Canada spent the entire trip afraid for the future. He'd transferred in New York to a connection bound for Washington D.C. As far as he was concerned, there was no going back, now. He'd be there very soon. Crumpled in his hand was the brief telegram France had sent back, which did very little to allay his fears.

ALFRED ANXIOUS WHEN LAST SEEN STOP ISOLATION MAY HAVE MADE THINGS WORSE STOP DO NOT TRY TO FORCE THINGS STOP TREAD CAREFULLY STOP

-FRANCIS BONNEFOY

He wondered what France had meant, exactly, when he used the word 'anxious'. America could've been anxious for any number of things when they spoke. Not necessarily something to worry over, right?

But then again, Canada had asked for advice. This is was Francis's answer, and he never only meant one thing with his words.

And then there was the last time he'd seen his brother…

"Oh, no. Mister 'Empire' over there summed it up quite nicely, I think. You hate me. He hates me. Everyone hates me. No one cares."

Canada stopped, feeling as though he'd been stabbed through the chest by an especially blunt knife. "Alfred-"

"Don't call me that,"America abruptly hissed, rearing to spear him with stormy eyes and a voice that scraped like dry branches being dragged across gravel. "You don't get to call me that."

That exchange still haunted Canada. He'd tried to reconcile, but it was as though Alfred had heard something else entirely. There had been a misunderstanding somewhere in that brief conversation, and the effects could still be felt to this day.

France was probably right. America had been showing signs even then. Who knew how things would go now, after so many years of being without another Nation?

Alfred's face had finally become more prevalent in the White House again, and in almost as good spirits as he used to be with his interactions with the staff. He'd even begun playing with the children where before he'd actively avoided them almost as though fearing for their innocence and youth. Even now he was regaling Roosevelt's children with a story that involved dramatically reenacted stunts and galloping around in circles while swinging an imaginary lasso over his head out on White House lawn.

The president observed the idyllic scene through the windows of his office, and smiled. He never expected their relationship to blossom in this way, but ever since that morning in his office-something in Roosevelt's little impromptu speech about preserving the land had struck a chord, and opened new avenues of trust in both directions. Ones that were evident enough to have his family suddenly interacting with the generally private and untrusting Nation.

Kermit jumped onto Alfred's back, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The blond was promptly swarmed by children. One could hear their yells and laughter even from here.

The timing couldn't have been worse.

Someone knocked on his door. Cortelyou entered thankfully empty-handed. Usually the secretary's arrival heralded more paperwork and correspondence with reluctant or indecisive congressmen.

Roosevelt noticed the usually composed man's expression wavering, barely masking his nervousness. "Yes, Georgie?"

"Someone's here," Cortelyou supplied a little breathlessly. "Says he's Canadian, but…" then he hesitated.

The president began to feel impatient. "But what?"

"Forgive me, Sir…this man looks a lot like Alfred."

Theodore Roosevelt felt himself straighten. "Send him in-I've been waiting to meet this one for weeks, now."

Roosevelt wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't what he saw as his eyes first met Canada's. Startlingly deep violet irises on a face that shared essentially the same structure as his brother's. His hair was just a subtle shade different in color, and longer with softer consistency. Perhaps he put product in it. His suit was tailored with a touch of Europe in its cut, and nigh-immaculate.

All in all, the polar opposite of America. However he somehow managed to maintain the vague sense of being a mirror image.

His handshake was firm enough to be respected, but far from an unspoken challenge. "Hello, Mr. President. I'm Ca-er, Matthew Williams."

"Hello, Matthew," Roosevelt crossed over to the liquor cabinet, and reached for the rye whiskey. Far from a mint julep, unfortunately, but he knew today would pass easier with some alcohol to help it along. "Whiskey?" he offered, holding up the decanter for emphasis.

"No, thank you." Canada shifted, rubbing the cuff of his sleeve nervously. Theodore caught impatience in his tone. "Where is Alfred?"

The president waved at the window, where Alfred was still with the children.

Canada looked out, and breathed in sharply. His expression was unguardedly longing. "He looks…better, than when I last saw him."

"Make no mistake," Roosevelt warned. "He's still volatile. And I cannot presume to know how he feels about you."

"Of course not," Canada sighed. "I fear the worst. But I have to hope there's a way to salvage this. He's…we were close, once."

Roosevelt was heartened by Canada's reasoning. Not out of political necessity, though that has undoubtedly crossed his mind, but out of yearning for a connection. "There is something I must ask, before Alfred comes in and inevitably sees you…"

"He'll sense my presence at some point," Canada interjected quietly. "He may already know I'm here."

The president adjusted his pince-nez. "But you don't know that for sure. Now back to my question-How do you plan to go about this?"

Canada looked out the window again, to see that the children had gone inside. Now Alfred was alone on the lawn.

And he was staring straight up at the window, straight at Canada. His expression was far from happy.

"I'm going to tell him exactly how I feel," Canada said, not flinching from his twin's gaze. "Sugared words are wasted on Alfred-he's too blunt for them."

"Good." Roosevelt was relieved at this. The best approach was an honest one. Especially in this case. He leaned forward to make sure Alfred could see him through the window as well, and beckoned for the wayward Nation to come up. Then he clasped his hands together and mouthed, 'please' so that it couldn't be taken as a direct order.

Thank God, Alfred began for the steps.

He should've known when he got that peculiar feeling-the same one he used to get when England was on his soil after the Declaration of Independence was signed. The same one he'd gotten just before meeting Prussia for the first time. Another Nation was on his land.

And not just any Nation, but his brother. Canada, the golden boy of the British Empire. The one who'd personally carried the torch that set the first building aflame and taken his sight for three horrible months to show just how much he hated America.

So why was he here? He didn't need to make his stance any clearer. To be honest he was tempted to jump to the next state over and not come back until the feeling of something foreign nearby was gone.

But then again…Theodore was up there with him. And he didn't look angry or anything…Not to mention his silent call to the oval office that wasn't quite a direct order, but still rather insistent.

He owed Roosevelt the benefit of the doubt, especially after all the trouble this president had gone through just to keep his end of the agreement.

Resigned, he trudged towards the stairs.

The President of the United States had lead him to a library to wait. It wasn't large by any means, but neither was it laughably small for a personal collection. There were a few chairs and low tables scattered about with lamps, for when the rays of sunlight coming through the windows weren't enough to light the room. Canada couldn't bring himself to sit down. It was too uncomfortable a situation to even pretend to relax.

He'd been brave when Roosevelt asked him what his plan was. But to be completely honest, he wasn't even sure what he'd say. It'd been so long…what if this exchange went sour just like the last one? He'd never see Alfred again!

A muffled argument was happening just beyond the door. He didn't have to guess what it was about. Eventually, the voices died down again. The door creaked open, and Canada spun to face whoever was coming in, and froze.

America blinked, as though not sure he was real. Then his expression became unreadable as he closed the door firmly behind him. He made no move to come closer.

"Al-America." Canada stumbled over the name, remembering the last time he'd uttered it in the other's presence. "It's, uh…" He trailed off helplessly, and bit his lip as his diplomacy and vocabulary failed him for the second time.

Surprisingly, America spoke into the dead air between them. "What political nonsense landed you here in the first place, and how do we make this obligatory exchange go as quickly as possible?"

Canada shifted uncomfortably. "It's not anything like that I just-came here. To see you. Mr. Roosevelt said you got my letter…?"

"I did." America's voice was flat. "But I know better than to take fancy words on paper at face value."

"Well, it's true. I am worried about you." The northernmost twin spread his hands. "And to be honest, this exchange is doing nothing to ease my fears."

For a long time, America was silent. His face was blank of emotion. "Why do you suddenly care about how I'm doing?"

"I never stopped caring."

"Bullshit."

Canada stopped short. America was glaring at him now, fists clenched.

"Don't lie for the sake of politics," America continued mercilessly, and bitterly. "You know you never forgave me for York…I only wish I was actually there when it happened. Then maybe I could understand it a bit more."

"You…weren't there?" Canada managed. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "But…you knew, right? Before it happened?"

"Yeah, I knew." The western Nation's voice was dark. "Then I was ordered to my room, and not allowed to come out for attacking the Secretary of War."

Canada shook his head, not wanting to believe it.

"But I'm far from guiltless, of course," America added sardonically. "They told me it was a good idea over and over…after a while I believed them. I even cursed your militias for being so successful in repelling Dearborn's forces. The Battle of New Orleans came a bit late, but I celebrated regardless."

Canada had to look away. "I'm sorry this happened."

America snorted. "Sure you are."

"You must hate me."

This gave America pause. "…What makes you say that?"

"I hated you for a little bit." Canada rubbed his suit lapel. "But after your capital was on fire I was just…sad. 'Eye for an eye', Britain had said. But I still never felt quite…right, about it." He looked back up to face his brother square in the face. "Perhaps we should've talked. Or at least argued face-to-face before any of it ever happened. I just let Arthur handle most of the negotiations and you…you refused to see me afterwards."

This time it was America who looked away. "Britain said you would shoot me as soon as look at me."

"And you believed him?" Canada had to raise an eyebrow.

"I had no reason to think otherwise," America retorted evenly. "You personally started the fire that burned my city almost to the ground."

Canada blinked, and then slowly shook his head. "No I didn't."

America looked taken aback, his expression one of surprise and skepticism. "But I saw you in front of the White House. You even had a torch. You were laughing."

"At first I was eager, but then I saw your face in one of the windows. In the end I couldn't go through with it," Canada admitted. "My own men mocked me for being gutless. My torch went to someone else. I…left."

"You left…" America echoed faintly. He leaned back, and slid down the wall. "So you never…"

Slowly, Canada went to his twin. He sat down, sliding down the wall just as his brother had so that they were right next to each other, and only a few feet away. "I want us to be brothers again. Being alone like this isn't healthy."

America put his face in his hands. "It's too late for me. I've already-…" he cut himself off and shook his head.

"No it's not," Matthew insisted. He reached out to touch America's shoulder, and despaired when the western Nation tensed and shied away from his hand. "Whatever it is you did the past few years, it's not too late. Please, Alfred."

America only shrunk in on himself further. "You should hate me. It's easier that way."

"I can't hate you," Canada said. "And it's not easy for me to know you're going insane from isolation just beyond my borders when there's something I can do about it."

After a long beat of silence, America spoke. His voice was quiet, and shaky. "Matthew, I'm so sorry…"

Canada had to blink tears away. "I'm sorry too."

When he reached out a second time, America didn't inch away again. Instead he leaned into the touch, like he did when they were small. When they had no one but each other to turn to for support.

There was a quiet sniffle. Canada didn't allude to it, and simply sat there with his brother, content to remain this way indefinitely.

It'd be a long time before he was ready to let go, either.

Alright, all I have left to finish is the epilogue/last chapter. Then I might do a one-shot about Alfred's first world meeting. Then the first HEAVILY EDITED chapter of Bad Medicine will appear soon after.

Not much history, but plenty of angsty brotherness and stuff. And yaaaaay, some problems resolved!Thanks for all the favs, follows, and reviews! Feel free to tell me how awfully I botched this with a review!

Later dudes. ^J^