Title: Love is a Thing to Become and Eternally Be
Rating: M. And it's not just for swearing.
Pairings: America/Canada/America
Warnings: Uh, sex between male nations (though honestly, if you're reading Hetalia fanfic you cannot be surprised), violence and slight historical liberties in places.
Disclaimer: Standard and not actually useful disclaimer goes here.
Author's Notes: De-anon from the kink meme, no doubt a few people recognize this. I'll slowly post edited chapters here, once a week or so. I won't give a schedule, I'll never follow it. I should probably say that as much as I enjoy dark!Alfred, I do believe that he's genuinely a nice guy, however I also think that certain points in history require certain traits to take a back seat.
annie: I'm glad, hopefully it stands to memory.
xXxXx
Alfred may not be an old nation or country, but his lands, and therefore that part of him, are ancient. He only remembers it vaguely, mostly the feeling comes to him in dreams which flee in the face of morning. He can almost remember the feeling of being intertwined with his neighbours, some of whom are dead and gone, others of whom are just gone.
In those not quite memories, there isn't really anything. It isn't exactly a sensation like being touched, it just is, but it's enough to reaffirm what he has known longer than he has been conscious, he and Matthew belong to one another.
In 1763 when two blond boys meet for the first time, in person at least, it does not go as Arthur expects. France's colony clings to France, begging him to stay, "s'il vous plait Francois, I'll be good I promise, please," while a suspiciously bright eyed France is forced to push him away as he glares more hatefully than ever at Arthur. Arthur smirks in return, and once Francis leaves, his colony just sort of deflates, his tiny body curling in on itself.
This is where the scene deviates from expectation. Arthur is prepared to go over, probably be hit and kicked by a toddler in a tantrum, and take him home. Instead, his own colony, who while very open and emotive is not known for his thoughtfulness, rushes forward, wrapping his own tiny arms around the newcomer. The little French boy does not push him away, simply sniffles and hugs back. After a stunned moment Arthur is able to get his bearings. Silently, he stoops and picks the two up, Alfred giggling, though the other blond, while he doesn't hit, is completely tense in Arthur's arms.
To Arthur and other outsiders, the scene is nothing more than two adorable children comforting one another, to Matthew and Alfred, it is so much more. From that moment on, the two are inseparable. Brash, outgoing Alfred, constantly moving but always willing to wait for his calmer, more standoffish counterpart.
The two grow and bloom together, sharing beds and food and just about anything which can be shared. It isn't perfect, of course, like any small children they fight, and they fight more bitterly because their closeness makes them that much more susceptible to the other. The worst fight, by far, is shortly before Alfred leaves, and it almost breaks the two apart.
Alfred and Arthur had spent the past week screaming at one another, the kitchen and dining room were dented and scratched with the remains of plates and cups and bowl which had been lobbed at one another by the two nations. The house is only quiet if one was gone, and Matthew sort of thinks he's going to go insane. The constant insults and quips are bad, but if either catch sight of him they pounce like wolves on a deer, which is sadly the case right now.
"Matthew!" The Canadian cringes as he hears Arthur call for him. He'd been on his way out, ready to sleep outside just to avoid his brothers, but the arguing nations had seen him as he tiptoed past the living room. Giving the door a longing gaze he sighs and enters the current war zone.
It is a mess, cushions are torn, portraits are slashed and vases are smashed on the ground. Matthew stares in mute horror at the disarray until his attention is drawn to the other two in the room.
They are both dishevelled, hair falling in front of their faces, eyes burning with hate and who knows what else. Unable to take the silence, Matthew resolves himself to trying to talk the other two down, 'you needed something, Sir?"
Arthur's eyebrows twitch slightly at the title, but he responds anyway, "your brother," he spits out, "seems to have somehow come to believe that should he leave, you would come with him. Care to explain why he would think that?" the Englishman sounds calm, but Matthew knows enough to hear the threat which hovers in the air.
Alfred, perhaps out of kindness or perhaps just because is Alfred, doesn't give Matthew a chance to respond, "because, you tyrant," is Alfred's frosty reply, "why would he want to stay with you, you don't even like him." Matthew winces a bit at that, and Arthur looks so far beyond livid that the Canadian can't help but worry someone is going to die tonight.
"I assure you," says a deceptively collected Arthur, "I like the boy just fine."
Alfred sneers at that, and opens his mouth but Matthew beats him to it, "I know!" He cries, drawing their attention, "I know exactly how you both feel regarding me," he's picking his words carefully, trying to be neutral, "but, but it is terribly late, can't, can't we discuss this later, over breakfast maybe?" Arthur's gaze is sharp, but he finally nods and exits the room.
Matthew almost sighs in relief, except for the fact that the minute they hear Arthur's door close Alfred has him pinned to the wall, furious. "Why do you keep doing that?" He hisses, blue eyes flashing with something which makes Matthew want to draw away or surge forward, he isn't sure. Either way, sensing the impending confrontation, he tries once again to head it off.
"I don't-" Alfred cuts him off with a painful squeeze of his wrists, pressing his nose against his brother's as he does so.
"Don't even try, Matthew, why the hell do you keep avoiding the question, I'm going to leave, and I'm going to become my own country, so why won't you just tell England you are too?" Alfred loses some of his aggression near the end, and that just makes this so much worse.
"Because I'm not Alfred." The southern nation freezes, his eyes wide, jaw set.
"What?" He asks, and it's not flat, like Arthur would be, but strangled and high, almost a whimper. "Matt, how can you, I mean – I, you..." he can't even speak, so Matthew tries his best to explain.
"I want to," he says, as sincerely as he's ever said anything in his life, "but...but they don't, Alfred, my people, they like England, so, I can't, I can't just-" Alfred cuts him off by bringing his unoccupied hand up to Matthew's throat.
"Why the fuck would you stay here," he's hissing again, the hand around his brother's throat slowly tightening, and Matthew almost laughs because he knows Alfred probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "Arthur doesn't care about you, and neither does England," he notes Matthew's lack of protest and smirks, "you're too French and you know it. He can't love you, he's barely capable of it, and besides," the hand is still tightening, and Matthew can't really breath anymore, "he loves me." Matthew, more out of obligation than any real conviction tries to protest, which seems to fuel Alfred on, "honestly, though. I'm the only person who's ever going to fight for you. Arthur only took you from France because he wanted to upset Francis, and even that didn't work." This is where Matthew struggles, because he doesn't want to hear all those nasty little thoughts which come to him at night, or when he's alone given voice by the person he thought he could trust most in this world.
Alfred doesn't have to do much to stop his brother, Matthew is pinned against the wall, hands above his head and the lack of air is making him sluggish, so he continues on, "it didn't work, because, you're just a few hectares of snow, after all." And there it is, it's worse than being chocked, or punched or hit, and Matthew's entire being tries to flinch away from the words. Alfred, who can flip through emotions with almost the same ease Arthur does, goes from harsh to calming in less than a second.
"But that's just them Matt," he's cooing now, noes and mouth against Matthew's cheek, "I love you, I really I do, I think you're beautiful and wonderful, so just come with me, okay?" His hands, in contrast to his voice, are still tightening, and Matthew can feel his larynx giving way and his wrist bones grinding together. Desperately, he tries to speak, and eventually gets a word out, even as his vision goes dark.
"No," it's quiet and raspy, but Alfred hears it and suddenly lets go of the other male, letting him drop to the floor. Alfred doesn't say anything more, just turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the front door behind him. Matthew is too far gone to sit up, and just allows himself to lose consciousness, Alfred's voice in his head telling him just how unwanted he has made himself.
Arthur comes down stairs in the morning and makes breakfast, and he finds both boys bedrooms empty, leaving a cold dread to climb up his spine. He stews in thoughts of ingrates and traitors until he goes into the sitting room, and sees his second oldest colony crumpled on the floor, neck swollen and bruised, his wrists looking fractured if not broken.
Arthur is gentle with the boy, who doesn't wake as Arthur takes him up to his room or tends to his wrists and throat as best he can, Matthew doesn't wake until the next morning, so he misses the fight between Arthur and Alfred, where for once he's the centre of attention, Arthur screaming about how Alfred could have killed him, and Alfred screaming right back that he'd never do such a thing. He sleeps through the row, and through Arthur coming in to check up on him.
Matthew even sleeps through Alfred sneaking up one last time. Alfred smooths a hand over his brother's brow, blue eyes bright and so sorry, before he leaves one last time. Matthew wakes up alone, and doesn't even need to be told the Alfred is gone, he feels it.