Canadaslighter here :D Hey, sorry for removing this chapter, I edited it. I had to post something to put up the authors note last time, so here is the (hopefully) improved copy of Chapter 6 :D
"He's what?"
Francis's voice cut across the loud noise of the tavern, blue eyes cold. The boy who had looked so much like his son just stared back, grimacing. He wondered if this was what his Mattieu looked like now, all sharp angles and an air of tiredness behind young eyes.
"He's fighting with Arthur. I asked him that was one of the things I made sure to do Francis," the boy's was quiet, almost as though he was trying to assure himself of something. All Prussia could think was that for a boy who wanted to start revolution he was rather tied up with his past and emotions. Yet, for such a young nation, this was natural, something to be encouraged, he supposed.
France's fist slammed onto the table nearby, knocking the mugs of stale liquid onto the floor in his anger. Yet soon the fury in his form faded away, leaving only a father without a child, one who had desperately clung onto the hope that Mattieu was still his. Arthur had finally managed to break him by mangling Mattieu up so much that he become his damned toy soldier.
Cruel, yes, but very effective.
Gilbert rested a hand on his oldest friend's shoulder, trying to ignore the shudders that racked the suddenly frail body, as he tried to disentangle the image of the tiny boy and the bird with the idea of the man he'd have to shoot.
(~)
He'd grown.
That was all Gilbert could think as he stared at the man across the battlefield. It should be Francis getting the first sighting of this lost child, yet he was, locking eyes with Mattieu. The small waif he remembered was now a man, with few traces of the child left. His hair still curled at the ends though. The albino couldn't help but wonder what it felt like to run his hands through it. Would it still feel as soft as it once had, or would it be different, just like the figure opposite him?
(~)
Matthew tensed his shoulders when he saw the Prussian staring at him. It had been so long since he'd seen those red eyes, the last memory of them in that room he tried to forget about. His men shouted around him and he turned his back on the man he had idolised.
"On the count! For the Empire and God save the King!" He shouted, arm raised, giving the signal for the attack to begin. He had to do this for Arthur.
He ran alongside his men. They ran through the muck of the field, already trodden with footprints and bodies. This was the second day of this battle. He planned to end it here, not wanting to draw out this slaughter. The American troops responded, men with fear in their eyes running at their mirror images. Two armies, the difference being ideals and the colours of their uniforms.
Matthew gulped back his fear. He hadn't had much experience with this, didn't know what to expect. Yet it was better than a month ago. A month ago, when his closest mortal friend died slowly with an infected bullet wound. Matthew had held his hand, listened to his last prayers and promised to give the wedding ring to his wife. Alfred had been at that fight.
It had seemed like he was aiming for Matthew.
He shook his head, unfortunately returning to the situation just as his bayonet impaled the man in front of him. Forcing back his gag reflex, he kept running, eyes locked in front of him. Matthew wasn't even thinking about what he saw.
He hated war.
(~)
Why was he fighting for Arthur? What had that bastard done to deserve the love that amazing boy?
(~)
He had to fight for Arthur. He couldn't let Alfred leave them.
(~)
He had nothing to lose yet everything to gain. He come home again, back to France and Gilbert. Gilbert could feel at home again.
(~)
If Alfred left, he lost everything. He knew Arthur had just wanted to spite Francis, to show off his power, when he took him away from the only home he knew. And he knew that Arthur regretted it. He knew it every time Arthur looked at him. Yet England had let him into his home, and Matthew loved him for it.
He knew if Alfred left, his older brother would be torn apart.
(~)
The men caught glimpses of each other: Francis would see this strange, distorted version of his son and forget his aim; Alfred would turn his back on his brother, not wanting to see what he was willing to do; and Gilbert would just stare.
The slight contact with his son was not helping Francis, yet the days when they managed to land a few shots on Arthur, Francis would drink freely, a smile on his face and joy in his arms.
It was only in the early hours did Gil hear him crying about the past and 'little Angleterre'.
(~)
They'd lost.
He had seen the showdown between his brothers, how Arthur had fallen into the muck when he could have won as America left him. Matthew couldn't help but wonder if the same mercy would have been shown if it was him in Alfred's space.
(-)
Francis made to take a step forward but faltered, looking torn. His eyes were filled with tears, a slight smile on his face that slowly fell. The light blue of his coat was dirty, stained with mud and blood. Matthew couldn't help but wonder how much of it was of his own people. The thought made him vaguely sick.
"Mattieu…?"
"Matthew. My name is Matthew."
Francis gasped quietly, eye widening before he turned and left, the once elegant step now barely containing his sorrow. Arthur soon followed suit, leaving a lingering glance on the
Matthew turned to Gilbert.
"I hope you're happy."
(~)
He wasn't.