Ladies and gentlemen, I present smutty Canada.

Warning: Angst, tension, a little smut, drug use, shotgunning, mentioned masturbation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though


Too Many Walls

Matthew opened his eyes, scared that everything that happened yesterday was all a dream. Francis was dead, he'd just wanted him to be alive. He was so crazy with grief that he'd made up a fake scenario in his head of Francis returning…

But no. Francis was there, eyes closed, breathing shallow, arms wrapped around him…

With that goddamned collar and chain around his neck.

Matthew started to cry despite his want not to wake Francis. The Frenchman needed rest, but the collar, what it meant…

Francis's eyes flickered open at the sound of Matthew's quiet sobs. His heart ached. He'd seen his little one cry too much lately. He reached out and ran his fingers through Matthew's hair. "What is it, mon petit? Do not cry."

Matthew's eyes went to the collar. "I hate seeing that on you. I hate it." And he dissolved to tears again.

"Oh, mon chou." Francis said, pulling Matthew to him. "It will be off soon. We can ask Ivan for help. I don't want it on either." Francis was in disbelief as well. Only a night ago, he'd been wandering around the woods, violated, lost, abandoned. And now he was in a tent with Matthew's arms around him. It seemed surreal.

Should he be dead? He was certainly close to it. If Matthew and Arthur hadn't given him the strength to fight back, if Peter's gun hadn't jammed…

No. He would never come that close to death again. For the Matthew's sake, he would not. It all seemed rigged in his mind, how he survived. Whatever the reason, he thanked God that he had been given a second chance. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he still had things he had to do.

The sounds of tent flaps unzipping reached their ears and Francis said, "Come on. We should get up before Arthur becomes impatient."

Matthew laughed and wiped at his eyes, sniffing a little. "Y-yeah, we probably should…"

Within minutes, they were standing in the camp, waiting for the other nations to get up. It was awkward, being among them all and remembering what happened yesterday. Whenever Matthew so much as glanced at someone, they would quickly look away as if they were afraid of offending him. Well, Matthew figured, it was only expected. After his break down the night before, it was only natural that they all felt uncomfortable around him.

But the most uncomfortable of all was Alfred. He stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. He had stayed true to his word and gotten up before everyone else to check on Arthur, though he could barely get but a handful of vague and distant replies out of the man that only managed to deepen his concern. Everyone who got out of their tents looked at him in surprise for being one of the first ones up, and that didn't count Matthew out. Occasionally, he lifted his head to look at the Canadian, and when their eyes met, he looked back at the ground again. Matthew felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to make Alfred feel guilty about what had happened to Francis. After a good night's rest and thinking how lucky it was that Francis was still alive, Matthew had come to his senses. At the moment, it'd felt right to yell at Alfred and everyone else who'd promised to rescue Francis. It had felt right to make them hurt. It was only fair, as Francis had been hurt, though a great deal worse. But now Matthew was realizing that he couldn't push them away. They all needed to be close in order to survive this. And Matthew especially didn't want Alfred to think that he hated him.

But Matthew couldn't tell him that. At least not now. The real focus of today was to get as far away from civilization as possible. And Arthur was readying himself to speak.

"So," the Briton began, unsure of where to start. Even after he had taken to holding the dream catcher the night before, the nightmare still left him incredibly drained and dejected. It seemed that the responsibility as leader had been thrust upon him, but at the same time his own mind was working against him. But that was no excuse. Silly nightmares were never an excuse to not do what had to be done. "We are a few miles from the town, but that doesn't guarantee that we are out of harm's way. Wynston has told me that the plains are our safest bet at the moment, and if we linger here too long we may be stuck out there with the snow and nothing else to keep us company. Whatever it takes, we must reach the south by November. It is currently the first week of October. We have a couple of weeks. I have discussed it with Wynston, and he says the best way for us to go is east and then south. That being said, we will angle west toward Nebraska, going southwest through Kansas to reach the Mississippi. We will then follow the river down to where it empties into the ocean in Louisiana. There we can stay until winter blows over."

"Wait a second." Alfred said. "What about those fuckers at the capital? Are we just gonna let them sit there and keep sending more guys after us? For months?" Sure, Alfred had expressed a great need to flee to the south the day before, but after mulling it over he had convinced himself that this issue needed to be resolved as quickly as possible. That and he was incredibly impatient.

Arthur blinked at him, noticing his change in opinion but not feeling up to addressing it. Instead he sighed. "Alfred, our priority at the moment is to stay alive and together. That means getting out of the cold."

Alfred glared. "So, staying alive and together doesn't tie in at all with overthrowing the bastards who wanna kill us?"

Arthur frowned. "Alfred, we haven't even planned that far ahe—"

"There's no need for planning!" Alfred snapped. "We've wandered around and let the Organization torment us for too long. Look at what happened to Francis. Next time, it could be anyone, and they might not be so lucky as to return."

"I will not let you subject this group to your need for vengeance, Alfred." Arthur snapped.

"But it's not just my vengeance!" Alfred shouted, hands now out of his pockets and balled into fists. "And it's not just my capital. The Organization represents every usurper in every country. If we get rid of this one, then maybe we can—"

"You never think, Alfred!" Arthur barked sharply. "You are rushing into things you haven't even planned all the goddamn time, and, so help me, I will not let everyone else be thrown into danger to satisfy your need for justice!"

"We've been in danger this whole fucking time!" Alfred growled. "Open your fucking eyes, Art! If we go with your plan, then I guarantee you not one of us will even make it close to Louisiana!"

"You haven't even considered—"

"No, you haven't considered!" Alfred flashed back. "Don't you understand? If we go south, we'll be warm, yes, but at what cost? The Organization knows how powerful our influences can be, and they'll hunt us down like foxhounds! We've had too many encounters with them to declare that we can outrun them. You heard Higgins! They have eyes everywhere. There is no hiding."

Arthur was seething, but he fought to keep his voice calm. "Alfred," he said through clenched teeth. "What makes you think it will be any safer going directly into the capital without any plan whatsoever or any idea how big a force this Organization has?"

"We have time. Weeks. We can plan on the run."

Arthur blinked at him, and his anger finally boiled over. "You have learned nothing! You're so selfish, Alfred. I can't believe you'd risk all our lives to kill just one of these men. You know what I think? If you want it so much, why don't you just do it on your own?"

Alfred blinked in shock and Arthur processed his words. "Alfred, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know what you mean." Alfred said. "I'm the problem. I should just leave so I won't bother you."

Ivan was alarmed at this. Had Alfred forgotten about him? Would he just leave without the person who'd said they loved him? But he watched as Alfred ducked into his tent, bringing out his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He opened his mouth to convince Alfred to stay, but Matthew beat him to it.

"No," he said, darting forward. "Don't leave, Al. He didn't mean it."

"What do you want?" Alfred asked with spite. "To blame me for something else? Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore, 'cause I'm tired of taking all the crap. You guys are hopeless. We can't just run around the problem. But if everyone else is going to do that, fine. I'll just have to take care of it myself. You can thank me later."

"No, Alfred, please." Matthew snagged his brother's sleeve, but Alfred jerked out of his grip. The Canadian's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Al. It's not your fault what happened to Francis. I was stupid. I didn't know what I was saying, and I'm sorry it hurt you. But you can't leave. I just got Francis back!"

"Pa," Wynston muttered. "I understand what you're sayin', but… we have our own worries. Please, let's just tend to the group first an' discuss it before goin' headlong inta somethin', 'kay? If you wanna go, I'll go with ya. But I won't be happy that you're leavin' everyone else behind. We all have a purpose in this group. We depend on each other."

Alfred stared at him, completely ignoring Matthew, and sighed. "Wynston, I don't want you to come with me."

Wynston shook his head. "Ya know ya can't get rida me that easy, old man."

Alfred took a deep breath and exhaled. "Fine. I'll stay. Only because I know you'll follow me."

Wynston smiled. "We'll talk about it, Pa. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah, right." Alfred said skeptically, setting his backpack down. Matthew was still looking at him, still beside him, but the American ignored him. It hurt Matthew more than he could say. He hated being ignored. It made him feel worthless.

Arthur found his voice. "Alfred, I'm so sorry—"

"We're wasting time." Alfred said rather bitterly.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Right. So, er, let's have a quick breakfast and move on. We're heading south." Then he added after some thought. "And when we make camp next, we'll discuss retaking the capital."


They had a small meal of canned fruit before abandoning the camp. Although the immediate problems had been somewhat dissolved, the tension between them was still palpable.

No one talked, and when they did, it was in whispers shared between two people. They had been growing more and more quiet throughout the last few days, and Arthur didn't like it. The less they talked, the less they had frivolous conversation, the more they became isolated from each other and more focused on their own hurts. Everyone seemed to be dealing with their own issues: Arthur with his nightmares and the huge responsibility for the group's welfare; Alfred with his burning need for vengeance, his internal clock ticking ever more loudly for him to act, and his mental struggle over protecting his children or putting himself in harm's way to protect his group while putting the lives of his children in danger; Francis with his rape and near-death experience; Matthew with Alfred ignoring him and his instability that had been brought about with Francis's supposed death; Ivan with Alfred pushing him away subconsciously even though he wanted so much for them to be close; Ludwig with being the rock for his brother and Feliciano; Kiku with his doubt about his abilities to keep everyone safe; Yao with his worry that they all may not be prepared for what was coming, that they would die soon no matter how much they knew and there was little to nothing they could do about it; Gilbert with being used and rejected by Lovino and his betrayal of Antonio; Lovino with his toil over his dead lover and a new one he did not want to admit to; Sadiq with his injury and fear of illness again; Feliciano with his constant fear and worry, with his brother refusing to talk to him about his troubles; Wynston with the weight of leading the group through his state without trouble, without leading them to another safehouse that was anything but, and still quietly mourning over the loss of his sister. Everyone was in their own little world of torment, and by refusing to share or discuss their problems with everyone else, they were beginning to fall apart.

Like puzzle pieces that become lost over time.

Still, no matter how much it annoyed Arthur and made everyone else uncomfortable, no one broke the unannounced 'code of silence.' They trudged on through the forest, and whenever they came upon a town, they stopped, regrouped, and changed directions. They avoided towns like the plague.

Francis's mind was a roil. The convicts. The rape. The sound of the gun going off next to his ear, yet still being alive. The sight of Matthew so broken when he returned. It was all whirling around in his head, and he wished he could talk to someone, anyone, just make simple conversation so that he could forget about it all. But no one was willing to talk. It was so quiet, and it was driving him mad.

A voice next to his ear, startled him. "I didn't get a chance to tell you how happy I am that you're alive."

Francis turned to see Gilbert, walking alongside him with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. The Frenchman smiled. "I am, too."

"How's your neck doing? Still unawesome?"

Francis reached up and rubbed the spot where his collar had been before Kiku had picked the lock. There were obvious red rings of raw skin where he had struggled against the metal. But he was fine with it. All that mattered was that he didn't have the disgusting restraint around him any longer, that at least something from his traumatic experience was gone, no matter if he still had the horrible, recurring memories to remind him. "Ouais. But I can live with it. I mean, I almost didn't at all."

Gilbert swallowed dryly. "Ja…"

And just like that, their conversation was through, Gilbert slowly drifting away from him to walk beside his brother.


They didn't see much along their hike except for a few startled deer and a couple of chattering squirrels who chased each other through the trees, scattering leaves and other debris over their heads.

They reached the edge of the treeline just before sunset. After this small copse of trees which Wynston instructed them to make camp beneath, there would be nothing before them but flat, open grassland.

So, Francis mused. we have arrived at the prairie. Never have I felt more apprehension about anything with a name derived from my language.

They made a fire and set up camp, all speaking as little as possible to each other. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but not knowing how. What could they talk about? Oh, hey, at least no one died today. Yeah, that would make for good conversation.

Soon, they were all seated around the fire, keeping close to each other to conserve warmth. It had to be at least fourteen degrees farenheit. Thank God they had all thought to prepare for months on the run. They had ample winter wear, but it was too light to protect from constant exposure to wind and snow. The heavy clothes would not have fit in their packs.

They ate again, going through the cans they had managed to pack in silence. When they were finished, they just sat there, wrapped up in their sleeping bags, staring myopically at the fire.

Arthur couldn't take the silence and cleared his throat. Everyone jumped. "Er, so, the Organization…" When no one said anything, he looked at Alfred. "I presume you have a plan?"

Alfred nodded and pulled his sleeping bag more tightly around him. "Yeah… thinking we should snag one of their members or cohorts or whatever and force the information out of them. We don't know how big the Organization is, but we know that they're big enough to broadcast over a radio and that they have enough power behind them to be a governmental body. And navigating through the capital would be risky. All open space… they are bound to have scouts everywhere. But who knows where their HQ is? They could be in the White House, but judging from their hatred for the old government, I don't think they would take that up as their roost."

"But we will have to go to cities to find the members." Kiku said.

"No. We won't have to." Alfred said grimly. "They'll find us. They're bound to find us sometime."

The words settled into them like ice through their veins, and no one said a word for a long time.

They watched the sun set through the trees and the stars come out. Without so much as 'goodnight', they all eventually made their ways back to their tents. Except for Alfred. Ivan watched worriedly as he wandered off through the trees, but he felt better when he saw that Matthew was going off to join him. Perhaps the brothers would talk and make up? The Russian hoped so, because he wanted Alfred to stop worrying about everything and come back to him.

Matthew noticed Alfred going off into the woods and followed. He was determined to let Alfred know that he was sorry. He didn't think he could get that through to the American's brain if everyone else was around. Alfred always put up barriers when other people were around, but alone… what he was really feeling inside could be coaxed out.

He found Alfred sitting in a little clearing, staring up at the moon. He didn't notice Matthew until he was standing right behind him. The American startled and whipped his head around… only to scoff and go back to looking at the moon. "Not now, Mattie. I just wanna be alone and think."

"Then let me think with you. You don't have to be alone, Al." And Matthew sat down next to Alfred. The American gave an annoyed huff.

"Al," Matthew said after a while. "You know I'm sorry, right?"

Alfred sighed. "Not this shit again. You already said that."

"I know, but I don't know if you accepted my apology."

Alfred was silent for a moment, and Matthew chewed his bottom lip. Then he said, "Yeah, Mattie. You know I can't stay mad at you for long."

Matthew chuckled a bit, then said, longing to talk to someone about his troubles, "I could barely sleep last night."

"Me neither. Though I doubt anyone got a good night's sleep judging by their eyes. Bloodshot or sunken, most of them." Then he added curiously and with some concern, "Why'd you have trouble?"

Matthew took a deep breath. "Francis. I was near him the whole night, but I kept dreaming that he'd died. I kept reliving his burial." He looked at Alfred. "I never want to see him buried again, Al. I don't want to see any of us buried."

Alfred met his eyes. "He was never truly buried, Mattie."

"I didn't know that for a good two days. And it did something to me. That breakdown I had… yeah, well, I don't even think I scratched the surface of how far my grief could go. If something were to happen, something bad, then I would…" He paused to swallow. "I don't know what I would do, Al. And it scares me."

Alfred put an arm around Matthew's waist, pulling him close. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Matthew smiled at the security and sighed. "I just… I'm really uptight right now. I think… I think that if I smoked some pot, I would relax a bit more. Get some sleep." He looked at Alfred. "I saw you had some. I smoked all mine in a panic before fleeing my country."

Alfred chuckled and searched his pockets. "I was wondering when you'd hit me up about that… now that I think about it, I need some, too." He produced a pack from his pocket and slipped two rolls out, handing one to Matthew. He lit his with a lighter, and Matthew kissed his end to Alfred's to light his own. They were silent as they took the first few pulls, enjoying how the weed cleared their minds of worry and doubt.

Sure, Alfred had claimed he hated smoking… and drugs. But that seemed ages ago, and now he just needed something to calm his frayed nerves. Yeah, just something soothing. They weren't getting high or anything, just blowing off some steam. Alfred kept telling himself that as he raised the toke to his lips and inhaled.

And then Alfred was laughing.

"What is it, eh?"

"Heh, nothin'. Just remembering how I puked when I first did this."

"Puked? Jesus, Al, what did you do, make a weed milkshake?"

"Milkshake? Nah… I made a cake."

"No," Matthew said in disbelief. Imagining Alfred baking was one thing, but Alfred baking a weed cake? He hardly knew why Alfred always bothered him about smoking the stuff if he went to such extremes himself.

"Yup." He took another drag and exhaled through his nose. "It had weed frosting, too. And… hehe, get this… Artie was coming over and I didn't want him to have any, 'cause you know how nosy he is about the stuff in my fridge, nagging me over my weight and all, pshh… so, I fuckin' ate all of it in ten minutes!"

"Al, that's not healthy…"

"Do I look like I care about that shit?"

Matthew chuckled and sighed. The high he was getting was almost sensual. "Never have, and I doubt you ever will."

"Got that shit right."

Matthew didn't know what made him say it, nor did he care. "You know, I haven't had stoned sex in a while."

Alfred smirked. "What are you implying?"

"Oh, I'm implying?" Matthew said mischievously. "Forgive me, allow me to be forward." He pushed Alfred down onto the grass, toke still balanced between his fingers. Like hell he was going to waste that wondrous little piece of heaven. Alfred's eyes narrowed as Matthew straddled him.

"Oh, well this is a surprise."

"Are you complaining?" Matthew smirked as he took another pull of his joint and bent down to kiss Alfred. They exchanged the smoke, Alfred inhaling it before breathing it out slowly. The American felt his mind go dizzy for a second.

"Whoa, dude, that was just… wow."

Matthew smiled at the compliment. "Just don't puke, eh? I'm not nearly finished yet." And he kissed his way down Alfred's neck. Oh God, he'd truly missed the feel of Alfred's skin. It had been so long… but there was a nagging in the back of his head, something telling him that he shouldn't be doing this. His mind was too muddled to explore why, so he continued, sucking at the junction between Alfred's neck and collarbone. Alfred squirmed below him, and Matthew could feel something hard and hot pressing into his thigh.

"Mmm, someone feels excited." Matthew's hand trailed down to snake into Alfred's pants and underwear. But as soon as his fingers brushed against Alfred's swelling cock, the American jerked and wriggled away from him. Startled, Matthew pulled his hand out, falling back onto the grass and dropping his toke. "Fuck," he muttered, hurrying to snuff the flame before it spread to the grass. He looked up at Alfred, who was standing, having disposed of his own joint. He was breathing hard and looking ashamed.

"Al, what the hell—?"

"I'm sorry, Mattie." Alfred said quickly before rushing off back to camp.

Matthew grumbled in aggravation to himself. He could really do with a good fucking. But then he remembered the reason why he couldn't have sex with Alfred. That time at the 'safehouse' when Matthew had been listening secretly…

Oh shit. Ivan.

Thank God Alfred had stopped him when he did, or else Ivan would have surely found out (in whatever way he did, because the Russian always knew), and Matthew would be nothing but a pile of dust.

Pain pulsed from his crotch. Great. Blueballs. He couldn't go back to his tent and jerk off. Sadiq would hear him and he'd have quite a mess to clean.

Matthew sighed. "Guess stoned masturbation will have to do." And he slid his hand into his pants.


Translations:

Mon petit-My little one

Mon chou-My darling

A Word From the Writer: Ah, damn. No sexy Canada jerking off? Well, shit. As much as I love writing solos, unless it involves bonding or drama or action or death, I'm gonna skip over it (as much as a regret it). And, yeah, I was originally planning on this story being much longer with the plot revolving around their journey to the south and back up to D.C. But I figured it wouldn't make much sense if the world was sinking deeper into shit every day (that and I got bored), so we are now facing winter. Thankfully, there will be no white walkers to deal with. I'm sorry. I'm such a Game of Thrones geek.

"Too Many Walls." Yeah, right. Try a bigass fucking wall with all sorts of crazy shit on the other side. Then you'd want a wall. *shot*