December 7, 1941

With bombs no longer dropping on his heart, his London, Arthur had made more of a recovery than he could have dreamed on the nights when the fire ate at him. Thanks to Canada's propping up of his battered defenses, England and his people had been able to pull themselves together, and would live on for another day.

Little victories. Arthur told himself, temporarily back from the front, where his men were sometimes holding their own, sometimes giving ground. Little victories, like knowing who is on your side.

Like Matthew.

For a change, the tall lanky pilot was cleaned up (A miracle in this broken city, in this broken time), and sitting across the table from Arthur, pint in hand, and a hint of his old shy smile starting to break through.

Despite his curiosity as to the identity of Matthew's drinking partner last year, England never asked him any questions about it. The moments when he thought of satisfying the itch, and find out why exactly the two of them had been out wandering the streets during an attack left as soon as Arthur caught a glimpse of Matthew's scowling face.

But he wasn't scowling now.

"Everything will be okay, Arthur." Matthew told him, faint blush of alcohol touching his face. He wondered for a moment, if this boy still looked like his brother. Matthew had grown- but had Alfred? The country had grown, he reasoned with himself, so the youth had most likely grown into a man. Guilt washed across him, as Matthew spoke of plans and rebuilding what had been destroyed. "Bastards will wish they'd never crossed the channel."

"Thank you," Arthur could only manage, focusing on the conversation. But he knew that they were losing more ground than they were gaining the past month. Francis had given up already- and Arthur couldn't quite forgive that.

Never a mention of Alfred to Matthew, lest those eyes harden, and the openness of the face close up. It was as close to peace as England could personally gain with Canada right now, and he didn't want to spoil it.

This was as close to forgiven as he would likely ever come.

So lost in those thoughts, in the pleasant moment of sitting with his former colony without bearing the brunt of a glare, Arthur missed the exact moment that the pub's radio had been turned up, and the music had died.

He didn't miss the blood draining from Matthew's face, however, leaving him nearly as white as his shirt. Nor the spark of absolute fear and horror that flashed through violet eyes, leaving the boy gasping for breath.

"Fuck." The boy breathed, "They didn't- they couldn't- he was NEGOTIATING- Fuck, fuck FUCK!"

Panic. Fear. Pain.

The chair that the other had been sitting in crashed to the ground in the eerie silence of bar patrons as Matthew ran out the door.

Leaving England with the echoes of the broadcast that had provoked his drinking partner to flee.

"... devastating attack on the American base at Pearl Harbor, details are ..."

Arthur didn't hear the rest, as he chased Matthew.

He didn't have far to run- as the echoes of Canada yelling came from the alley next to a bombed out building. And an echo of something soft hitting something hard. England frowned, and dove down the narrow street, afraid for a moment that Matthew had run into some idiot looking to steal ration cards.

He needn't have worried on that account, but the tall blond youth was punching the crumbing wall.

"Damnit. You idiot. I told you this would happen." There was something strained, raw and to a point of breaking in that voice. "I fucking told you not to-"

Words broke off into a sob as Arthur halted beside Matthew. Another fist struck the wall, brick cracking from the force- but in the faint light of the moon, he could see blood on the bare knuckles. This had to stop.

"Matthew." England grabbed the next hand before it could be launched at the wall. Struggled against the strength, "Please, Matthew. Hurting yourself is not going to help. If you need something to punch, hit me, and we'll get on with doing what needs to be done."

Silvery wet tracks showed clearly against the young man's cheeks, and both arms suddenly dropped, as though all of the energy had just been released.

"Iggy..." Matthew whispered through another little hiccuping sob. England tried not to wince at the nickname that Alfred had given him so long ago. "Arthur, I-"

And suddenly, somehow, the taller boy was clinging to him like a lifeline, face buried in his shoulder and crying. The only thing he could do was wrap his own arms around the broad shoulders, and muffle his own tears. He had never been good at comforting.

"We'll go to the base," His voice was a bit choked, and he struggled to control it. "So you can call- and get ready to fly to America. "

It took them both a few minutes to pull themselves together, but in the end, Matthew with his worried violet gaze was connected to his brother, nearly a half a world away.

Arthur gave him privacy, returning just as Matthew was replacing the receiver.

"Will you be leaving in the morning?" England asked carefully.

"No." Matthew said slowly, giving one of those rare half-shy smiles that Arthur hadn't seen for years. "He said he'd kick my ass if I left before the job was done. He'll be fine. He's... tougher than that."

Arthur nodded, a faint smile of his own.

"I have to go talk to Eagle Squadron though. Let them know."

"Oh?" England frowned, puzzled. All the Canadian fliers had squadron nicknames. Bear. Eagle. Hawk. Why would that one-

"Because there will be a declaration of war tomorrow. And most of Eagle are American."

His mouth must have dropped open, because Matthew laughed, (When was the last time that had happened?) patted him on the shoulder, and walked out.

The little 'Thank you," dropped in his ear didn't register for a good twenty minutes.