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.
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Alfred grits his teeth and bears it was the White House goes up in flames. The structure isn't likely to be too damaged, but it hurts nonetheless. Mostly because Alfred is sure he saw Matthew in the group of soldiers who torched his capitol.
It confuses him, to be honest. He knows Matthew has every right to be angry with him, but Matthew had never been the vengeful sort, not even as children. As he sat on the small rise behind the House, silently his hand clutches at the sore skin on his chest and shoulder, above his heart.
Arthur finds him there, and Alfred smiles a bit, his previous confusion cleared. "You're lucky," Arthur tells him, "I would have burned it all."
Not even bothering to look up Alfred just snorts, "how European," he remarks drily.
Arthur ignores him, continuing on, "I do not know exactly what you preoccupation with your brother is America, but it is unhealthy." Alfred tenses, his eyes narrowing, but Arthur troops onward, determined to have his say. "All you have managed to do since you left is hurt Matthew," he informs his former charge, and Alfred bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from arguing.
It's true, that he and Matthew haven't been on the best of terms lately, and part of Alfred wants nothing more than to blame Arthur. He knows, however, that it is his own issues which drive them apart. He can't explain it to Arthur, but Alfred has loved Matthew since before Europe was involved, and he's just been trying to find a way to realize the relationship.
Granted, he hasn't gone about it the best way, but Alfred is willing to mature and grow with his circumstances if Matthew wants him to. Arthur must take his silence for rejection of what he is saying because he just sighs, "you are not that stupid boy," he says firmly, "go back to whatever you've been doing with France and leave your brother alone."
At that he's gone and Alfred, knowing he is alone lays down, wonder what Arthur meant. Alfred likes France well enough, but an ocean lays between them and their bonds aren't really all that deep. Mentally shrugging Alfred closes his eyes to let oblivion take him, knowing his own soldiers will come looking for him once this is sorted out.
He's so tired, as he lays on that hill, he almost doesn't recognize the familiar presence nearby. Luckily, he does, though he doesn't move a muscle. Matthew comes up, fairly close and Alfred half wonders if he's going to stab him. He doesn't, and Alfred has to fight back the grin when he hears Matthew whisper from a few feet away, "I do forgive you Al, please get better." Matthew leaves and Alfred allows himself to grin and wonder what Matthew meant by "getting better".
Alfred thinks he understands now, what Matthew meant by "get better", as he sits down heavily on his bed. The civil war is exhausting, not just physically but mentally. They'd called him from the fighting early on once they realized he wasn't stable enough to fight.
Usually, Alfred would have protested, but he was so relieved that day the president himself told him he would no longer be given the means to stab his fellow soldiers. That had been a relief, but being locked in his room for three years, unable to sleep or even really keep anything down while his people tore him almost literally in half was unbearable. He has dreams, of losing and the Confederates ceding and he would disappear, only to have someone else be the Union.
Those dreams left him sobbing and screaming and trying desperately to get out of his suddenly tiny cramped room, and it was after one such dream that the only even slightly enjoyable moment of his confinement occurred.
Sweat pouring down his face Alfred sits up, his entire body tense to the point of shaking. As he tries to calm down, Alfred can't help the groans of pain which came out, more fighting, somewhere in the west this time, and the groans turn to sobs as flashes of the dream come back. As he sobs, Alfred fails to breath and he starts hyperventilating. Panic, which before the civil war had been such a foreign concept, creeps up his spine, clouding his judgement.
He almost screeches when his bedroom door is opened. He doesn't get many visitors, except Lincoln and occasionally Welles. Grant had come to visit twice, once after Alfred was first taken off the field and again just after the battle of Antietam. Both times Alfred had been a wreck, but not nearly as much as he was now. Through the pain and fear and panic and so many other things Alfred can't tell who had entered.
For a moment he can't even recognize the cool fingers which start to wipe the sweat from his brow and out of his eyes. Once he does though, Alfred's entire body starts to slowly become less tense. Matthew looks better than the last time they met. His shoulder is out of it's sling and the burn marks have since left his face, and, Alfred thinks, squinting clouded eyes even as the tears continue, is no longer on his neck either.
Beyond that, there is something else. Matthew's presence would be described by some as forgettable, Alfred thinks they are insane. Matthew has the feel of a mountain almost not in that it is large or imposing, but in that it is steady and there and unwavering, if you're used to it, you may take it for granted but when you actually took the time to look, it was breath taking. Right now, Matthew looks so concerned, his bright indigo eyes peering up at his brother, mouth twisted into a soft frown. Alfred hates that frown, he hates anything which means Matthew isn't smiling. That hate has been directed at himself several times, and Alfred can feel it bubbling merrily away within him with all the other nasty emotions.
Matthew seems to realize this because his hands drift down a little so one is on each of Alfred's burning cheeks, and he gently brushes one thumb across one of his cheekbones, head tilted slightly. "Alfred," he whispers softly and the voice makes Alfred cry a little more, because he's just that pathetic now. Matthew starts at that, concern now drifting into the realm of distress, "Alfred," he says again, "why are you crying, why are you scared?" Matthew is good with emotions, Alfred thinks, for someone who has spent so much time with the fucking tight ass that is the British Empire.
That must be why, Alfred thinks, that when everyone else who checks in on him during one of his fits thinks he just must be feeling the effects of one of the numerous skirmishes, Matthew can see he is scared. "I," it comes out all wrong, frightened and small and breathless, "I had, a dream and I died and they took over and they were awful and God don't let that happen I don't want that I don't-" Matthew cuts him off gently, because Matthew is almost always gentle, and he is never unduly harsh.
"Alfred," the voice is soft again and filled with so much calm and reassurance it makes Alfred want to start crying again, "you won't die." This startles Alfred a little, mostly because he's been having this thought for the last two years now and Matthew is the first one to tell him it won't come true.
Despite himself, he peers suspiciously at the other nation, "how do you know?" He demands and it's angrier than he wanted, but not angry enough to scare Matthew who doesn't even blink. Matthew's lack of reaction just fuels Alfred, who hasn't had anyone to lash out at. "How do you know, what do you even care?" Matthew actually starts a little at this but he doesn't interrupt, seeing that Alfred needs this, "you can't help, you won't, you almost, you almost supported them, you don't know, you don't."
Matthew looks at him silently for a moment before standing. Alfred wants to beg him not to go, that he didn't mean it, but Matthew just sits next to him on the bed. He looks at Alfred for a moment before gently pulling him into a hug. Matthew understands that 'you' had not meant him, it had been for everyone.
Now, years later, in the fine spring of 1876, with a new state in the union and everything going more or less very well, Alfred is knee high in mud and soaking wet. Matthew is gaping at him, his jaw open and eyes wide, hands clutching at his doorway in an almost painful looking fashion.
"Alfred?" The question is incredulous, and it makes the older country laugh a little.
"I hope you don't mind my dropping by unannounced," Alfred is grinning so widely Matthew's face hurts a little in sympathy, "I was in the neighbourhood." At this Matthew's astonishment vanishes, and he lunges forward for a hug, despite the fact his brother is filthy and wet.
"What are you doing here?" The question is valid, but for some reason it makes Alfred's smile dim, his eyes suddenly a little sad. Immediately, Matthew starts to apologize, that little irrational part of himself worried Alfred will be offended and leave, "I'm sorry Alfred, I shouldn't act like I do not want you here, really I'm sor-"
Alfred cuts him off with a laugh and a finger pressed against his lips, "don't apologize Matt," he says gently, not removing his finger, "that should be my job." Matthew, who'd been going a little cross eyed trying to see Alfred's finger, furrows his brow at that and looks up. Seeing the confusion on his face, Alfred laughs again, removing his finger, "I'll explain everything, but could I impose upon you to let me in?" Matthew flushes at this and quickly yanks Alfred inside, not caring about muddy boots on his floor.
Matthew, so much like Arthur in some respects, starts to fuss, asking his brother where his suitcase is and how he got here, all the while chastising him for trekking through the rain. Alfred just lets him, smiling softly, letting Matthew tug off his wet garments only to shove dryer ones at him. The chastisements lasted past the act of getting Alfred dry and all the way into Matthew setting a cup of cocoa down onto the table he sat Alfred at.
"Are you done?" Alfred asks, a teasing note in his voice as he wraps his hands around the warm mug. Matthew stumbles a bit at that, before flushing again.
"Sorry Al," he mutters and ducks his head. Alfred takes a sip of his beverage and hums in appreciation, setting his cup back down.
"Didn't I say not to apologize," Matthew sends him a semi-pained glare at that, and Alfred continues on, "besides, I should be apologizing. I've been so busy lately, we both have but that's not an excuse to miss out on your birthday!" Matthew just gives Alfred a blank look at that, violet eyes a little confused.
He opens his mouth to say something before snapping it shut again, realization dawning, "oh Alfred," he breaths, looking flattered, "you didn't have to come all the way out here just for tha-" Alfred cuts him off again with a rather dark look.
"I did actually," the blond says firmly, blue eyes locked with Matthew's, "because I have something for you." Matthew frowns a little at this.
"I," he flushes a little, "I don't have anything for you..." Matthew trails off, looking down so he misses Alfred's shrug.
"That's fine Mattie," the older blond says, chugging down his drink and leaping up, "you will in a moment!" He catches Matthew off guard by practically swooping upon him, hoisting him up to his feet. Matthew, stunned by the sudden movements almost falls over but catches his balance, violet eyes wide. "Matthew," Alfred says, hands on Matthew's shoulders eyes locked, "I love you."
The declaration hangs between them, heavy and loud in the utter silence of the rural home. Matthew is trembling in Alfred's grip and Alfred is quickly becoming nervous as Matthew remains there, looking down in complete silence.
"How do you know?" Matthew looks up at him, his eyes suspiciously bright, though his voice is steady. Alfred blinks at the question, trying to think of a way to explain the strange sensation he associates with love, with Matthew. The other blond looks increasingly distressed as he demands, louder but not as steady, "how do you know you love me? Hmm, how?" He jerks out of Alfred's grasp but doesn't go anywhere, just slides back into his chair, "how could I possibly know?" He whispers, and Alfred slides down to kneel next to him, licking dry lips.
"Matthew, I, I don't know about you but for me..." he dies off, huffing slightly trying to describe it adequately, "you make me warm and cold and you make me happier and sadder than anyone else and even when I'm mad at you, enraged because of you I want you nearby." He coughs lightly and continues, "that's how I know." Matthew is still eyeing him uneasily so Alfred stands, "you don't have to say it back, if you don't mean it."
Alfred leaves the kitchen, fully planning to go outside and back down the muddy rural road until he finds the inn he knows he passed, but Matthew catches him just as he reaches the front door. The other blond latches onto his back, clutching his shirt and leaning his head against the others warm, broad back, "I do," he croaks, "you're all I ever wanted Alfred, I thought you knew." Alfred did know, but he also knows wanting something is not the same as loving it. They stay there for a moment before Alfred turns, wrapping his arm around the other and kissing him soundly.