~Canada's PoV~

Darkness.

Pain.

Nations.

War.

Those were the only things I could think of.

They swamped me, drowned me until nothing was left.

Why?

What had happened to make me like this?

What had happened to put me in so much pain I couldn't think of anything else?

"Mattie... Mattie!" A loud, obnoxious voice.

When I tried blinking open my eyes, I couldn't. It felt like they were sealed shut.

"Alfred, you know what they said..." That was a British accent. And Alfred... Who was he? I couldn't clearly remember, but I knew that I should know that name. From somewhere.

I dimly heard something slam up against something else. I tried twisting my body to the source of the noise, but it wasn't responding.

It was like everything had been shut off.

I couldn't control it.

"I know, dammit!" Alfred replied, a tinge of desperation in his voice as it cracked. "I just can't... I can't believe it! I know he'll wake up! He has to..!"

"Bloody hell, America! Put. Me. Down!"

America?

Who was that?

Where they talking about me?

They must've been. Who else would it be?

What was going on?

Who were these people?

Where was I?

Wait...

Who was I?

I fished through my memory, but came up with a blank.

"Amérique... Angleterre.." There was another voice. Was that accent... French? Something in me said it was. Something in me said that I should know it, said that I should remember it. But every time I tried I just got a sharp pain in my head, like there was a wall blocking it. A wall that I was pushing up against, trying with all my might to push down. But it wouldn't budge.

"What, you damned frog? It's been one hundred bloody years. If he was going to wake up-"

"Shut up, England! He's going to wake up! I know it!" That first voice came up again, and the sound of slamming, "He's going to..." The voice suddenly died, as if the one talking was losing his will.

A deep part of me screamed in protest.

I'm right here! It said.

Why, though?

Who were they?

Who were they to me?

Why can't you guys ever see me? It said.

I struggled to regain at least slight control of my body.

Why had I lost it in the first place though?

What was happening to me?

What were the countless voices swarming through my head?

I heard muttering.

And one other sound that shook me to my core, tearing at me. One I desperately wanted to stop.

I couldn't make either out, though.

Sighing, I let myself fall back under as I heard another sound that was slowly growing more distant each time it reached my ears.

It was a heavy tap, I think...

Oh well.

Not like it mattered, anyways.

...What was it, though..?

~America's PoV~

"Mattie... Mattie!" I shouted, suddenly on high alert. I swore I just saw him twitch. England came up and put a comforting hand on my back.

"Alfred, you know what they said..." He started. I quickly blinked away tears as something inside me snapped. I wheeled around, grabbing the Brit's collar and shoving him up against the wall. We were both silent as we glared at each other for a few moments before I broke our staring contest, unable to hold back the tears anymore.

"I know, dammit!" I cursed my vocal cords as my voice cracked, rising an octave, "I just can't... I can't believe it! I know he'll wake up! He has to..!" I trailed off, unable to continue as I repeatedly cursed myself.

It felt like all I could do these days was cry.

It was pitiful, but I couldn't stop it.

I lay my head against his shoulder, silently crying into it, somehow forgetting I was still holding him up.

"America! Put. Me. Down!" He snapped. I tensed, before dashing to compose myself as I lifted my head.

I couldn't just... It's not those times anymore. That's my own fault.

I couldn't just break down in front of England...

"Amérique... Angleterre..." France said softly from behind us. For a moment, my breath hitched in my throat and I froze, thinking it was Mattie talking before my common sense came over me again and I remembered it was the Frenchie.

When he talks quietly like that, they can sound so similar...

"What, you damned frog? It's been one hundred bloody years. If he was going to wake up-"

"Shut up, England! He's going to wake up! I know it!" I couldn't take it anymore and I repeated the same phrase I always did. "He's going to..."

Over and over, I clung onto those three words. That one broken promise. Desperately searching for a light in the darkness, grabbing hold of anything I possibly could.

I refused to be like everyone else.

They had lost hope in the comatose Nation.

Everyone had.

The only reason France and England still came was to check up on me.

I admired France for it, seeing his adopted son in such a state daily, when he was convinced there was no way for Canada to wake up... I tried not to think about he had been taken away from the French. Much less talk about everything as if he still had a glimmer of hope.

I knew he didn't, though.

It hurt him too much to dare to hope.

England, while I owed him for coming - I felt like his reassurance was the only thing that was keeping me sane nowadays, - I would be even more thankful if he could be a little more optimistic. At least around me. His opinion was one of the few I truly valued; it hurt deeper than I'd ever admit out loud whenever I heard the Brit say that my brother would never wake up.

I walked away, taking slow and unsteady steps before leaning against the glass window. It was the only thing separating me from Mattie. I had stopped going into the room about two weeks ago; it hurt too much always seeing the pale skin, the way his chest just barely rose and fell in time with his shallow breaths, the eyelids that simply refused to open despite all my pleading. He doesn't even know about NATO, and it was the first thing that truly brought us together. Two sides of the same coin, and one was clueless, stuck in a deep sleep. The realization hit home, and it hit home hard.

"Amérique..." Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered France talking again, just that one word.

Just my shortened name, in his language. His accent.

Mattie's occasional accent. Mattie's second language.

I'm not sure if it was that, or if it was how he had turned me around and pulled me into a tight hug, or maybe it was even how so I could see so much of my brother in the French Nation, but somewhere in those few moments I started crying again.

I hadn't seen France genuinely smile at all over the past fifty or so years. It hurt seeing the normally passionate man so broken.

"Frog, we need to be going," England said after several minutes had passed, "You don't want to hold up the others." France looked skeptical. I stood up, somehow pulling up a weak smile.

"Dude, the British dude's right. You dudes can't miss the meeting." I realized after finishing I had said one too many dudes to successfully pull off the 'I'm fine' act.

"America..." My adoptive father said softly. I shook my head.

"No, you need to get going. Sorry I can't be there." Again. I added to myself. I had been neglecting my duties as a Personification in order to stay with Mattie, in case something happened.

Nothing ever did, though.

"No, it is okay. Everyone gets it." France said softly.

"Thanks, dude." I muttered.

They nodded solemnly, before turning and walking down the hall without a word.

It was weird, I admit, seeing them not argue for once.

I stood at the window about an hour after the others had left, staring inside the room.

Waiting anxiously.

For something.

For anything.

Any change in the heart monitor.

Any change in the shallow breaths I had now grown so very accustomed to.

One hundred years, huh? Some brother I was... I remember finding Mattie that day, as if it had happened yesterday. That memory, that sight, the feeling of his limp body in my arms... It was all scorched into my memory like a scar.

"Yo British dude, have you seen Canada anywhere?" I asked, speed walking up to my dad. It's been a month since the war ended, and no one's seen hide nor hair of the Canadian.

"Who are you talking about, bloody wanker?" Britain snapped. I winced, remembering how our dad had trouble both seeing and remembering the shadow-like Nation. Exactly like so many others. I hated it, hated seeing my brother so easily ignored or forgotten. He deserved so much more recognition than what he got.

Each time someone asked me or France 'who?' whenever either of us brought him up sent a sharp stab straight through my heart. Everyone needed a hero, even heroes need heroes. And he was mine.

The idea of him being missing, especially right after something like the Great War, had me worried to no end.

"Amérique? What are you-?"

"France! Frenchie! Dude! Where the hell is Mattie?!" Thank God he was here.
If anyone knew, it was him.

He had to know.

"What? Is he not in Canada?" The French questioned, a nervous glint now in his eyes as he studied me.

Dammit, dammit, dammit! Where the hell was he?

"No, he isn't. Why do you think I'm here?" Cursing under my breath, I started pacing across the grass, unable to stand still. I paused, taking a moment to observe them both. Four years at war was harsh for anyone, but this time...

This time must have been hell.

I had only been there for the last year or two, and it took its toll on me.

They both looked weary still, their hair drooping and dead. France still had bruises and cuts all along his face and arms, and more were probably hidden under his clothes.

No.

No probably about it.

The war had been deafening for all of France.

His body must be proof enough of that.

England, on the other hand, simply looked tired. Exhausted, actually. After a month of recuperating, mourning the dead, and rebuilding, he had healed surprisingly well physically though.

I looked between the two, pursing my lips, before coming to the conclusion that had been sitting on the tip of my tongue this entire time.

"We need to find him."

I needed to tell him how I felt.

And nothing was going to stop me.

Even if it meant going straight back into another war.

I needed to tell him that I loved him.

I walked into Mattie's room, slowly sitting down next to his bed. I had forgotten about why I had stopped doing so. The sight of everything pained me. My hand reached up, grasping his, which didn't do much except sit in my grip limply. Even though I had grown used to the feeling of his dead weight in my palm, it still brought tears to my eyes.

I raised my other hand, shakily tracing the long, thin scar that sat across his throat with one finger. A fresh bubble of anger rose in my chest towards Germany, the one who had done this to him. To my brother, and the one I loved more than anything.

I let out a choked sob as my gaze sat on his closed eyelids, desperately watching for something, anything.

"Mattie... Dude, please... Please, wake up... You have to..." I said through heavy breaths, "Everyone else has given up on you... Even France... Even France doesn't want to put any hope... On what he thinks is a lost cause..." I begged. No answer came, though. No quiet laugh, no 'jeez, America,' not even an 'eh' was emitted from his still lips. Taking another shaky breath, I tried again. The last idea I had to try and wake him up today. One I couldn't use again until next year.

"Mattie, please... It's July First, your birthday... I want to celebrate it with the one I love." Though, as always, no response. I sighed, crestfallen.

How I missed the sound of his voice. The look of his smile every time I made him laugh. The feeling of his hug. The gleeful but worried rush whenever we played ball and I ended up hitting him in the face with it.

It was the same every day.

I always sat here beside him, talking to him. It didn't have to be about his country, I just... Talked. About memories, about things that were going on with the others. About how Kumajiro was doing, whom I had started taking care of.

I kept him updated on what was going on in Hockey every time a new season came around, even though I knew that, had he been awake, he never would've let me live down how many times I've lost to him.

People always say that when you're in a coma, you're still aware of what goes on around you. That you can still hear people, still feel them. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could even see them.

I prayed constantly that was true.

Praying was the only thing I could do for him.

And I've never felt so helpless or lost as I have been this past century, even during World War Two.

I rested my head against his stomach, pressing my ear against his chest and listening to his unnaturally slow heartbeat. The rhythm both pained and calmed me; it was an odd sensation.

I was silent, just listening to it and thinking about how my brother would miss yet another birthday. I was like that for about ten minutes when something changed.

His breathing pattern suddenly stopped short, and the thump of his heart sped up.

I tensed, freezing in place, not daring to look up for a few moments. Can it really..? Snapping out of my mental trainwreck I whipped my head around to face his, choking on another sob and shouting for a nurse.

Violet eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling, full of fear.

"Mattie!" At the sound of my voice, he started thrashing. I don't know why. I tried forcing him to remain still, putting all my weight on top of him. Normally it would've been hard, but after one hundred years, he was weak. Weaker than any Personification should ever be.

"Mattie, stop! Calm down!" I shouted. I heard the door slam open, and shuffling going on in the room. Probably a nurse or doctor.

But I didn't check. I was zeroed in on keeping the panic-stricken Nation in place.

The doctor rushed over, saying something about keeping Matthew as still as possible as he lined up a syringe with his neck. I coughed meekly. What does he think I'm trying to do? Make a doughnut?!

Mattie pushed against me, but I grabbed the edge of the bed to keep myself - and him - down against the thin linens.

"Canada, listen to me," I pleaded into his ear, his long, blond hair tickling my nose from how close we were. "This isn't you. We're trying to help." He calmed down slightly, but not without sending a frozen shock through my heart.

"Who am I? Who are you? Why are you trying to help me?" He asked shakily. I froze, staring into his terrified violet eyes as the doctor plunged the syringe into his neck, and slowly, slowly, they fluttered shut once again.

A/N: Sorry 'bout Al's OOC-ness in this chapter... It's hard trying to figure out how different characters would react to different situations, as I said in my WW1 one-shot collection. And I thought Al would just be that close to his family that... That. Would happen. I don't know... I did a thing. I like that thing. But I can't describe that thing. I think it's the fact I'm writing this at midnight... e_e I'll be posting this thing in tomorrow though... Or it would be today, when I do... Um... Thing.
And I know. I suck at writing amnesiac people. T_T It's so harddddd. So different. There's the 'clueless idiot' main character and then there's actually the 'I dunno derp' main character.
Hopefully I'll get better, though!
As always, hope you guys enjoy! n.n
In the meantime, I'm just gonna go over there to do a thing for a thing so I can test a thing for someone else's thing...
Thing.
DERP.
XD