Matthew rushed out the door, letting the screen slam against the frame as he went. He wore only socks, no shoes. Some distant part of his mind acknowledged that England was trying to stop him, but his thoughts were clouded by anxiety. America had literally just beaten up France.

"ALFRED!" Matthew yelled, slamming his palms on the top of the rental car's hood. Once America made eye contact, Matthew wasted no time getting in the passenger seat.

Alfred turned, eyes wild. He shook from his fingertips to his hair. His leg bounced, agitated, against the floor of the car.

"I never did anything," he said, quietly. He turned and saw Matthew's furrowed brows.

"I remember now. I remember, Mattie. France hurt you. He – he choked you, at least once. I saw it, but I was stupid. I was so stupid, Mattie. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. What I did back there doesn't make me feel any better. It just reminds me of what I should have done when it happened. And yet you forgave us. You forgave France, for God's sake. How? Why? We've done nothing but cause you pain."

Alfred looked like he wanted to say more but stopped himself. Matthew reached out to cover Alfred's tense, bruised fingers on the wheel. Looking down, his lashes cast shadows over his pallid face.

"Alfred, we were both kids. Not just me. What would you have done? Both of us were powerless. You couldn't have known what happened. It was just the one time, by the way. France had a drinking problem. I've forgiven him because I know that the guilt he feels is punishment enough. No matter what I do or say, it can't make him feel worse than he already does. Parenting is hard. You know that. And it wasn't always sunshine and rainbows with England, either. I know I idolized your relationship because of my home life, but I also know how hard that was on you when you wanted freedom."

"But he—"

"Yeah, he fucked up. So have I. So have all of us, Alfred."

"Why let him back in?"

"For you. For Arthur. Sometimes you just have to understand your role in the world. I knew that my anger and hurt would affect all of us, and so I chose to lock it away. Maybe that's wrong."

His face crumpled and he continued.

"Really, maybe it is. But I decided I was going to be soft even with how he treated me."

Alfred paused.

"Soft?"

Matthew looked him in the eyes, which startled Alfred. This meek, timid creature, squaring his shoulders and addressing him? It felt wrong somehow.

""I grow despite you."" He quoted. It clicked in Alfred's mind. Meek, timid? Those weren't the words that described Mattie. He was kind and yielding. He was considerate, even when it hurt him to be. He was soft and warm and welcoming, like coming back to your childhood home. Mattie was familiar. But, just like your childhood home, you grow accustomed and you take it for granted. That comfort becomes your crutch. Even those who nurture need nurturing.

"Alfred, I was jealous of you. I wanted to be just like you. Don't you see that? You're outgoing, smart, funny. You're loud. You take up space. People listen to you. If I could get one tenth of that charisma, we'd be in a different Canada right now," said Matthew, looking at their joined hands.

He looked to the cup holder before continuing.

"There's somewhere I want you to see. Can we go?"

Alfred felt no need to answer verbally; he only turned the key and began reversing.

They followed the main road until it turned to dirt. The road became bumpier and less maintained as they went, houses less frequent and animals roaming. It was grey and sticky-warm, but the car was like an icebox. Matthew pointed to the side of the road and Alfred pulled over hesitantly.

"Not to be that person, but there's no cell reception out here. I'm already dying."

"Calm down, Alfred. We've survived without cell phones before, just imagine it's the 1800s or some shit."

"Watch your fucking language."

Mattie stuck his tongue out before getting out of the car into the humidity.

It was quiet, save for the crunch of his shoes against the dirt road. The wind was gentle and caressed them both as they walked. Matthew turned suddenly, stumbling into the tall grass. His eyes closed, and he touched the greenery, feeling the way the wind carried them and brushed strands of hair from his face. It was silent.

"You have land like this too, you know," Matthew said, turning to face Alfred.

"Okay seriously, why the hell are we here, dude?"

"This is a piece of me. I am more than this body. Doesn't it make you feel strong? To know your land, to feel its uniqueness? I was made for a reason. And we are joined. My land is like yours. You always felt like the bigger, stronger piece."

"I'm not."

Matthew looked to Alfred's face and saw pain.

"You are surviving this. Fuck, I can barely watch you and I'm exhausted. How can you be so resilient? You let us walk all over you for decades, and you're still in better shape than any of us."

"Alfred, I'm not strong. I'm weak. I couldn't go through with it. I just kept scraping at the surface—" he paused to look at his forearm — "waiting until I felt like I could go deeper. Deep enough to end it. But I'm a coward. I couldn't just do it. Part of me was waiting, hoping you'd see me for once. Part of me wanted you to hurt. To see what you'd done. I wanted you to see my body and feel just a fraction of what I felt."

He paused to look at Alfred, but realized he'd shattered Alfred's heart.

"But now I've made you all suffer and it didn't make me feel any better. I feel worse. Now I feel like a villain. I'm making you suffer right now, for God's sake."

Matthew sighed and continued.

"So please don't act like I'm this enlightened individual or something. I'm just as selfish and evil as the rest of us. Maybe I'm worse." He paused to scratch neck awkwardly.

I should tell him, he thought. I should tell him how I've been thinking of myself. I should say something…

No. You're evil. Just like you said. You don't deserve this land, and you don't deserve their help.

He crouched to the ground slowly, watching an ant crawl through the grasses. There was this dichotomy in his mind: the part that was screaming for help and the part that put a hand over the other's mouth. It was a never-ending cycle and all he wanted to do was pick a side. Either he was completely evil, and then he could just end it; or he was pitiful, and he should hide away so as not to waste anyone's time and energy.

And he was tired of switching between them. Now was the time to choose.

"Alfred, I've been struggling with something for a while."

"Yeah?" Alfred's voice was small in the overwhelming silence.

"Lately, whenever I try to talk to you, there's this little voice in my head saying I should just give up and stop trying to get help."

"What do you mean a voice?"

"Like, my inner voice – when I try to get help or reach out, the voice turns nasty. It's like it's trying to stop me from getting any better. I hate to say it, but sometimes I can't tell what's the real me anymore."

"Of course you're you. But how do you feel when you begin to feel the voice gaining speed? Can you fight it?"

"Yeah, I guess I can, it's just so loud and obnoxious. Every time I think of saying something, it starts telling me that nobody wants me around. Or that everyone is laughing at me. Or that I can't do anything right. No matter what I do, it has something to say and after a while, it's not worth it to fight against the voice because I start to agree with it."

"Why would you agree with it?! You're perfectly fine! Nobody's laughing at you, at least not anymore. I'm sorry. I know I made this worse all these years. But you can and you do make us happy, make us smile, teach us, make us aware… You have all these superpowers and you don't even know it."

"Even if that were true, I can't figure out how to use them, so what's the fucking point of me having them? It's like a cruel joke. Even if I read and study and have a good understanding of the world around me, I turn around and nobody remembers I was there. I can't find a chance to talk during conversations. People laugh when I try to get a world in, and after a while it's like… why bother? Why keep volunteering? So I disappeared off the face of the earth for a bit because I was honestly convinced that nobody would come find me and that I'd be allowed to die alone, just like the voice wanted. It seemed like the appropriate way to end this."

"The voice is a bitch and I'll fight it myself, Mattie. You've been at war for so long with this voice – it's not fair. Even when you've exhausted yourself, you turn around and it's right there. I have a voice of my own, but it's not like this. I'm tired of watching you carry around all this weight. Let me shoulder some. Please."

Any laughter bubbling in Matthew's throat died at that final, small "please." Alfred tapped into the part of his mind that retained some sense of kindness, both toward himself and to others.

"You mean more to me than anything, Mattie. You were there by my side all along – literally – and I never saw it as anything more than coincidence that we grew up together. The world simply aligned in a certain way and there you were. But it's not coincidence. You're beside me for a reason. Maybe it's even the other way around. Maybe I'm next to you for a reason. Neither of us are perfect. Hell, my country was built on bones. I'll carry that guilt for my entire existence, though none of my citizens seem to. But you – your heart is strong. I think that's why I felt like I needed to be louder, to drown out the words you never said."

Mattie considered this for a moment.

"I don't think either of us needs to exist for the purpose of helping the other, Alfred. We both have our own agendas, and they can coexist. I don't know anymore. I want to overpower that voice in my head because I know somewhere deep down that I'm worth something. I just can't see it."

Alfred turned and hugged Matthew tightly. For the first time in a long time, Matthew didn't fight it. He felt the warmth and wanted to feel it for eternity. He felt the love and accepted it, outside in the grass, surrounded by his country.

"You're not just worth something. You're worth everything."

For some reason, that was the straw that broke the camel's back in Matthew's heart. A great wave of grief washed over him. Tears prickled his eyes, and this time, he didn't fight it. He heaved a broken breath and sobbed. What were these tears? Sadness or joy? He didn't even care. He needed to voice this pain or it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

At some point, Alfred walked him back to the car, and his body followed the logical course of events: open the door, sit, put on the seatbelt. But he kept crying. The pain was so intense he feared it would overwhelm him. Alfred said nothing, but he was torn.

Did I say too much? Or did I say just enough?

When they arrived back at the house, France was sitting in the garage with a cigarette and an ice pack against his cheekbone. He looked up warily. England sat by the bay window watching the street. He could see England disappear from view as the car pulled into the driveway. America cut the engine and got out, stretching his arms, while Matthew got out and just stood there. He didn't want to make the tension worse.

Alfred walked up to Francis, prompting a flinch and a glare. But in a surprising twist of events, he stopped and took a long breath.

"You know what? You deserve an explanation. And an apology. I'll get to that. I remembered some stuff about Mattie in a dream – from our childhoods – and it made me upset because I remembered how you used to treat him."

Francis kept looking at him with an inscrutable expression.

"But it's not my place to punish you for something like that. It was Mattie's childhood, not mine. And I'm sure you've thought about it plenty over the years. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have –"

"No, no, I understand. Much like you, I have realized I did something awful. I've been thinking much about who Matthieu is, and who he could have been if I hadn't raised him the way I did. I'm sorry, not just to you, but to Matthieu himself."

At this, Matthew stepped forward hesitantly, hands raised as if to stop Francis. Francis shook his head at the gesture.

"I am so sorry. There are no words, in either English or French, that can convey how very sorry I am. I know your childhood must have haunted you into your adult life. To know how deeply my actions affected you is a punishment itself, but it will never be enough to atone for what I've done."

His head was lowered in shame, but Matthew leaned down and embraced him.

"I am slowly learning that the past is allowed to simply be the past. I want you to feel the same way. We are different now. I am different now. That is the justice we all deserve."

Francis openly wept, clutching at Matthew. Arthur stood in the doorway and watched with something like happiness but adjacent to it, as if he were angry with what Matthew said. Alfred trailed behind him as he walked to the kitchen.

"I don't like that Matthew forgave him so easily, Alfred. If I had treated you like that, I could never forgive myself, nor expect forgiveness."

"But it's Matthew's call, isn't it? His forgiveness outweighs your opinion, to be honest."

Italy watched curiously as Russia sat petting Kumajirou. It was startling how little Russia felt the need to eavesdrop, unlike himself. He lived for drama.

"Well, yes, of course his opinion matters more, but I've felt guilt for not intervening for a long time. I saw how bad it was. How can a few words erase that?"

"It can't."

"What?" Arthur turned abruptly.

"Of course it can't. It only allows for new memories to take its place. Mattie is giving Francis the chance to change their relationship, not to forget what it used to be."

Matthew was conflicted.

Do I want to forgive him? No, not really. But I need to forgive him, so that I can begin to forgive myself.

That thought permeated his mind as he sat on the concrete floor of the garage with Francis.