Title: Between You and Me

Authoress: Ankaris123

Summary: More-than-one-shot. They used to be one; just North America. Now they were two, and two they will stay. No matter how much they wanted it all back.

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekaz Himaruya.

A/Ns: So the full story is almost complete, just two more sections to finish. There will be approximately 4 or 5 instalments in total (so two or so more after this one). Good news is that if I finish it by the end of today, you'll get daily updates. Bad news is if I don't, it'll take who knows how much longer than that. To avoid spoilers, the full author's notes will be at the end of the chapter along with historical notes. Enjoy!

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Revenge proves its own executioner. – John Ford

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If the North was famous for one thing, it was its harsh unforgiving winters. Even on the North American continent, General Winter did not shirk his handiwork. In fact, it seemed he paid extra attention this time around, pulling no stops and lavishing the land with natural destruction.

He was a small figure amidst the blinding flurry. Flakes of ice pelted down, soaking into his inadequate protection against the elements when it melted. Once in a while, he shook his head to dislodge the pile of snow growing there by the second. He did not spend much here in the winter season, usually migrating south to join his other self and even outside of those times, they were never far apart.

The memories of those blissful winters provoked a twinge of pain in his chest. The ache amplified in intensity with each step north despite the numbness in his frozen limbs. The small polar bear cub was his only companion but a faithful one, rubbing up close to his shivering form and sharing his tiny warmth.

He looked around him, wondering where he intended to go, for what purpose did he wander this white wonderland so aimlessly.

And then, an answer appeared out of the storm.

A golden beacon of infinitesimal size disrupted the world of whites, blues, and grays. Curious, he approached it to find it was a thatch of blond hair. With some effort, the little boy and the cub uncovered the unconscious figure buried in the snow. He was the taller man of the two he had seen before.

He bit his lip, asking the bear with wide violet eyes what he should do. It grunted in uncertainty.

They sat together thinking about their next move until the man was nearly freshly buried. Resolute, he grabbed the man by one arm and started to drag him through the snowy plains, sparing only a moment to gaze back south and the way he came.

When the man woke up in the cabin, the first thing he asked half-delirious was,

"Alfred?"

Sitting on the cotton sheets of the narrow bed, the boy was tempted to nod and say yes, that he was Alfred. That he and his other self were one and the same.

Instead he shook his little head bereft. Tears prickled his eyes but he held them back. When the man fell asleep again, he roused the explorers in the camp to tell them the news so he could continue on his journey wherever it may lead him.

Yet several days later when the weather eased and the man recovered in full, he was still there, eating their strange broths and collecting wood for their fires.

The man began to teach him his language which he took to almost hungrily. It did not take long for his fluency to reach a decent level and on long nights, shut in by winter, they conversed about their lives.

Once in a while, the man, Francis, would ask about him and his other self and he, Matthieu as he was now addressed, would be careful to use the plural form 'nous' instead of the singular 'je'.

Every time he learned a new word and its inflected forms, he admired the spelling differences between one and more. With each addition to his French vocabulary, he felt himself slip farther away from his English other self, two paths diverging with a growing distance between.

He comforted himself in that his other self had pushed him away first and that this was divine punishment should the other him feel the same hurt from their gradual splitting.

Am I-...are you hurting? Because you should. You should feel the consequences of what you started.

Somehow, Matthew couldn't help but think that retribution wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

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America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. – Abraham Lincoln

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"Come, Canada. Leave that British bastard behind and join us. I know you want to." A calloused hand was thrust out as an offering. A mere touch would sign their agreement to unite.

Matthew Williams, Upper and Lower Canada, stared at the dried bloodstains caked on the rough skin in muted indecision. In the distance, gunshots and screams mingled in the smoking winter air.

To whom did the blood belong? A fellow American? A British Soldier? A Canadian citizen?

It didn't matter either way. He raised his weary eyes to meet America's steady, determined gaze. He felt his heart clench at the encouraging smile, a part of him urging him to say yes.

Gripping the rifle he liberated from a fallen soldier of unknown loyalties, the blond boy shook his head slowly but surely.

"No."

"Why?! Why do you keep siding with him? What has he done for you? Don't you want to stop being British North America and become just North America again?" Just like the old times?

Disappointment transitioned into rage as the soon-to-be United States of America raised his own weapon, pulling back the hammer which clicked into place, ready to be fired.

Closing his eyes, Matthew shook his head again. When their gaze met again, Alfred was affronted by a deep sorrow he did not know nor understand.

Hesitantly, he raised the loaded rifle until it pointed at his brother nation's chest. The long barrel was just an inch shy of touching him. He swallowed hard and held it steady.

"I'll ask you one more time. Will you or will you not join us?" Say, yes. Dear God, please, just say yes.

Instead of replying, Canada grabbed the rifle barrel, almost startling America into pulling the trigger. He was weak from all the fighting; he could not win in a physical battle. They both knew this.

Then, without a word, he guided the weapon upwards until it was level with his forehead. The unwavering despair in those purple eyes instilled alarm within him.

Don't tell me to shoot you. Don't do it.

"Speak!" he yelled one last time barely able to keep from stuttering as conflicting emotions built up in his chest. This was wrong, this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

I know I pushed you away first. I didn't know at the time that I had made a mistake. But I'm pulling back now, I've lived and I've learned. We can still make up for it. We can still make our world right again.

But even he knew it wasn't that easy to return to how they used to be. Nothing could emphasis the division that grew between them over the years than the image they presented now. One taller, the other a mere youth, the different colours of their tattered uniforms, the look of victory and desperation, of loss and determination, one with a finger on the trigger, the other its target.

The stolen rifle slipped out of Canada's hand, clattering onto the soot-stained cobblestones as he gave his reply,

"It's too late."

At that moment, something small and white drifted down from the heavens, landing on the weapon held precariously between them.

It was snowing.

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These Yankee politicians are the lowest race of thieves in existence. – John Sparrow Thompson

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"I can't believe this."

Canada shook his head at America sitting opposite but more specifically at the nation seated next to him. Seemingly oblivious to the statement, England gave his tea another stir, the small silver spoon clinking against the porcelain.

"We've discussed this long enough, Canada. Sign the papers and we can end this dispute once and for all," the Briton said nonchalantly. Centuries of diplomacy allowed him to easily ignore the seething hatred directed at him. He took a sip of the hot liquid and crossed his legs.

"Why are you siding with him on this? This isn't fair," the Northern nation said through clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. He looked to America who stared stony-faced at the table, hands clasped together.

Are you just going to sit here and let him win this for you? Or is it material wealth all that matters here, America? Where is your pride? Since when have you taken the easy way out?

Why are you allowing someone else to settle our issues?

It was difficult to think straight, searing betrayal boiled within him as he looked from his neighbour nation to his part-time caretaker.

Stop treating me like a child!

"This isn't about being fair, my boy, accept it as a nation. If you continue to persist with this show of immaturity, don't expect full autonomy in the future."

The North American dominion bit down on his tongue lest some vicious thought made itself known to the others. It didn't matter if the Empire still held control over his foreign policies. This was a personal matter concerning Canadian soil. He had been counting on England to back him up. He should have known this trust was all for naught.

"Fine," he said after a pause, picking up the fountain pen sitting on a stand in the middle. "Fine, I'll sign it."

With morbid satisfaction, he scrawled his signature on the papers in vicious, harsh strokes. The dark ink bled into the smooth paper, spreading out to form miniscule spider webs of black and blue. He allowed the expensive writing utensil to drop with a clack onto the polished wooden surface in a small but significant show of his displeasure and disgust at the current proceedings.

I have lost, but I will not admit that this is your victory.

Rising from his seat, he did not bid either of them farewell as he strode out of the conference room, resisting the impulse to burn the union jack flying outside the parliament building.

"The lad will get over it. He might not look it at the moment, but he can be very forgiving. What say you and I go and discuss further trade options between our countries? We understand that America is an important part of the global economy after all..."

As Christmas approached, a picket fence was erected separating Alaska and Canada in the Northwest corner of the continent; yet another boundary pushing the two nations further apart.

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A/Ns: The more research I do, the more I ache, ache, ache inside. Fanfiction is not healthy for me. Everything just gets worse and worse from here on out and it really hurt to write it. The next instalment's first quote really got me going but you'll have to wait for that one, eh?

Section 1: This, of course, refers to the meeting of Canada and France. Historically speaking, France came to Canada first and New France stretched from present day Eastern Canada down to through present day United States all the way to Louisiana (which still retains some of its French culture). It was after the Treaty of Utrecht that it was withdrawn back to the North though most of it was forfeited over to Great Britain.

Section 2: The infamous war of 1812, specific setting, ambiguous for the sake of the fic. I believe no further explanation is needed.

Section 3: This refers to the Alaska Boundary Dispute which continued for many decades between Russia and Great Britain until the U.S. purchased Alaska. During the Yukon Gold Rush, Americans came in droves up the West causing for boundary issues between them and the Canadians of British Columbia. The issue was finally resolved in 1903, back when Canada became a dominion with its legislature and foreign policies controlled by the British Empire. After many stalemates, to great controversy, the Lord Chief Justice of England sided with the United States' claim although in the end the boundaries were set quite beneficially for the Canadians. At the time, it sparked violent anti-British sentiments and the Canadian judges refused to sign in protest.

The next part is...rather heartbreaking in my opinion. Please look forward to it!

Thanks for reading.