hetalia_kink

http://geministar01.livejournal.com/55678.html

http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/6742534.html

England and America from the usual Hetalia timeline are somehow dropped into the AU established by the above fics (modern times please, and yes I have the author’s permission to request this). It can be any kind of fic you like, as long as they both wind up staying in Columbia!Matthew’s house while they’re there.

Columbia/America pairing would be a major plus, and if you can keep the same bittersweet tone of the original fics, I will love you forever.

So. Much. Anxiety. Shaking like Latvia a leaf by the time I finished typing this part. OTL Please be nice. This is my first fanfic EVAR, never mind it being my first fill. *fidget* And going back for the details this needed was physically painful. T^T Upon re-reading the end of part three of the original, I am thoroughly convinced that Al took the shot on purpose. Which was my first instinct the first time through, but then my brain shut down completely. Oh, and there’s a little bit of universe jumping going on here, so if someone gets really lost, drop a comment at the bottom and I’ll clarify.
Also, I apologizing for failing so hard at England. Apparently, writing him is much harder than it should be. orz



The United States of New Colombia hated February 16th. It didn’t matter that it was a national holiday, that February 16th marked the day he had finally won the right to be a country in his own right. It especially didn’t matter that is was as close to a concrete birthday as a Nation ever got. He hated it.
Because, while it was the day he and his people had won their independence, it was also the day his twin brother had died.
And even though it’s been almost two hundred years since his brother spun him out of the way, took the burst of buckshot himself and died with a smile... Matthew still wakes up crying, some nights.
And he hates England, the former British Empire, with every fibre of his being and every square inch of the massive country he represents. And it shouldn’t be so large. So much of the land he represents was meant to be his older brother’s...
But Arthur, the British Empire, shot and killed his brother, and now all this land, most of the North American continent, belongs to Matthew.
Because Alfred has been gone for almost two hundred years.
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Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, hated February. Especially Canadian Februaries. Because really, he loves Canada dearly, but his place is just so damned cold. And why, Alfred wonders distantly, is his flight to London stopping at one of Matthew’s airports, anyway?
Someone had explained it to him when he’d asked, but when the flight attendant had tried to explain it to him, he’d subconsciously tuned her out and consequently remembered none of the answer to his question.
So now he was waiting in the Departures section of some international airport somewhere in the Maritimes, and it was chilly, even inside the building, despite the heater.
Alfred really, really hated Canada’s winters.
Twelve hours later and a few insanely drawn out layovers later, Alfred arrives in London and catches a taxi to Arthur’s house.

Arthur Kirkland tried to be patient, he really did. But there were things in this world that one simply could not be patient with. One Francis Bonnefoy And after a particularly mortifying episode involving France, nudity and an unfortunate maid, Arthur decided he’d had more than enough.
Once Francis had been removed from the house, firmly placed on a plane back to his own country and the poor maid had been returned to her home to calm down and rest, Arthur had finally gotten up the nerve to take drastic, magical measures.
Arthur had buried himself in one of his more archaic tomes and had eventually, with much swearing and sneezing, unearthed a spell that would (theoretically) keep one specific Frenchman from waltzing up to and through his blasted front door without permission.
The fairies did not approve, warned him that it was dangerous, that one small mispronounced word, one botched glyph, even a slight hesitation could cause disastrous results. More than a little peeved that his ancient, mythic friends so doubted his skill, Arthur had tersely declared that ‘I’ve been at this for bloody centuries, I think I can handle one sigil and one incantation without blowing up the whole sodding world’ and the fey had left him to his devices, muttering to themselves about consequences and ineptitude. Arthur seethed internally and returned to his work.
More than an hour of carefully copying glyphs and tweaking the necessary incantation later, Arthur finally had his spell at the ready. As all more... conventional methods of keeping Francis from invading his home had failed at least once, Arthur had moved on to a more elaborate set up.
He intended to create a dimensional blip around his house. This ‘blip’ would only react to France’s unannounced and unwanted intrusions. Instead of allowing the Frenchman to approach and enter the house, space would simply hiccup and deposit Francis on the opposite side of the property. Once the spell was in place and active, unwanted visits of the French variety would be a thing of the past.
Grinning maliciously at the thought of Francis trying and utterly failing to get within ten feet of his home, Arthur stepped into the center of the sigil draw on the floor and began to read his incantation.
He was not expecting Alfred to burst through the door. He wasn’t expecting Alfred’s wet sneaker to smudge the lines of the glyphs, altering the meaning of the sigil. He was most certainly not expecting the world to blur at the edges and fall away, leaving him and his former colony falling through empty, spinning space.
He was also not expecting to land face first on the floor of a surprisingly familiar room.

Doh. Just noticed LJ is fucking up the paragraph spacing. DAMMIT. Pretend there's more space there.

Colombia was relieved. February 16th was almost over, and when the date finally rolled around to the 17th, the aching gap in him where his twin brother should have been would go back to aching only once in a while, and life could resume its usual course for another year. As he waited for the day to change, he sat on the edge of a too-large bed and watched the leaves of the trees and the grass of the lawn dance in the soft breeze and ran a hand through his bear’s fur.

There was a loud crash in the living room. Matthew stood abruptly, tumbling Kumajirou off his lap and onto the floor, and dashed down the stairs and around the corner before skidding suddenly to a halt.
The United Kingdom of Great Britain was picking himself up off Colombia’s living room floor.

For a moment, his mind was blank. Then, with a feral cry -why today, of all days!- Matthew launched himself at the former empire.


England didn’t even manage to look up fully before Matthew smashed into him, knocking him back onto the floor. Arthur let out a hoarse cry of his own as the small of his back smashed against the hardwood flooring. He vaguely registered Matthew above him, violet eyes full blazing hatred and face flushed with rage, before the former colony started scratching at his eyes.


Arthur threw out his hands to defend his face and felt Matthew’s nails dig into the skin, almost drawing blood. Desperate and more than a little confused Arthur yelled, “Wh-what the bloody hell?! Matthew, what are you-! Canada! It’s me!” And Matthew stopped for a moment.


Colombia looked down at England, holding out his hands to defend his face, and calling him Canada. No one had called him that in... Since...

“I know who you are.” England opened his eyes slightly, and looked at Matthew in confusion. And fear. Colombia spent a moment relishing in the fact that the former British Empire had the decency to be at least a little bit afraid. Coming here, to this house...
“Mattie! What the hell?!”

Colombia jolted. It was more than impossible... But... That voice...

Slowly, Matthew looked up, past England to the figure standing behind the couch.

Eyes wide in terror, Colombia shrank away from England and skittered back to the corner. Because this wasn’t possible, and if it wasn’t real, then something was very, very wrong with him.

Because his dead brother was standing behind the couch, staring at him in alarm.

I know I flipped tenses at least once up there. *facepalm* Also, I depressed myself immensely. God, the Colombia!Matt universe kills me. I am convinced that alot of that bit at the end is full of fail.
*hides*

February 16th, 1815 was the day that America ratified the treaty ending the War of 1812, so, sticking with the original author’s ironic use of real historical dates, I used that for New Colombia’s confederation a.k.a. the anniversary of Arthur’s douche-baggery at the end of ‘Every Generation’.

I feel the need to apologize for the fail!narration at what Arthur’s spell was supposed to do. OTL And I totally hijacked the idea from the “Loop” card in Cardcaptor Sakura. XD Except it’s like... anit-loop or something. I donno, I just find the image of poor Francis being like ‘WHY CAN’T I GET TO THE DOOR!? D:’ epically funny.

I also decided to steal borrow the idea of having part of a quote for the title. XD I’m original, shut up. And browsing quotes made me cry. orz Emotional Author!Anon fails just a little. The full quote is Lost time is never found again, quoting Benjamin Franklin.

And yes, Al tuning out the flight attendant is totally me being too lazy to think of a logical reason. Massive OTL.

While I was reading everyone’s comments, I was suddenly struck by the irony of the fact that I started working on this fill in British Colombia. Aiya… Anyway, thank you, anons (and Original!Author-sama) for the encouraging comments. At this rate, maybe I’ll grow some self confidence. I hope no one minds the way I flip between names constantly…

So, without further ado, it’s freaking out time~ (because bottling things up leads to this kind of stuff, and I imagine he never really dealt with it. At all.)
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There was a long moment where nobody moved. Matthew stared in horror at Alfred, Alfred watched his brother with worried confusion and Arthur propped himself up on his elbows to look rabidly back and forth between the brothers, trying to figure out what the bloody hell was happening.

Slowly, Alfred came around the couch and moved past England towards his twin. After a moment of brief irritation with Alfred for ignoring him altogether, Arthur slowly peeled himself off the floor for the second time and edged slowly around the corner.

As Arthur peered back into the room, something bumped against his leg, causing him to start violently. Biting back curses, he looked down and found Matthew’s bear sitting at his feet.

Kumajirou reached out a fuzzy white paw to tug insistently at the leg of England’s trousers.

“Come.” The little white bear whispered, tugging again at England’s trousers.

With one more glance back into the familiar living room –Alfred was kneeling next to Matthew, looking uncertain- Arthur sighed and followed Matthew’s bear up the stairs.

==
==

Colombia pressed his back against the walls that formed the corner of his –used to be Alfred’s- living room wall, knees drawn up to his chest and hands knotted in his hair.

The spectre knelt beside him.
He was vaguely aware of the United Kingdom sliding awkwardly out of the room.
And then the spectre spoke.

“M-Mattie?”

Matthew couldn’t look at the spectre of his brother. He squeezed his eyes closed and wondered distantly if he was actually asleep and this was some kind of horrible dream. Because that wouldn’t have been new. He’d seen Alfred in dreams before.

They always, always ended in blood, tears and screaming.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he wasn’t asleep.

“Matt, buddy, what’s wrong? Is this… Did I do something..? I don’t…”

He knew it wasn’t a dream when the spectre timidly touched his arm.

Spectres weren’t supposed to be solid.

Colombia slowly looked the not-spectre in the eye.

==
==

Alfred jumped slightly when Matthew slowly turned his head to look him in the eye. The violet in his eyes was… darker than Alfred remembered it being. And that darker-than-he-remembered violet was filled with something caught between fear, confusion and hurt. Alfred didn’t like it.

So he’d be damned if he didn’t fix it. “What’s wrong…?” He asked again, unconsciously tightening his grip on his twin’s arm.

“How?” Alfred blinked.

“Um… How what?”

“How… are you… here?” The words sounded forced. Alfred blinked again.

“Um. Well. I was in London, and I think I might’ve maybe kinda totally screwed up one of Iggy’s weird magic things, and…” He trialed off when the confusion and the fear went out of Matthew’s eyes. Not the hurt, though. The hurt stayed, even when Matthew closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

Temporarily satisfied that whatever had caused his brother to panic enough to attack England was somehow dealt with for the time being, Alfred turned his attentions inward, to a strange nagging feeling in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach that was slowly getting more insistent.

He paused. His eyes widened.

“Mattie, why can’t I feel my people…?”

Kumajirou led Arthur to a small room like a study at the top of the stairs. The miniature polar bear waddled to a stop in front of a small cabinet under an ancient portrait that Arthur recognized. Himself, as well as much younger version of Matthew and Alfred, from when they were both still little colonies.

Kumajirou made an impatient sound that would be threatening if he was bigger –and Arthur reminded himself that the little ball of white fuzz can be bigger if he wants to- and England came closer to peer through the glass.

Inside the glass case are some old toy soldiers, a very familiar stuffed rabbit and…

A jar containing a blue coat with holes in it that is bloodstained.

Arthur swallows hard and steps back, looking down at Kumajirou. He points a shaking finger toward the bloody blue coat. “Is that… Alfred’s…?” He asked slowly.

And suddenly it hits him why this house has felt familiar since he slammed into the living room floor. This is Virginia. This is Alfred’s house. But…

“Kumajirou, where’s Alfred?” England was afraid to hear the answer.

Matthew’s bear looks at him and simply says “Bang.”

==
==


Colombia doesn’t know if it feels better or worse knowing that this Alfred sitting next to him isn’t some kind of haunting, but rather misplaced by some accident of the magical variety. Matthew was beginning to understand that this wasn’t his Alfred, and probably not his England either. Which made everything better and worse at the same time, because this Alfred had no idea he was dead in this world –two hundred years, the back of Colombia’s mind whispers- and this Alfred doesn’t have any reason to hate him and maybe this England isn’t a royal jerk and…

“Mattie, why can’t I feel my people…?”

Oh. That hadn’t occurred to him. He opened his eyes to see this other Alfred’s eyes wide with terror and shifted forward onto his knees.

“It’s okay, it’s alright.” He said as he took hold of his not-quite-twin’s shoulders. “It’s alright.”

But this Alfred doesn’t calm down. Instead he asks, “Where are they? I should be able to feel them, right?” A pause. And then his voice takes on a hysterical tone. “Are… Are they gone? Are my people…? Did they…?!”

Colombia doesn’t think before he answers.

“Don’t worry, Al! I’ve taken good care of them, I swear.”

==
==

Arthur almost picked up the bear and shook him. Almost. Instead he paled and gasped out, “He’s dead…?” Kumajirou didn’t respond, didn’t have to, simply looked at England intently. “Oh dear God. Who…?”

Kumajirou looked at him even more intently and said it again.

“Bang.”



Ho snap!
I kept wanting Al to refer to Matt as ‘Canada’ when he was narrating. But that would have confused even me. So… >.>;;
Also, I abused the word ‘spectre’.
Also also, I totally wrote up until Kuma-chan leads Arthur off in my math class. XD
Also also also, I failed out of that math class. Orz

First: An explanation of the comment about Kuma-chan getting bigger. In my head, Kumajirou is most definitely not a normal polar bear. He’s some kind of aboriginal magic thing, like a Totem or a Guide or something similar, and most of the time he stays the size of a teddy beat because that takes less energy and is less obvious and stuff. But when he (or Canada) is REALLY ROYALLY PISSED, he goes all full-blown polar bear on you and will kill you dead. Yeah. So, Arthur doesn’t wanna piss the thing off, just in case.

I have no idea why this was such a bitch to type out. It was all there in my head, but it DID NOT want to come out AT ALL. Jeez. And then it changed shape a bunch of times before settling into what we have here. I blame the fact that for the last three days, it’s SNOWED. FUCK MATT, I HATE THE WEATHER SOMETIMES. But today was warm~~

Yes, I do realize that Colombia!Mattie’s little shrine thing was probably on the first floor in the original. Pretend he ended up moving it for some reason. It makes sense in my head. Something to do with bottling thing up, I think. OTL

Question for all you people: Do you want me to give you the names of some of the songs on the inspirational playlist for this? Cuz I know that I, personally, am a music nerd love to know what the author is listening to. And just in case someone wants, here are a few.
Simple Plan -> Perfect world
Rise Against -> The Good Left Undone
Ayumi Hamasaki -> Together When…
All of which came on while I was working on this. My iPod hates me. orz

On a more relevant note: Francis wants in on the angsty. Do I let him, or not? But if he gets in, Prussia’s gonna want in, and I have NO IDEA what I’d do with him…
Long notes are long.

My continual stalking of this fill has not been in vain! (waters author!anon's self-confidence, to make it grow faster)

Another lovely chapter, well worth the wait! I always thought that Mattie's acceptance of Alfred's not-dead-ness would be the hardest thing to pull off, but you did it wonderfully! And I love, love, love how you've used Kumajiro here~! My heart broke the same moment that Arthur's did, I swear.

Bringing Francis in would be extra-awsome. As for Prussia, why not give him a "damage control" role similiar to Kuamjiro? Because of all these characters, he's the one with the weakest emotional connection to Alfred, so he'd be able to stand back and keep them all sane.

Will this world's Arthur make an appearance, too? (Loving the angst so much, I can't even tell you...)

Not familiar with modern music myself, but I YouTubed the Simple Plan song, 'cause I like them. Appropriate choice.

I give up on past tense. Doesn’t work so well when in your head, the scenes are like a movie. Except when it’s England narrating. WTF. And… I’m sorry for the jumbled narration here, but, well, panic attacks = crazy jumbled thinking. /personal experience.

Why am I typing this with a migraine? It’s definitely not making my head hurt less. Urgh.
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Alfred feels like he’s falling. Falling hard and fast into the empty space inside him where his people should be. But Mattie said they were okay –why would Mattie be taking care of them?- so they must be alright, Mattie’s not a liar –Mattie would hold the States if… if…-

Alfred realizes that he’s dead.

And even as most of his mind shuts down completely under the weight of this new revelation, a small part of his mind that isn’t spinning downward with the panic informs him that he’d know if he was dead.

Some of the panicked haze clears, and Alfred is aware that Matthew is shaking him.

“Al? Oh god, Al, I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking, that came out wrong. Al, I’m sorry…”

“I… I di-…” Alfred can’t even finish the word, and a little voice at the back of his mind mocks him for it. Matthew looks at him sadly.

“I… I think that… Whatever you did to that spell... I don’t think this is your world…”

The still-rational part of his mind supplies theories of alternate realities from various sci-fi movies, and the rest, the part that is numb and still panicking demands answers.

“When? How did…?” Pain his burning in his brother’s violet eyes again.

“In 1815…” Alfred forgets how to breathe.

Because 1815 is the year the war ended.

The War of 1812.

War with Canada, with Matthew…

And he died.

Alfred loses himself in the panic and shoves his brother away.

==
==

“But… But I didn’t. He’s downstairs with Matthew…” Kumajirou continues looking at Arthur with an intensity that is rapidly becoming unnerving.

“Events different.”

Which, Arthur supposes, is an explanation in its own right. And really, an alternate timeline of some sort isn’t ridiculously out there, he had been dabbling with dimension shifting magic…

These revelations don’t ease the sense of guilt that is settling into the pit of his stomach. Alternate reality be damned, he’d still –albeit indirectly- killed Alfred. Suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to see him former colony safe and breathing, Arthur made for the stairs, intent on returning to the living room. As he descended the stairs, part of his mind wondered what it meant, that Matthew was in Alfred’s house after Alfred…

God, this world’s version of him had killed Alfred.

Arthur comes around the corner and into the living room just in time to hear Alfred ask when and to hear Matthew respond 1815.

Arthur winced when Alfred’s shove slammed Matthew back against the wall and the younger brother’s head cracked against the wall. Matthew stayed slumped against the wall with a dazed look on his face, even as Alfred scrambled backwards, and Arthur momentarily wondered how Matthew had managed to avoid going through the wall.

Alfred stood, stumbling away from his brother, toward Arthur.

Arthur grabbed Alfred’s shoulders, and was surprised to find he could hold America back without much difficulty. Alfred looked down at him, eyes wide and unfocused.

“Alfred, listen to me. It wasn’t him.”

Some clarity came back to Alfred’s eyes. “But… Eighteen…”

“It wasn’t him.” Arthur repeats, more firmly. “You’re alright calm do-”

Alfred sits down hard, and Arthur almost lands on top of him, pulled forward by his death grip on the younger Nation’s shoulders.

America curls in on himself and whispers, “It’s so empty…”

His head hits the wall, and Colombia doesn’t try to get up, to stop his twin from running away. His eyes slide out of focus and he is vaguely aware of England stopping Alfred and trying to calm him down.

But Colombia doesn’t care about that. Not really. He wants to know what he possibly could have said, could have done to draw so much terror from his brother. 1815, fighting against England for their independence had been bad, but the failed Revolution had been worse, so much worse –this Alfred would have won his Revolution, Matthew realizes distantly- and in 1815 they were fighting together…

Why?

Colombia doesn’t want this Alfred to be afraid of him. Kumajirou waddles up next to him and Matthew scoops the miniature bear into his arms and buries his face in the soft white fur.

He stays like that for a few minutes, digging down inside himself to find the no-long-so-empty part of him that is his connection with his twin. It feels… quieter than he remembers it being, but it has been a long time.

As gently as he can, Colombia reaches toward the renewed bond he shares with his twin.

Fear.

Paralyzing fear.

And a stark emptiness where a Nation’s people reside.

Matthew pulls back into himself, trembling from the sheer intensity of his brother’s terror. He looks up, and sees America –won his Revolution. This version of Alfred, he’s the United States of America- with his knees against his chest, arms crossed over them and head against his forearms. England has an arm over his shoulder, looks vaguely uncomfortable about it, and is simply holding him.

Matthew puts Kumajirou back down on the floor and crawls over to where England is sitting with Alfred. He stops a few feet away, England is looking at him with a warning in his eyes, and Colombia nods. He knows exactly how scared and confused his brother is. Colombia leans forward, hands braced against the floor.

“A-Alfred, I’m sorry. For whatever you think I did, I’m sorry. I… I don’t understand. Why… Why are you afraid of me…?” He reaches for the connection he shares with Alfred and pushes against the wall of panic, as gently as he can, trying to reassure him, trying to banish whatever demons are plaguing his brother.

Alfred twitches and looks up at him, his eyes still full of terror. Matthew sucks in a deep breath and slowly peels a trembling hand from the floor and reaches toward his twin. “Please… I don’t understand.”

“1812 through to 1815. Y- The British Dominion of Canada and the United States of America were at war.”

Colombia freezes. “We were…”

“But you’re not Canada, are you?” Matthew wonders if England is aware of how much pain is showing in his eyes, if he even means for it to show.

“…no. I’m not. I haven’t been since…” He looks sadly at America. “I stand for both of us now. I’m… the United States of New Colombia.”




Alfred: panic!freakout
Matthew: worried!freakout
Arthur: guuuuiillt triiiip
Kuma: is fun to write


Awesome twin powers, go! Jeez, me and my headcanon…

Slight threading fail. Good job, self.

Good GOD, I scrapped this chapter at least three times before I finally go this out. Freaking hell, writer block is a BITCH. At least I don’t totally hate this version…


*steps on urge to apologize for everything* Kindly let me know if you see something that, like, contradicts itself or something. Inspiration blindsided me while I had a really nasty migraine from the weather change IT’S SNOWING AGAIN. FULL ON BLIZZARD. ARGH!! and so my brain is more than a little addled.


Fail!Note: I should not have the ‘War of 1812’ song stuck in my head right now. orz Who cares if it’s not totally historically accurate? That song is hilarious.


OTZ I noticed a hilarious spelling error in the last chapter. That part in the first paragraph where it says ‘rabidly’? That should say ‘rapidly’. Author!Anon’s issues with p’s and b’s seems to apply to typing. *facewall*


Also: while fighting with this chapter, I stumbled upon this: http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/4246173.html
I’m not sure whether to be scared or to laugh. Oh England. Get some help, dude.


Speaking of England, I told OP that I do intent for both Arthurs to show up. Which leaves me with a conundrum. How do I make it clear which one I’m referring to? Because they have the same names, human and country wise. I’m plotting for there to be some physical difference, which works for differentiation when there’s only one, but if/when they end up in the same room, it’s gonna get really confusing, really fast. So, ideas? Input? Think I worry to much?


Why the hells are my notes always so long. Jeez.

Call one "England" and one "Arthur?"

What IS England here? Is he the British Empire? Great Britain? Maybe you could call him that?

as an idea with how traumatised alfred is he might revert back to old habits like calling england iggy, or engwand, and colombia with his negative connantations of england could follow just to deferentiate.

it's just an idea but only one i could think of. good luck with thinking of something and thank you for wrighting this.

...would like to do a happy little dance over the fact that you updated, but that seems inappropriate given how much angst is flowing about here. Oh, poor Alfred. My lip wibbles for him.

I think it would be perfect to call our world!England "England" and jerk!England "Great Britian." With Colombia's justifyable hatred for him, the excessive formality makes sense, and neither England nor America has any reason to connect with this guy any more affectionately, given what they know.

Mm, I can't wait to see what happens next. I hope they talk Alfred down soon and explain the alternate world; it really hurts (in a good way mind) to see poor Colombia rejected after everything he's been through.

(Recaptcha says F.B.L. blitzing. Um. Think G.B.'s still ticked off about WWII, do ya, Captcha?)

Next time I’m blind-sided by inspiration at 2 in the morning, I’m getting up to write the damn thing down. Had I done that, the epic battle that is this part would have been avoided. And I should not be allowed at the pimp post. It eats my brain.


When Alfred looks away and squeezes his eyes shut again, Colombia feels something that might be his heart break. England whispers something to Alfred which Colombia thinks might have been ‘You’re hurting him,’ or something similar. He is about to pull away, both physically and in his mind, when he feels something that he can only describe as a dull thud echoe down through the link he’s still pushing on. Matthew frowns.

“Al, what are you doing?” America doesn’t respond. The thud echoes again, louder and more insistent. This time, the echo of sound brings with it the echo of pain, dull, bone deep pain that Matthew doesn’t understand.

“Al, stop it. Al, you’re hurting yourself!” Colombia throws himself at the wall of panic that is the bond with his brother, trying to reach him, since spoken words don’t seem to be working. He has to stop it, whatever he’s doing, because just the echoes hurt, and the original pain must be so much worse…

“What’s he doing?”

Matthew looks at England, desperation beginning to show in his eyes when Alfred doesn’t respond, internally or externally.

“I don’t know! It’s… It’s almost like he’s… digging for something. And he’s hurting himself.”

“Empty…”

America’s eyes are open again, but they are completely unfocused.

“What does that mean?” England looks to Colombia for an answer.

“I don’t know!” Matthew wrings his hands, and then his eyes widen. “His people… He’s looking for his people.”

Alfred’s eyes close again, and he starts to shake.

Colombia sees and feels the shift in Alfred at the same time. The wall of panic sharpens, becomes more hysterical and more dangerous, and America clenches his fists in his hair.

Colombia has seen this behaviour before.

He remembers the nightmares.

“You should probably let go of him now.”

The look in England’s eyes is torn between righteous indignation and a guilty hurt.

“Now.” England doesn’t move, keeps his arm over America’s shoulders, even as the younger Nation shakes harder and the jagged wall of panic grows thorns. “Kumajirou, get him off.”

The little polar bear lopes toward England, inflating as he goes, until he’s the size of a Great Dane. England spits and curses as Kumajirou bites the back of his shirt and drags him away from the twins.

Matthew takes a deep breath and lunges forward to embrace his brother, simultaneously throwing himself against the jagged, thorny wall of panic his twin is lost behind.

Alfred’s reaction is immediate and violent. He thrashes, and his knee catches Colombia in the side. Matthew swears when he hears a crack and feels something give way and struggles harder to move past the twisting thorns and broken glass of his brother’s terror.

Character limit. Rawr.

When he finally breaches the wall of his twin’s terror, Matthew is struck by how still the center is, like one of the hurricanes that assault his southern coasts. Standing in the eye of the storm, Matthew calls for his brother.


Alfred stops thrashing and Colombia’s sigh of relief comes out more like a hiss from the pain in his side.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I hurt you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

A pause.

“Just… stop digging. You’re making it worse.”

Alfred rests his head against Matthew’s chest and stops digging.

Colombia holds his brother while he shakes, maybe crying, maybe riding out the aftershocks of utter panic, maybe both. Eventually, the shaking stops and America drifts down into sleep.

Colombia shifts so he can look at England, who seems to have frozen in mid-wrestle with Kumajirou. The polar bear still has England’s shirt in his teeth, and England has stopped moving in the middle of attempting to shove Kumajirou away.

“Let him go, Kuma. I need his help to get Al upstairs.”

Kumajirou shrinks back to the size of a plushie and England scrambles to where Colombia is holding a sleeping Alfred.

“What the bloody hell just happened?!” England’s voice is almost an octave higher than usual as he crouches beside the twins.

Matthew searches England’s eyes, looking for the denial and possessiveness he’s come to expect when dealing with the United Kingdom. When he finds none, Colombia answers.

“Here, in this world… There is no America, there is no Canada… There’s only me, and his… The people that should be his belong to me. He’s looking for them.” Matthew’s voice is quiet and broken. “I can’t give them to him.”

“Now, will you help me get him upstairs?”

==
==

It’s just after seven-o-clock in the evening, Ottawa time, when Canada begins to feel vaguely sick to his stomach. He’s almost literally up to his eyeballs in paperwork, and Matthew Williams prays that the economy isn’t about to nosedive on him. Please, he begs the fickle forces that drive economic prosperity. Please let me get the paperwork done first. He keeps working, and doesn’t notice when Alfred fails to call to call and say he’s arrived safely in London.

When nine-o-clock rolls around, Matthew is halfway through the massive pile of papers. It only reaches up to his waist now. The sick feeling in his stomach has stopped intensifying, and has settled to a minor storm that he can ignore if he tries really, really hard.

When eleven-o-clock comes, Canada is finally done with his paperwork. It is only then that he allows himself to examine the ache in his gut. Matthew drifts inwards, to the place inside him where his people are anchored.

There is nothing there. No looming economic crisis, no threatening natural disasters, no surges of separatist sentiment. Nothing at all.

But something still felt wrong.

Frowning in confusion, Canada lets his mind drift, wandering aimlessly inside himself, looking for the wrongness, whatever it was.

His mental wanderings stumbled to a stop beside the connection he shares with his twin.

It wasn’t there.

In the space where shards of Alfred’s emotions and thoughts would drift to him, Matthew finds nothing.

Several minutes of awkwardness and swearing later, Colombia and England manage to get Alfred upstairs and into Colombia’s bedroom. Somehow, they manage to manoeuvre America under the blankets without waking him, despite the trouble Matthew is having moving.

Only once his brother is taken care of does Matthew stop to investigate the damage to his side. He pulls up his shirt and swears colourfully when he realises almost his entire left side is turning into a purple and black mess.

England makes a hissing sound as he sucks in air. “Do you think he broke any?”

Matthew hesitantly brushes his fingers against his side and swears again. “Oh yeah. Definitely at least one broken.” It’s unnerving, how concerned England looks. “It’ll heal soon.”

“I know.” There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, before England asks, “What happened? Why would I…?”

And Colombia tells him.

He tells him about the failed Revolution.

England goes very pale and stares at his hands as Matthew haltingly describes the deaths of the men who would have been America’s Founding Fathers.

There’s a funny look in his eye when Matthew tells him about the very beginning of the second rebellion.

“You two and your fire.” England shakes his head. “In our timeline, he burned your parliament, so you went and burned his Capitol and his White House.” He shakes his head again and the humour fades off his face. “You’d probably have burned the whole city if it hadn’t been raining.”

Colombia tells him about the fighting, the failed attempts at a peaceful solution.

He enjoys England’s awe when he tells of how the land itself annihilated so many British troops, with the help of General Winter.

When Matthew gets to the end, he falters.

“You… You wouldn’t let him go… Even when our armies beat you down… He was so afraid of you… But you just wouldn’t let go. I… We were in a little valley. I had turned my back on you, was running to meet him…”

“You shot at me.”

“He took my place. Spun me out of the way.”

“He was smiling. He bled out and vanished, still smiling, and my version of you, the stupid bastard, still can’t let go.”

“…I want my brother back.”

“I should have shot you.”

England nods. “I wish you had.”

“I’d have shot me.”

After another uncomfortable, empty silence, England stands. “Is there, by chance, a guest room I could use for the night?”

There’s an odd, scratchy quality to his voice.

Colombia directs him down the hall, to the right, third door. Washroom’s across the hall. England leaves the room without another world and Matthew wonders if he’s crying.

He doesn’t know if it’s kindness or cruelty that he doesn’t go to check.

Instead, he sits with his brother and feels time pass.

Even when February 16th has draw to a close on his most western boarders, Colombia does not sleep.

Instead, Matthew watches this other version of his dead twin brother sleep, feels his battered ribs knit back together, and wonders at the cruelty of it all.





An entire chapter narrated by Matthews. -_-;;

My twin!powers headcanon needs to stop rearing up so much. Guh. I’m taking so many liberties… orz At least the whole ‘they heal quickly’ thing shows up more often…

Gah, I'm sorry it's been so long! RL is kinda kicking my ass. > < I swear I'm working on it, and it will get up eventually. *fail*

So, I'm not dead, I haven't abandoned it, I'm mad at myself for the month-so-far wait, but school is almost done, so with any luck... *crosses fingers*

Just curious, as the thread is 200 odd comments away from closing, if you're going to start a new thread soon and if you could link it back before it's too late. I'd hate to lose track of this awesome story :)

I've been keeping an eye on the comments left, don't worry~

And, uh... Now there are more than 1000 comments left. I've been watching the comment count decrease for a while now... O-o;; *is confused*

Late chapter is late. orz RL, thou art a bastard. Anyway. Funny story for you guys. While I was scribbling the first section of this down during my spare, one of my friends who I hadn’t seen at school in a while came over and, being the genius that I am, I went “Oh hey, you exist again!” Her response was, and I quote: “I came from a parallel world to visit you~!”
D’: I am slain by the irony.

Also, please forgive and gently correct anything wrong with my fail!french. >.>;;

France wakes up to the phones beside his bed shrieking like a banshee. He gropes around on the nightstand, almost upends the lamp, and squints at the display. Matthieu…? At five thirty in the morning?

He hits the answer button. “Mon Dieu, Matthieu do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, Francis. I’m sorry, it’s just…” Matthew makes a squeaky hiccupping sound that could well be an escaped sob, and he has Francis’s undivided attention.

“Mon Cher, what has happened?”

“Al’s gone.” Francis sits bolt upright. “He was going to Arthur’s and he never called, and I can’t get a hold of either of them and he’s gone…”

France cuts him off. “Matthieu, breathe, cher. It’s possible they are passed out drunk and do not hear the phone, is it not?”

“Non, non, that’s not it. He’s… Francis, he’s completely gone.”

Twins. “Your connection with him, it is silent?” Francis vaults out of bed, bumps into the night table and knocks the lamp over.

“It’s gone. …What was that?”

“The lamp. It fell.” Francis flicks on the light and stumbles to the closet, blinking rapidly to help his eyes adjust faster.

Another hiccupping sound comes from the phone. “It’s… I… There’s nothing there! Francis, it’s like he’s… Like he…” Matthew cuts himself off, but France can imagine how those truncated sentences end.

Like he’s dead. Like he died.

“Matthieu, cher, listen to me.” Francis rummages through his clothing, pulling out a few outfits and shoving them into an overnight bag. “I will go to Angleterre’s place, and I will look for them. In the meantime, you should call his boss. If… something has happened to Alfred, if it is that bad, his boss deserves some warning, at least.” Francis pauses halfway through doing up his shirt and adds as an afterthought, “You should probably call Mexico too. She also shares a border with him.”

Matthew takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.” His voice cracks. “…Oh God. Please, please hurry.”

“I will be on the first possible plane to London, I promise.”

“What’ll I do if he’s really…?” If he’s really dead? If he’s really gone?

Francis sighs. “I do not know, mon cher. But if we must, we will cross that bridge when we come to it.” I pray we do not. “Matthieu, I have to go to the airport now. Remember, call Mexico and Alfred’s boss. Call yours too, if you have not already.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that right now.”

Francis bids Matthew goodbye one more time before hanging up and tossing the phone in the general direction of the bed and heading for the door, bag in hand.

France opens the front door to the morning chill and the waking city of Paris, and makes a beeline for the airport.

==
==

Alfred wakes up with one hell of a headache. The sunlight filtering through the curtains is far too bright. He groans and buries his face in the pillow. He frowns, realizing he doesn’t know where he is. Propping himself up on his elbows, Alfred squints at the room. Without his glasses everything is blurry, but it looks like…

He blinks. Virginia? But that doesn’t make sense, because he’d be able to tell if he was in his own country –

He sits up slowly and closes his eyes, turns his attention inward and checks to see if there’s any national reason he feels so disoriented and his head hurts so much.

Like a flood breaking through the levies, the events of the night before come rushing back. America’s eyes fly open and he grabs his head as the headache suddenly intensifies. In the pocket of his mind that is more ‘America’ than ‘Alfred’, there is the mental equivalent of a weeping, open sore and he doesn’t understand how it got there.

Alfred squeezes his eyes closed and clutches his head, trying to quell the pain.

There’s a loud crash; America opens one eye and looks up to see his brother jump over the broken glass in the doorway and run toward him.

==
==

Colombia doesn’t move from America’s side until after dawn. When he finally does leave the room, he is surprised to meet England in the hallway. For a moment Matthew feels the urge to take a defensive stance in front of the door and keep Arthur away.

And then he reminds himself that this Arthur is not Great Britain; this is not the man who crushed Alfred’s rebellion and ultimately killed him.

“Ah… England. Are you… Uh… Can I get you something to eat…?” Am I the only one who finds this really, really awkward?

“Er, yes, please, thank you.” Apparently not.

“Uh, kitchen’s this way.” Trying not to feel uncomfortable with England behind him, Columbia leads the way downstairs.

He makes pancakes and sausages for brunch. Leaving a portion for Alfred when he wakes up, Matthew piles food onto two plates and gives one to Arthur, who doesn’t look directly at him the entire time they’re eating.

After he puts the dishes away in the dishwasher, Matthew puts a kettle on to boil and tells Arthur where he keeps his small supply of tea.

“You can use any of ‘em, I don’t drink it often. Cups are in the cupboard on the left of the sink.” England nods, but other than that doesn’t respond, instead he stares at the table in front of him. “I’m gonna go check on Alfred.” He takes his half-finished glass of milk upstairs with him.

Alfred is sitting upright and clutching his head when he comes into the bedroom.

Matthew drops his mug and dashes forwards, kneeling on the bed beside his brother. Hesitantly, he places a hand on America’s shoulder.

“Al?” He asks quietly, afraid another violent panic attack is on the way. Instead of pulling away, or worse, lashing out, Alfred leans slightly into his brother’s touch. “Al, what’s wrong…? You okay?”

“Uugh, my head, it’s killing me.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised, Al. You were tearing at your mind pretty badly last night.”

Alfred looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “What does that even mean?”

“You were… looking for something that wasn’t there and you pushed it.”

“Didn’t know I could hurt myself like that.” He rubs his temples. “You got an aspirin? Or something with codeine?”

“Yeah, I think. One sec, stay here.”

Matthew goes quickly to the adjoining bathroom and hunts through the medicine cabinet. To his relief, he finds some Tylenol #2 (with codeine) behind the mouthwash, and he brings two of the tablets and a paper cup of water back to Alfred.

==
==

“Oh, dear God, thank you.” America takes the cup and downs both the pills at once.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just a bit of an information overload there.” He feels something pressed against his hand; the familiar rims of Texas. Alfred slides his glasses on and the world comes in to proper focus. Matthew is staring at him intently.

“You remembered. I didn’t think you would.”

“I, uh… You, you’re… Columbia, right?”

A nod. “Yes.”

“And I…” Alfred swallows. “The me that you knew… he died?”

Columbia flinches and looks away. “That time period was… very different here. There… There was… unrest, and he was killed…” He sighs, and Alfred winces at the tendril of grief emanating from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Reminding you. And uh… attacking you last night.”

Matthew signs again. “Yesterday always reminds me, even without visitors from alternate worlds.”

“Well, I still busted your ribs.”

“Don’t worry, I’m better.” He pulls his shirt up. “Not even a bruise anymore.” Both of them lapse into an awkward silence.

Fu- Character limit needs to die now. And above is 5b. *labeling fail*

The rapidly growing sombre mood is dispelled abruptly when America’s stomach loudly declares that it wants food. Matthew bursts out laughing as Alfred stares at his midriff in shock.

“Well then. Let’s get you some food, eh?”

Grinning, Alfred puts the pain in his head out of his mind as best he can while the pain killers kick in and follows Matthew downstairs.

==
==

America is surprised to see that England is already downstairs in the kitchen. He’s sitting at the table staring tiredly at the cup in his hands. It looks like he didn’t sleep well at all.

“Hey, Iggy! You look like you slept really badly. What’s wrong?” England gives him a dark look.

“Your terrible timing has landed us in an alternate world, Alfred, and I have no bloody idea how we’re going to get home. That’s more than enough reason to have trouble sleeping.”

America raises his eyebrows, conceding the point, and rubs his hands together gleefully when Columbia sets a plate loaded with pancakes and sausages down in front of him. “Man, I love your pancakes, Matt.” Hew glances up and sees the funny look Matthew is giving him. “Uh, my… Canada makes the same brunch. Am I correct in assuming that you have maple syrup?”

His brother grins and grabs a jug off the counter behind him. “Right here.” He plunks it down in front of Alfred, who grins gleefully and pours it liberally over his pancakes. “Well, I’ve gotta go clean up the glass upstairs, so I’ll be right back, okay?” Grabbing a dustpan out from under the sink, Colombia disappears upstairs. Alfred digs his way through half the pancakes and the sausages in record time.

The doorbell rings.

A pancake half in his mouth, America watches with vague amusement as England stands and moves to answer the door the same way he would in their home world while staying with Alfred.

And then he chokes on his pancake as it occurs to him that Arthur answering the door might not be the best idea given how Columbia reacted the previous evening. He jumps up from the table and races around to the front door.

France and Prussia are at the door. Francis has Arthur pinned to the wall of the entryway by his throat and Gilbert has a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes that promises pain. Alfred blanches; he’s never seen Francis with such an enraged expression.

“How dare you. How dare you be here?!” France is snarling, and Arthur pales visibly.

“W-Wait, you don’t- I’m not-” Francis snarls and England stops talking.

“Wait! Wait, no!” America races down the hallway and tackles Francis off of Arthur. “He’s not who you think he is!” Gilbert yells in surprise and Francis tries to shove Alfred off him. Alfred holds on with some difficulty, keeping him down and more importantly away from Arthur. “He’s not…”

America blinks in surprise as the world tilts sideways and blurs. “He…” The world spins away and Alfred looses consciousness.