dinner simply to flatter me into investing more into the school," he said with a smile.

As Mr. Beilschmidt worked frantically to excuse himself from his poor wording, I looked over Francis. He was not an exceedingly young man, but he was not as old as his distant cousins. I couldn't help but think that he might have been around the same age as Mr. Kirkland.

Which brought me to turn and look for how my brother was faring.

He seemed fine, even enjoying his company and food, but he continuously looked over his shoulder until he realized that I was looking to. He then smiled at me, apparently feeling secure that I was with Gilbert.


Gilbert and Mr. Beilschmidt were fighting soon enough over theories or other things that no one else at the table cared about except maybe Ludwig. But Ludwig had disappeared into his mother's arms as she carried him to the bathroom with her.

I was left in the awkward situation of sitting next to someone I knew nothing about outside of the fact that he had more money than I could ever dream of having.

Francis was looking at me which made me squirm.

"Do you know French?" he asked lazily.

This brought me to stare at him. "No."

"Oh, but it is a most magnificent language. Have you ever wanted to see the Eiffel Tower?"

My cheeks suddenly felt very hot and I looked away nervously. "Um. What part of New York is it at?"

The young man balked and straightened up, rubbing the stubble of his chin. "What do they teach you children in this school? No French? No culture? It is absolutely horrendous! And I invest so much into the school as well."

I was not sure where this was going but I felt like I had said or done something wrong.

"Matthew, I have this most important request," he said before looking at me with his blue-blue eyes. "Would you be willing to get paid to be my eyes and ears?"

This made me stare.

"I would ask Gilbert, but he would lie through his teeth to get money," Francis sighed. He then smiled at me almost fondly. "You seem like such a sweet, innocent boy, though. You wouldn't lie to me in your reports, non?"

I stared at him and then shook my head. "N-no, I wouldn't lie."

"Very good, I will need an excuse to come visit you often then," he said with a nimble hand patting my shoulder. "I shall be your private French teacher. I will meet with you once a week and you can tell me what happens in this school. If I make such an investment into l'école then I should be able to keep up with all the matters at hand. Perhaps together we can make this school for the better."

Then my mind began to work again.

"Yes," I said, accepting the hand extended to me.


Alfred hugged me when we got back to the room. He seemed oddly chipper.

"Do you know what Mr. Kirkland said to me?" he asked with a glimmer in his eyes.

"No," I said, exasperated from the day, the turkey, and the new power I had been handed.

He beamed and put upon his best superhero pose. "'If you are going through hell, keep going.'"

I stared at him and sighed. "Sound advice," I reasoned before settling down at the desk. "I met Mr. Bonnefoy—the rich guy the dorm is named after."

"Is that who that was?"

"Yeah," I said before pulling out the worn out notebook. "He's going to be teaching me French. And paying me for it."

"It's a sucky language if you have to pay people to learn it," he yawned before heading over to my bed.

My smile did not fall, though, as I began to write.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for opportunity. I am thankful that it presents itself when everyone feels like there are no more options left. I like how it can sneak up on you and, if you are daring enough to leap on it, send you soaring.

I am thankful that no matter what happens, there is one person for me to turn to and make me smile. Without these things, life would be a lot harder. And I could not take that.

Satisfied, I put the paper away and shoved my brother's feet off my pillow so I could get some rest.


Miss Hedervary, whose scarf was beautiful but did not completely cover the purple circle on her neck, handed our papers back.

Alfred had written his the night before it was due. It was about cows and fireworks and having a brother who was just as awesome as he was. He got a B.

It was the first time he had surpassed me in grades.

D-

Not 200 words.

Do you want to talk to me about this after class?

-Miss H

It was nice of her, but no.

I had said everything I needed to say in those 82 words.


It's picking up now and Francis is officially in the fold of characters so, there's that. I'm sorry, these updates may get progressively slower as I work on other projects for this account. So, be sure to check out the joint works as well as Left's soon to be released individual stories! Oh, and eventually our profile page will link you to our art tumblrs and LiveJournal. So, yay!

The quote Mr. Kirkland gave to Al is from Winston Churchill.

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