Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia
Canada watched as England stormed off in a huff.
With a sigh, he turned to his snickering brother.
"Why do you do that, Al?" he asked.
America let out a boisterous laugh.
"Aw, come on, Mattie !" America said. "Don't tell me you believe in his magical friends!"
Canada hesitated; like America, he couldn't see England's "friends", either. He did know magic was real though, having seen England perform rituals before.
When America said things about England's magic, it was almost like he wanted England to stop talking about it at all costs—though America himself probably wasn't aware that was how it came off.
Canada didn't know what America's deal with magic was; it was just magic.
Canada just shrugged.
"I think it genuinely upsets him," he said gently. It was something that America might not have picked up on—empathy was not something he was particularly skilled at. From Canada's understanding, autistic people could sometimes have either hyper empathy or low empathy. America fell into the latter category.
It didn't mean he was a bad person; his brother was genuinely compassionate and wanted to help others. America just had trouble picking up on and understanding other people's feelings.
Something in America's expression shifted.
"He teases me about aliens all the time," America said.
Yes, well. England was kind of a hypocrite, Canada would admit that.
America shifted slightly.
"Mattie? Do you really think…" America trailed off.
"I'm sure he knows you didn't mean it," Canada reassured him. They all knew that when America said things like that, he didn't mean them the way they came off. "But why are you so averse to magic, anyways? England told me you used to be fine with it when you were little."
If the magic in question was in a fictional setting, America was fine with it. But other than that...
At Canada's inquiry, America flinched.
Immediately concerned, Canada said, "Al?"
America flashed him a brilliant smile, but Canada knew his brother well enough to know when he was faking it.
"Come on, Mattie!" America said. "Let's go get some lunch! I'm starved!"
"Surprise, surprise," Canada said, rolling his eyes fondly.
He let his brother lead the way.
America took a bite of his burger.
He liked burgers; they were comforting and familiar, and they didn't taste or feel wrong like some other foods did.
But today he couldn't concentrate on his meal.
He remembered Canada's earlier question: Why are you so averse to magic, anyways?
Alfred Jones, thou hast been accused—
No. He wasn't going there. He shoved the memory aside with a shiver.
Whenever England brought up magic, those unwanted memories swam to the surface, when all America wanted to do was forget it ever happened. So he laughed, like it didn't bother him.
Because it didn't. Really.
He was a hero. Heroes were strong, they didn't get hung on insignificant memories that happened over three hundred years ago.
"Al? Are you alright? You've hardly touched your food."
America glanced up to see Canada looking concerned.
"I'm fine," America said, forcefully taking a bite of his burger.
Canada shot him an unimpressed look.
"Yes, and I'm really the Queen of England," he said. "Do you want to talk about it? You can tell me."
America waved a dismissive wand.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "It's dumb and you'll laugh."
"Alfred, I promise I won't laugh at you," Canada said. "If you're upset, it's not dumb."
America hesitated. It wasn't something he liked to remember, but if he could trust anyone to not make fun of him—and really, what nation, let alone hero, let themselves get—
"Okay."
Canada looked at him expectantly.
"You know the—the Salem Witch Trials?" America asked.
Canada slowly nodded.
"Well. Funnily enough, the other colonists noticed I didn't really age. And I used to play with some of the kids, but they kept falling sick and dying, and—well one thing kind of led to another and—"
A chill settled over him as something stirred in his memory.
The rope around his neck, the platform falling from beneath his feet, the sharp pain as his air was cut off, being thrust into blackness—
"Alfred? Alfred!"
Somebody was calling his name; Canada. It was Canada.
He was fine, he was safe.
America's eyes were stinging with tears; he tried not to focus on that.
"They hung me," America said flatly. "That why I get—all weird with real life magic shit."
There was silence.
America looked at his brother to see Canada gaping at him.
"See? Told you it was dumb, dude," America said.
"What?" Canada cried. "That's not dumb, that's terrifying! They hung a toddler, what the fuck?"
Wow. Canada must be pissed if he was swearing.
America decided not to point out that a five-year-old colonist had gotten jailed. Especially since she'd been released from jail.
Canada took a deep breath.
"Where was England when this happened?" Canada asked.
"Across the pond," America said.
Canada's eye twitched.
"Did he know?" he pressed.
"No. They threw my body into a shallow grave, and when I revived, I crawled out. I never told anyone till now," America said. "I mean, can you imagine that conversation, dude? Hello, Arthur, how was England? By the way, they hung me for witchcraft while you were gone."
"Alfred, that's not healthy—"
"I'm supposed to be the hero, Matt! How can I save people when I couldn't even save myself—"
"Alfred, you were a child," Canada said. "You're not weak or—or unheroic because some colonists hung a toddler."
While the words brought some form of comfort, it really didn't make him feel much better.
The echoes of accusations of witchcraft, of being a colluder with the Devil whispered in the back of his mind.
Canada's face softened.
"Do you want to go back to the hotel, Al?" he said.
America sniffed, trying to dry his eyes.
It didn't work.
"But—the meeting—" he said.
"Don't worry about the meeting," Canada said. "You can't go into the meeting in this state. We can get the notes from Francis later. I'll tell Germany you're sick."
Slowly, America nodded.
Having the other nations see him like this was the last thing he wanted, anyways.
As they left the restaurant, America could still feel the ghost of the rope around his neck.
The five-year-old mentioned was Dorothy Good.
And as Dramatic™ as it would be for colonial America to break out of his own coffin, people accused of witchcraft were indeed thrown into shallow graves. However, some bodies were recovered and given proper Christian burials.