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. This part, first little bit aside, I do like. I like when these two snuggle. They are snuggly.
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The First World War ends in a conference which only sets the stage for another disaster, much to Alfred's frustration. He does not get to see Matthew, Arthur keeps them far apart, not actively, but just by keeping Matthew busy, and then the thirties hit and he's too sick to search out his lover.
They go through world war two without contact as well, and by the end Alfred is going mad. Mad enough to search all through London one evening when he's supposed to be meeting with everyone to see Germany and Prussia off, see them torn apart.
He finds Matthew huddled outside the hotel they are being housed in, absently puffing on a cigarette. "I'm sorry Mattie," is the first thing he says, wanting desperately to wrap his arms around his lover, but he refrains, humans are everywhere today, and they simply don't react well to things like that.
Matthew looks at him, and he gives Alfred a tiny little smile which makes the other blond's heart swell and constrict at the same time. "They all talked about how wonderful you were Alfred," he says, and Alfred is glad that they are able to talk about something twenty years gone with no preamble, just as they always had been able to do. Silently, Matthew offers Alfred one of his cigarettes. and the American accepts, using Matthew's to light his own.
"Did Cpt. Doore get the note to you?" He asks softly, and Matthew shakes his head.
"Well, sort of," he replies, not looking at his lover, "he gave it to Green, who got it to me." Alfred nods, because that's good enough, he thinks. Matthew speaks again, and he just sounds so sad that Alfred almost abandons all his pretences. "He had a wife, Abigail, I believe, and a son, Thomas," he looks at Alfred, bright eyes full of tears, "he was with me from the beginning, it's the closest I've had to a friend in years."
Part of Alfred feels bitter at that, feels as though he should be more than enough to cover for any lack of friends, but the rest of Alfred knows that isn't true. They stay silent for a moment, until Germany, Prussia, England, France and Russia leave the building, Germany and Prussia are ramrod straight, faces expressionless. Alfred knows he should be there to see them off, but the desire to do so is non existent.
"Did I do the right thing?" He asks, and Matthew understands what no one else would have, he isn't talking about Germany.
"I don't know Alfred," he admits, "it had all gone on long enough, I don't know if there was another way." Alfred nods, before stamping out his half finished cigarette and heading back toward the hotel. Matthew follows him immediately, and doesn't even seem to care the humans might see them. "Alfred," he says so softly the southern nation almost doesn't catch it. He places one hand on Alfred's arm, the other coming up to clutch at the back of his shirt. "Alfred," he says again, and though Alfred doesn't turn around he appreciates it.
"Mattie," he replies, tangling his right hand with Matthew's, leaving it on his arm, "I love you." This isn't the first time they've said it, but it means so much more now. The world is changed, they can feel it, feel the shifting as it rocks out from Europe into their part of the world. This time, there is no running away, no chance of hiding on their large continent. It's nice for a hundred year old being to know that amongst one of the biggest turning points they had ever seen, some things never change.
Matthew is silent, as if he too is trying to fully comprehend what that means now, "I love you too Alfred," he says finally, and Alfred has to turn around, because, he simply has to.
"I don't know what I'd do if you didn't," he admits quietly, wrapping his arms around Matthew in a crushing hug. Matthew hugs back, face buried in Alfred's neck.
"Don't ever worry about that," he says softly, "you needn't bother. Ever." Alfred almost glows at that, because nations, unlike humans, do not use the concept of forever lightly.
"Yeah," he replies, "you neither." It's a promise, they both know it, and Alfred can feel Matthew grin into his neck. "We must look strange, let's go to my room, kay?" Alfred advises, and Matthew pulls away, nodding.
"Japan will forgive you," Matthew tells him as Alfred pushes him gently onto the bed, "I know it." Alfred looks at him, partly thinking that is not what he wants to discuss right now of all times, though he knows better than to say it.
"I wouldn't," he admits, kissing the slighter blond's cheek, "I really wouldn't." Matthew looks at him for a moment, before giving him a tiny smile.
"I know," he says, "I know." Alfred knows he knows, that's why they work. Alfred knows his quirks and possessiveness and obliviousness and, he admits though only to himself, occasional childishness make most people tolerate him at best. Matthew's different though, because Matthew is not only patient, but he's known Alfred forever, literally, and these things don't bother him any more.
Alfred doesn't say these things though, because they are communicated silently by the touch of a hand, a kiss to a fluttering pulse, a soft exhalation of air, a slightly arched back. Matthew speaks back, arching his back too, bringing a hand to gently tug at Alfred's hair, laving Alfred's jaw in kisses and nips and swipes of his tongue.
Alfred sighs at the attention, letting his eyes close as he and Matthew explore each others lands. Their bodies haven't changed much over the centuries, since independence and their apparently permanent end of growth. War has left scars, the last lingering trace of a burn mark on each others shoulders, raised little scars from shrapnel and bullets, a larger burn on the small of Matthew's back from the harbour explosion, the scar which almost ripped Alfred in half. They're all there, some new some old and fading fast, or not at all, but the rivers and valleys and mountains are the same.
Matthew tangles their palms together, thumb stroking the back of Alfred's hand. They don't go farther than the gentle strokes and kisses, neither is in the mood, but this closeness, these little displays of devotion and adoration and something impossible to describe, they are so much more than enough.
"I would forgive you," Alfred mutters later, half asleep, and Matthew who is still wide awake, frowns a little. He passes a hand through Alfred's short blond strands, twisting them slightly around his finger, careful not to tug or keep Alfred awake.
He doesn't respond right away, because the first wave of soldiers is returning home and Matthew's head is split into four parts. There are the ones who are happier than one could imagine, the ones who are sad and lost and desperate and grieving, the ones who are angry, bitter because of what has been lost; and finally himself.
He sorts through all these emotions, feels the twinges of grief from the wives who never received a telegram, and who kept hoping even after the letters stopped. He feels the joy of a small child seeing his father, mostly whole as far as he knows, for the first time, maybe ever. He feels strongly the anger of the returning soldiers, who wonder who they can go back to before. These make it hard for him to speak, to respond to outside stimuli, but he manages.
"In that case," he whispers to his sleeping lover, "I would never forgive myself."