[Hetalia] In the Wind's Singing
Title: In the Wind's Singing
Author: Shira Sakura
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America, France, England, others; Canada/America-by-proxy-OC
Rating: soft R for foreplay and violence; minor changes from the version in the kink meme
Summary: Matthew's 'identity crisis' goes a little too far and he disappears.
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
--“The Hollow Men”, T.S. Eliot
Somewhere, a light went out. It whimpered and died with a sputter and a sigh.
---
America would not admit he woke up screaming that night, and he didn’t. He woke in a cold sweat, with his jaw and hands clenched tight. His legs wrapped and were wrapped by his bedsheets, and he fell out of bed in shock.
He did what anyone--hero or not--would do, and searched for whatever was missing. But he couldn’t remember what it was in his dream, and England yelled himself hoarse when he called, it being only five in the morning in London. France cursed (he assumed; he didn’t know French at all) at him and hung up.
That morning, in everyone’s email, there was a new message. It was curt and urgent and in huge font, since that was how America worked.
Emergency Meeting in New York City
11 October 20--
16:00
All Nations Attending.
Call in advance if unavailable.
---
Everyone looked slightly ill and more than a little tired when they assembled in New York. Like a cold, the feeling of loss had spread from America, and now the other nations felt something had gone terribly wrong. England seemed to have a case of lockjaw. America’s fingers beat a restless tattoo on the arm of his chair. Ukraine was nearly beside herself in tears. France was hungover, serious, and keeping his hands to himself, which unsettled anyone who wasn’t unsettled.
“What’s going on?” asked Greece to Japan. They didn’t normally sit next to each other in the General Assembly room, but everyone had abandoned their prescribed seat for comfort. Feliciano was sitting on Ludwig, and the latter hadn’t even put up a token protest.
“I am not aware of the situation,” Japan admitted, his arms crossed against his suit. He was one of the few Asian countries to have been able to make it to the meeting. Emergency meetings were rare, especially with such short notice.
Idle chatter stopped abruptly when America rose from his seat. The microphone squealed into life, and those nearest winced. France cried.
“All right,” said, shouted America, “let’s get this meeting started with a roll call.”
The other nations started to talk, but were silenced again, this time from an entire clip being fired into the ceiling by Switzerland.
“Afghanistan!”
“What is going on? Why have you--”
“Albania!”
---
“Cambodia!”
“Present! What’s this all about?”
“Cameroon!”
“Here! Why won’t you tell us?”
“Canada!”
The room was silent. When he couldn’t see his former colony at all, England elbowed France. “Do you see Canada at all?”
“Ta gueule!” France had buried his head in his arms when America had started yelling, and whimpered at each successive sound. “I am ‘ungover, you twat!”
“Canada!” Fear crept into America’s voice, and England punched France in the stomach. “Do--you--see--Canada?” he repeated.
France glared at him and punched him in his jaw. “Canada would not miss such an important meeting,” he said. “’e iz just over, over.” He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t see the young man at all--even when the rest of the world couldn’t see him, France could always see Canada. But now--“Where iz he? Where iz--”
“Matthew!” America was frantic now, and he had to shout over the many whispers. “Matthew! Dammit Matthew! Answer me!
“…Please.”
---
Matthew’s phone went off again. That was the fifth time that day--and he had to switch it to vibrate when it went off during the lecture. He thought about turning it off altogether, now.
“What the fuck is your ringtone?” his friend whispered to him the first time it went off.
“‘The Art of Shut Up’ by Fuck You,” Matthew whispered back. “I’m actually trying to learn something, eh.”
“Fine. I should’ve known. You’ve always been like this.”
“Yeah. So shut up or I’m gonna kick your ass after the lecture.”
---
They met in England’s hotel room. It was several hours since America had disappeared from the meeting, and he had ignored all of their phone calls (six from England, two from Japan, one from Russia, three from France, ten from Cuba, and more until his phone was turned off) until well past midnight.
Now they gathered. England, on the stiff arm chair; France, on the coffee table; Switzerland, who had found America for them (somehow, and acquired a new gun in the process), behind the desk chair; Liechtenstein, who went where her brother went, on the chair; and America, on the bed, eagle-spread.
“What the hell happened? Where’s Matt?” he asked. It was normal for nations to be address by the name of their country--it was who they were. It was intimate to call a nation by their human name--it was who they might have been.
“It doesn’t feel like when Rome died,” England said eventually. He was a young nation when that happened, but that was then and--“That was more--certain. I knew he was gone, but with Matthew…”
“It feels more like,” France started, and then fell silent.
America sat up at this. “Like what?”
France sighed. “Holy Roman Empire. Not dead, just--well, je ne me souviens pas.”
“Huh?”
France didn’t even bother to glare at England or Arthur, but noted the twitch in Switzerland’s eye. Liechtenstein was politely confused. “Matthieu’s countrymen have a saying--je me souviens--but now, je ne me souviens pas should be more appropriate.”
“You bloody frog, we want to know what it means!”
“ ‘I cannot remember myself’.” That was Switzerland, whose hand had moved to grasp his sister’s shoulder. “He has forgotten this life by his own volition.”
---
As promised, Matthew kicked Doug in the ass after the lecture, since his friend had refused to let him learn something and continued talking through the lecture. He then paid for his lunch as way of an apology.
“Damn, I should piss you off more often if I get a free lunch from it,” said Doug. Steam curled upwards from the pizza slice held near his mouth.
Matthew dipped his own pizza in the garlic sauce before taking a bite, and then opened his iced tea. “Don’t talk with your mouth full--it’s disgusting.”
“Om nom nom,” said Doug, opening his mouth wide with each syllable. Matthew stole the rest of his friend’s uneaten pizza.
---
England went home. He didn’t take the return flight he had originally made for the night after the conference. Instead, he managed to take a red-eye with no one the wiser of being ripped off (his days of piracy were never so well used in this era, save for talking free drinks out of waitresses). He arrived in Heathrow, and took a taxi home to Hammersmith.
On the outside, it looked like a normal British home. It was Victorian, and he had had it since it was new and fashionable. He took care of the front himself, and there were only his roses (though twice vegetables, during the wars) to take care of in the back. The inside of his house was clean, until he smashed his teapot in the parlour.
“What did I do wrong, Matthew?” he asked. “What didn’t you tell me?”
---
Doug had a mandatory tutorial on Thursday afternoon, so Matthew got himself a Iced Cap and settled in the library. He had his several essays to write, and while most weren’t due until next week, this weekend would be unproductive. It would be better to do it now, so that his hangover after the weekend wouldn’t hurt so much.
He also didn’t want to go back to his house just yet--it was too quiet for him alone, too lonely without friends. He wasn’t used to solitude--his twin brother used to share a room with him, and when they were little, a bed--until his first year of university in a single room, and he decided he hated it. Being lonely in a crowd was the worst feeling in the world.
---
France didn’t go home, but instead went to Ottawa. Although--now--only one day had passed, Matthieu’s Rockcliffe Park home had fallen into immediate disrepair. It was as if he had never lived there at all.
“Such a fine old house,” an old woman--one of Matthieu’s neighbours, the one that brought him irises every year and spoke French, he remembered--said in accented English, when she had caught him staring in horror at the grime-fogged windows. “No one’s lived there for as long as I can remember. It’s a shame it’s in such a state, but the city’s done nothing to fix it. Heritage site, or some nonsense.”
The woman moved on, and when she was out of sight, France shouldered the door open--the lock had rusted shut and stiff--and stepped inside. Where the outside of the house had fallen into chaos, the inside was as France remembered, stuck in suspended time. The petals from a wilting bouquet were suspended in mid-air, as if unsure of falling.
“Where’s Canada?”
France started and spun around. Matthieu’s bear--the one that could never remember his master’s name--sat behind him. He couldn’t have been there before, but he remembered Matthieu telling him, his voice as quiet and small as he was then, that nothing sees a polar bear attacking until it was too late.
“Where’s Canada?” it repeated. It sat on its hind legs and on top of an abandoned pair of dress shoes. Not French, but Canadian.
“Je ne sais pas,” he admitted. He knelt down beside the bear and buried his face in its growing winter fur. “Je ne sais pas.”
---
The kegger was in full swing by the time Matthew got there. However, he was already buzzed from Ritual, so the piss-poor beer he got didn’t taste as bad. It was crowded and loud in the small house, and Doug cursed loudly when someone split beer on him.
“It was ‘n accident,” placated Matthew, slurring around his words. “Look, he’sss ‘lready gone.”
But Doug ignored him as usual, and went off in search for someone whose face he hadn’t seen. He was an aggressive drunk, and Matthew hid himself in a corner to avoid being associated with him.
He didn’t know if it had been a right or wrong move, because a moment later someone wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him down for a sloppy, drunken kiss. He squeaked.
The offender giggled and deepened the kiss.
---
America left New York for D.C. several days later, only once he had made it clear to his boss that he wouldn’t--couldn’t--fly in public. Not until he found Matt. And make him remember, too. He was the hero, after all, and his little (big? twin?) brother needed saving.
Matthew accused him of being an idiot during one of his passive-aggressive rants. It was probably true, but America didn’t think he was as dumb as everyone thought.
He knew his brother was in trouble, and that it was probably his fault. Which made it more important for America to help him. He couldn’t leave him like this--in this whatever state he was in now, somewhere between Human and Nation. Like the Holy Roman Empire had been, after his empire was dissolved, except Dead was an option then. Which wouldn’t be an option now, even if America had to conquer--no, that was what England and France used to do--defeat, like the Axis, like the Communists--Death.
“I’ll save you, Matt,” he promised, his voice quiet in the cabin of the plane. “I’ll definitely save you.”
---
“You’re dating her?” said Doug, surprised and disgusted.
Matthew frowned in confusion. “Yes. She wanted to apologize for what happened at the kegger a few days later, and we hit it off. What’s the matter?”
“She’s kinda flaky. So not like your last girlfriends. And she’s American.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I’ve been dating her for two weeks now and you just noticed?”
“Fuck, man. I shouldn’t have find out who you’re dating because I find you both practically naked on the couch. You’re supposed to be my best friend, eh.”
“And you shouldn’t have a problem your best friend’s girlfriend just because she’s from across the border. Since when were you so prejudice?”
“Dammit, Matt! That’s not the only reason.”
“So what’s your issue? ”
“You--we--you just wouldn’t get it.”
---
It was a month before the “Super Ultra Searching Technique” was usable. He was trying to look for Matt in 500 million places at the same time. He just had little trouble at doing it.
“You think as an individual,” Japan explained. He placed the damp, cold cloth across America’s eyes to help ease the growing headache.
“That’s because I am one,” he whined, wincing at his own voice. “I have ID to prove it.”
“You must not think like one if you want to see through the eyes of your people.” Japan left America’s side to shut the blinds. He considered returning to his seat, but his pride refused to let him grope blindly in the dark. He sat seiza by the window, even though is knees still ached for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
“But they’re me. I’m them and they’re me.”
“That is what you must let go of.”
“What?”
“That feeling of ‘me’.”
“But I’m me.”
“…This is going to take a long time.”
In the end, he managed to see Canada, briefly. Beneath a Tricolour flag and Novembers grey skies, until he vomited from the strain.
---
Something in Matthew started to protest that night, as if the one-month anniversary of being with his girlfriend was wrong. He did his best to ignore it, and Emily helped and made it worse.
He lost his brother when he headed too far South and the world froze around him until there was only white and no brother where are you--“Are you--ah--sure you want to--oh--do it?” he asked, as she kissed him deeply and nearly tore his shirt off.
“Fuck yes,” she swore. They closed the distance between them, and didn’t stop until she needed to breathe again. By then, Matthew had already removed her blouse and bra. He traced the lines of her curves with his hands, his tongue and there was a scar from the Burning of Washington just left of his heart and he had a matching one from the Burning of York.
He fumbled his belt loose, and his girly girl jeans no they aren’t you fat lummox fell in a heap on the floor with his boxers. Emily returned his favour by making love to him with her fingers, her mouth, leaving marks where their matching scars for their First People should have been, but their Second People’s denial of problems made their scars deeper than skin.
Emily pushed him on to her bed where no thinking of England was allowed, and Matthew pulled her closer, till she was straddling his chest and leaving hickeys on his neck and where the War to End All Wars tore him open and left him bleeding but so very alive.
“Let me fuck you,” he said to her. She complied and left her skirt and underwear in a pile. Her glossy blonde ringlets spread across the pillow and see they’re totally amber waves I never doubted hoser and she let him straddle her because I’m not your fucking hat just because I’m fucking on top you selfish useless bastard!
The world didn’t stop moving, but the nations stopped for a moment.
---
“That would probably be Queen’s University,” said England to America. They were at a bar in one of Matthew’s cities--Ottawa, his capital, where France had camped out in protest to all work in general until Matthew was back. “I remember being there when Prince Charles made a visit. It’s a good university.”
“But why is he there of all places?” America tore his eyes away from the hockey game--it wasn’t his sport like football was, but one of his teams was playing that night--to look at England.
“I can’t say.” He swirled the straw of his water, wishing Matthew hadn’t made him promise not to drink in Canada. He could really use a beer, a gin and tonic, even an American beer, right about now. “I don’t even know why this happened. It happened to, er, Eitch-Ar-Ee because his, er, home was destroyed.”
“But we’re here, aren’t we? So that can’t be why.” America hadn’t been sworn off alcohol in Canada, and was legal as well, unlike in his own country. He chugged the remainder of his Labatt and ordered another, counting how many it would take to forget the last thing he said to Matt.
“It’s unheard of,” admitted England. “In all my time--and don’t you say a damn word about me being old--this has never happened. We don’t become that unless we have to. No one has ever wanted to.”
“What if he did?” he asked, his voice shaking and soft, and it hadn’t done that since he was still small and scared enough to cry for his brother to save him from the ghosts.
The waitress brought over another beer, and America’s knuckles were white on it. “What if he wanted to forget us?”
---
It was dark on the morning of November 11. It was also three o’clock in the morning, and Matthew had to hold his pants up with his hands since he had forgotten his belt in his haste. Doug sat on the front steps of Emily’s house, turning his lighter on and off.
“Who the hell are you?” Matthew--Canada--said. His head hurt from the onslaught of memories (who was his family? Did he ever love Emily? What happened to Mom? Did his family really love him? Were any of them real?) , and he forced the-boy-who-pretended-to-be-his-friend to his feet by the shirt.
“I’m you.”
Matthew--Canada--slammed him against the front door. “No, you’re not! I’m me!”
Doug--whoever he was--broke Matthew’s--Canada’s--hold and punched him in the right cheek. “I’m what you wished you could be. I look like you want to look. I act like you want to act. I’m smart, capable, and most important, I could never be mistaken for America.
“I’m the part you abandoned when you wanted to forget you were ever anything but human. I’m the part that changed history so that Matthew Williams remembered parents who loved him and was never mistaken for a brother who was kinder and smarter than the one who hurt you. And if it wasn’t for that bastard’s national you would have never remembered and been happy.”
Canada--Matthew--punched Doug in the stomach, and when the other boy doubled over in pain (I’m just as strong as you, Alfred, I don’t need you to save me) he pulled the back of Doug’s shirt over his head and punched him thrice more. “I’m not happy now, and forgetting won’t make me happy again.”
Doug gasped for air. “How--do--you--know? You--were--happy--”
“No, I wasn’t! I had just forgotten that I was unhappy!”
“You--could be--happy. If you--ugh--forget. I’ll deal with America and them. They barely--remember you, anyway.”
“They aren’t yours! They were mine before you ever existed!”
“No--I’m you, remember? What’s was yours--”
“--Is mine and mine alone.” Canada turned his back on Doug, who still gasped for air. Blood trailed from his mouth, and Canada could taste his--his country’s, his people’s--own blood. A single tooth wiggled slightly in his jaw.
“You could never be me. You can’t even throw a decent punch.”
---
Matthew woke in his own bed, unsure if the last month had been a dream. His skin was unmarred from Emily’s love-bites, but he couldn’t feel that molar loosening in his jaw. He would check more closely later. For now, though, he got dressed and headed downstairs.
Light filtered in through the front windows after he opened the curtains. Francis had apparently fallen asleep on his couch, and Kumajirou curled up on the matching armchair. The polar bear woke when he stepped into the room and lumbered over to him, nudging his hip with his head.
“Canada’s home,” he said.
The bear waited patiently for its master’s response, though he needn’t have, as Matthew immediately knelt down beside him and buried his face in his fur. “I’m home.”
Matthew stood up eventually and walked over to the couch. He didn’t know how Francis got in, but as much as the other nations hated being anywhere alone with him, Canada did not mind. “François,” he said, speaking in French. He lightly shook the Frenchman’s shoulder. “Réveille-toi. Il est matin.”
The man groaned but grudgingly woke. “Matthieu, j’ai sommeil,” he complained. He paused, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and stared up at him. “Matthieu?”
“Es-tu bien, François? T’es blanc comme un mort.”
Francis said nothing, instead pulling Matthew into a hug, bringing the younger man’s head to his chest. “Tu te souviens,” he said, eventually. Matthew nearly asked what he meant until he felt something warm and wet fall onto his hair.
“Je me souviens,” Matthew agreed, and he managed not to jump when his front door opened with a loud crash.
“You damn frog,” shouted Arthur as he stepped inside. “Your boss keeps calling me to get you to go back to work! Stop this bloody strike alrea--Matthew?”
Matthew wrestled his way out of Francis’s hug to greet his new guest. “Hello. You want some tea? I can put a--urk!”
“Don’t do that ever again!” said Arthur, nearly choking Matthew in his own impromptu hug.“You nearly gave me a heart attack! And yes, I will take you on your offer.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t.” Matthew waited a few minutes for Arthur to let go. Nothing happened. “Uh, Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t make tea in a headlock.”
“Just a few more seconds.”
“Alright.”
Arthur released him eventually, but he followed Matthew to the kitchen. Everything was left as Matthew remembered it, even though a month had passed since he had lived in his own home. He didn’t use the Lipton Red Rose he preferred, but the loose leaf Earl Grey he knew Arthur liked better.
“I didn’t think you kept that one,” said Arthur, as Matthew placed the leaves in the infuser, and then in the tea pot.
“Why wouldn’t I? You gave it to me.” But Arthur looked away instead of responding.
The water came to a boil fast. Matthew poured the water in the pot. None of his mugs matched, but Arthur didn’t comment this time as Matthew set three on a tray with the tea pot (which also matched none of the mugs). Arthur did take the tray from him, though, and carried it to the parlour.
It was probably for the best, that way, since Matthew thought he might have dropped it when seeing Alfred in his home, Alfred who always always made a racket wherever he went and appeared in silence this time. Alfred, who got on Kiku’s case about not looking people in the eyes, who looked everywhere but Matthew, his fingers knotted into the elastic woollen cuffs of his bomber jacket.
“Hi, Alfred,” said Matthew, crossing the room. He hugged his brother, who stiffened briefly, before relaxing enough to hug him back.
“It’s raining,” said Alfred. His voice was choked, strangled-sounding, but he didn’t let go of Matthew.
Matthew laughed. “I know, I know. Heroes don’t cry, after all.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Notes
The epigraph is from T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men.
Ta Gueule is a very rude way of telling someone to shut up. But if I was hungover near Alfred, I would be rude too.
St. Bernard Dogs are famous for finding people in the Swiss Alps, and Switzerland is known for humanitarian aid groups. I think he’s kind of tsundere/yandere like that. And since he had to turn his guns over to fly to America, he er, procured one from the streets of New York City, which is where the UN General Assembly Room is.
Historically, France dissolved the Holy Roman Empire under Napoleon. Headcanon states that HRE became Germany somehow, in a process that erased his memories. Interestingly, under Prussian leadership, the German Empire formed in 1871 as the predecessor to modern Germany. This is me just extrapolating for story purposes, where HRE was given a choice to die like Rome and disappear, or (live and) die as a human (like Matt chose). He chose Option C, to wait and be reborn as a new nation.
Je me souviens is the official motto of Quebec, meaning I remember. It comes from a longer phrase:
Je me souviens
Que né sous le lys
Je croîs sous la rose.
I remember
that born under the lily
I grow under the rose.
However, I and Switzerland took liberty with the grammar (as the verb is se souvenir with a reflexive pronoun), and used me as a direct object instead of a reflexive pronoun, so now it is I remember myself and I do not remember myself for France’s negation of the phrase. French is also one of the national languages of Switzerland, which is how he knows it.
Tim Horton’s and Pizza Pizza are two Canadian franchises, the former having the Iced Cappuccino or Iced Cap (which I like better than Starbucks’ Frappuccino) and the latter having a unique pizza delivery service and really good creamy garlic sauce. There’s also way too many of these in and near Queen’s University, where I have placed Matthew. And I think America has a population of 500 million or so. It’s too late to correct me if I’m wrong, though.
Hammersmith is a part of London that I like very much, and Rockcliffe Park is a very affluent part of Ottawa where many politicians live. Matthew’s house, which appeared briefly in the comics, wouldn’t be out of place there.
Ritual is this, er, activity at Queen’s Clark Hall Pub to “keep [us] busy on Friday afternoons,” to quote a student. Lots of drinking, basically. Queen’s school colours (red, blue, and gold) are also referred to as the Tricolour a lot. Prince Charles also did visit Queen’s in 1991 with his then-wife Diana.
So much history in this foreplay section. And a reference to a picture by Bluef0x is in there; read some of the comments. That last part of the foreplay section is what Matthew got so upset over, also, that caused this whole debacle. Doug, which is a common name in Canada (I can think of five off the top of my head), also bastardizes a quote from Fight Club. Speaking of names, Emily is a popular name in America and means ‘rival’ or ‘adversary’; I still haven’t decided what happens to her without Matthew.
France has gone on strike because of the disappearance of Matthew, but a man from Marseille, France once told me that they will go on strike in his city if the weather’s good. And Matthew is speaking my lame attempt at Québécois. Blanc comme un mort is white as a corpse or as pale as death.
Minor changes were made from this version and the original, only for a word and to complete a thought.
Author: Shira Sakura
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America, France, England, others; Canada/America-by-proxy-OC
Rating: soft R for foreplay and violence; minor changes from the version in the kink meme
Summary: Matthew's 'identity crisis' goes a little too far and he disappears.
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
--“The Hollow Men”, T.S. Eliot
Somewhere, a light went out. It whimpered and died with a sputter and a sigh.
---
America would not admit he woke up screaming that night, and he didn’t. He woke in a cold sweat, with his jaw and hands clenched tight. His legs wrapped and were wrapped by his bedsheets, and he fell out of bed in shock.
He did what anyone--hero or not--would do, and searched for whatever was missing. But he couldn’t remember what it was in his dream, and England yelled himself hoarse when he called, it being only five in the morning in London. France cursed (he assumed; he didn’t know French at all) at him and hung up.
That morning, in everyone’s email, there was a new message. It was curt and urgent and in huge font, since that was how America worked.
Emergency Meeting in New York City
11 October 20--
16:00
All Nations Attending.
Call in advance if unavailable.
---
Everyone looked slightly ill and more than a little tired when they assembled in New York. Like a cold, the feeling of loss had spread from America, and now the other nations felt something had gone terribly wrong. England seemed to have a case of lockjaw. America’s fingers beat a restless tattoo on the arm of his chair. Ukraine was nearly beside herself in tears. France was hungover, serious, and keeping his hands to himself, which unsettled anyone who wasn’t unsettled.
“What’s going on?” asked Greece to Japan. They didn’t normally sit next to each other in the General Assembly room, but everyone had abandoned their prescribed seat for comfort. Feliciano was sitting on Ludwig, and the latter hadn’t even put up a token protest.
“I am not aware of the situation,” Japan admitted, his arms crossed against his suit. He was one of the few Asian countries to have been able to make it to the meeting. Emergency meetings were rare, especially with such short notice.
Idle chatter stopped abruptly when America rose from his seat. The microphone squealed into life, and those nearest winced. France cried.
“All right,” said, shouted America, “let’s get this meeting started with a roll call.”
The other nations started to talk, but were silenced again, this time from an entire clip being fired into the ceiling by Switzerland.
“Afghanistan!”
“What is going on? Why have you--”
“Albania!”
---
“Cambodia!”
“Present! What’s this all about?”
“Cameroon!”
“Here! Why won’t you tell us?”
“Canada!”
The room was silent. When he couldn’t see his former colony at all, England elbowed France. “Do you see Canada at all?”
“Ta gueule!” France had buried his head in his arms when America had started yelling, and whimpered at each successive sound. “I am ‘ungover, you twat!”
“Canada!” Fear crept into America’s voice, and England punched France in the stomach. “Do--you--see--Canada?” he repeated.
France glared at him and punched him in his jaw. “Canada would not miss such an important meeting,” he said. “’e iz just over, over.” He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t see the young man at all--even when the rest of the world couldn’t see him, France could always see Canada. But now--“Where iz he? Where iz--”
“Matthew!” America was frantic now, and he had to shout over the many whispers. “Matthew! Dammit Matthew! Answer me!
“…Please.”
---
Matthew’s phone went off again. That was the fifth time that day--and he had to switch it to vibrate when it went off during the lecture. He thought about turning it off altogether, now.
“What the fuck is your ringtone?” his friend whispered to him the first time it went off.
“‘The Art of Shut Up’ by Fuck You,” Matthew whispered back. “I’m actually trying to learn something, eh.”
“Fine. I should’ve known. You’ve always been like this.”
“Yeah. So shut up or I’m gonna kick your ass after the lecture.”
---
They met in England’s hotel room. It was several hours since America had disappeared from the meeting, and he had ignored all of their phone calls (six from England, two from Japan, one from Russia, three from France, ten from Cuba, and more until his phone was turned off) until well past midnight.
Now they gathered. England, on the stiff arm chair; France, on the coffee table; Switzerland, who had found America for them (somehow, and acquired a new gun in the process), behind the desk chair; Liechtenstein, who went where her brother went, on the chair; and America, on the bed, eagle-spread.
“What the hell happened? Where’s Matt?” he asked. It was normal for nations to be address by the name of their country--it was who they were. It was intimate to call a nation by their human name--it was who they might have been.
“It doesn’t feel like when Rome died,” England said eventually. He was a young nation when that happened, but that was then and--“That was more--certain. I knew he was gone, but with Matthew…”
“It feels more like,” France started, and then fell silent.
America sat up at this. “Like what?”
France sighed. “Holy Roman Empire. Not dead, just--well, je ne me souviens pas.”
“Huh?”
France didn’t even bother to glare at England or Arthur, but noted the twitch in Switzerland’s eye. Liechtenstein was politely confused. “Matthieu’s countrymen have a saying--je me souviens--but now, je ne me souviens pas should be more appropriate.”
“You bloody frog, we want to know what it means!”
“ ‘I cannot remember myself’.” That was Switzerland, whose hand had moved to grasp his sister’s shoulder. “He has forgotten this life by his own volition.”
---
As promised, Matthew kicked Doug in the ass after the lecture, since his friend had refused to let him learn something and continued talking through the lecture. He then paid for his lunch as way of an apology.
“Damn, I should piss you off more often if I get a free lunch from it,” said Doug. Steam curled upwards from the pizza slice held near his mouth.
Matthew dipped his own pizza in the garlic sauce before taking a bite, and then opened his iced tea. “Don’t talk with your mouth full--it’s disgusting.”
“Om nom nom,” said Doug, opening his mouth wide with each syllable. Matthew stole the rest of his friend’s uneaten pizza.
---
England went home. He didn’t take the return flight he had originally made for the night after the conference. Instead, he managed to take a red-eye with no one the wiser of being ripped off (his days of piracy were never so well used in this era, save for talking free drinks out of waitresses). He arrived in Heathrow, and took a taxi home to Hammersmith.
On the outside, it looked like a normal British home. It was Victorian, and he had had it since it was new and fashionable. He took care of the front himself, and there were only his roses (though twice vegetables, during the wars) to take care of in the back. The inside of his house was clean, until he smashed his teapot in the parlour.
“What did I do wrong, Matthew?” he asked. “What didn’t you tell me?”
---
Doug had a mandatory tutorial on Thursday afternoon, so Matthew got himself a Iced Cap and settled in the library. He had his several essays to write, and while most weren’t due until next week, this weekend would be unproductive. It would be better to do it now, so that his hangover after the weekend wouldn’t hurt so much.
He also didn’t want to go back to his house just yet--it was too quiet for him alone, too lonely without friends. He wasn’t used to solitude--his twin brother used to share a room with him, and when they were little, a bed--until his first year of university in a single room, and he decided he hated it. Being lonely in a crowd was the worst feeling in the world.
---
France didn’t go home, but instead went to Ottawa. Although--now--only one day had passed, Matthieu’s Rockcliffe Park home had fallen into immediate disrepair. It was as if he had never lived there at all.
“Such a fine old house,” an old woman--one of Matthieu’s neighbours, the one that brought him irises every year and spoke French, he remembered--said in accented English, when she had caught him staring in horror at the grime-fogged windows. “No one’s lived there for as long as I can remember. It’s a shame it’s in such a state, but the city’s done nothing to fix it. Heritage site, or some nonsense.”
The woman moved on, and when she was out of sight, France shouldered the door open--the lock had rusted shut and stiff--and stepped inside. Where the outside of the house had fallen into chaos, the inside was as France remembered, stuck in suspended time. The petals from a wilting bouquet were suspended in mid-air, as if unsure of falling.
“Where’s Canada?”
France started and spun around. Matthieu’s bear--the one that could never remember his master’s name--sat behind him. He couldn’t have been there before, but he remembered Matthieu telling him, his voice as quiet and small as he was then, that nothing sees a polar bear attacking until it was too late.
“Where’s Canada?” it repeated. It sat on its hind legs and on top of an abandoned pair of dress shoes. Not French, but Canadian.
“Je ne sais pas,” he admitted. He knelt down beside the bear and buried his face in its growing winter fur. “Je ne sais pas.”
---
The kegger was in full swing by the time Matthew got there. However, he was already buzzed from Ritual, so the piss-poor beer he got didn’t taste as bad. It was crowded and loud in the small house, and Doug cursed loudly when someone split beer on him.
“It was ‘n accident,” placated Matthew, slurring around his words. “Look, he’sss ‘lready gone.”
But Doug ignored him as usual, and went off in search for someone whose face he hadn’t seen. He was an aggressive drunk, and Matthew hid himself in a corner to avoid being associated with him.
He didn’t know if it had been a right or wrong move, because a moment later someone wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him down for a sloppy, drunken kiss. He squeaked.
The offender giggled and deepened the kiss.
---
America left New York for D.C. several days later, only once he had made it clear to his boss that he wouldn’t--couldn’t--fly in public. Not until he found Matt. And make him remember, too. He was the hero, after all, and his little (big? twin?) brother needed saving.
Matthew accused him of being an idiot during one of his passive-aggressive rants. It was probably true, but America didn’t think he was as dumb as everyone thought.
He knew his brother was in trouble, and that it was probably his fault. Which made it more important for America to help him. He couldn’t leave him like this--in this whatever state he was in now, somewhere between Human and Nation. Like the Holy Roman Empire had been, after his empire was dissolved, except Dead was an option then. Which wouldn’t be an option now, even if America had to conquer--no, that was what England and France used to do--defeat, like the Axis, like the Communists--Death.
“I’ll save you, Matt,” he promised, his voice quiet in the cabin of the plane. “I’ll definitely save you.”
---
“You’re dating her?” said Doug, surprised and disgusted.
Matthew frowned in confusion. “Yes. She wanted to apologize for what happened at the kegger a few days later, and we hit it off. What’s the matter?”
“She’s kinda flaky. So not like your last girlfriends. And she’s American.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I’ve been dating her for two weeks now and you just noticed?”
“Fuck, man. I shouldn’t have find out who you’re dating because I find you both practically naked on the couch. You’re supposed to be my best friend, eh.”
“And you shouldn’t have a problem your best friend’s girlfriend just because she’s from across the border. Since when were you so prejudice?”
“Dammit, Matt! That’s not the only reason.”
“So what’s your issue? ”
“You--we--you just wouldn’t get it.”
---
It was a month before the “Super Ultra Searching Technique” was usable. He was trying to look for Matt in 500 million places at the same time. He just had little trouble at doing it.
“You think as an individual,” Japan explained. He placed the damp, cold cloth across America’s eyes to help ease the growing headache.
“That’s because I am one,” he whined, wincing at his own voice. “I have ID to prove it.”
“You must not think like one if you want to see through the eyes of your people.” Japan left America’s side to shut the blinds. He considered returning to his seat, but his pride refused to let him grope blindly in the dark. He sat seiza by the window, even though is knees still ached for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
“But they’re me. I’m them and they’re me.”
“That is what you must let go of.”
“What?”
“That feeling of ‘me’.”
“But I’m me.”
“…This is going to take a long time.”
In the end, he managed to see Canada, briefly. Beneath a Tricolour flag and Novembers grey skies, until he vomited from the strain.
---
Something in Matthew started to protest that night, as if the one-month anniversary of being with his girlfriend was wrong. He did his best to ignore it, and Emily helped and made it worse.
He lost his brother when he headed too far South and the world froze around him until there was only white and no brother where are you--“Are you--ah--sure you want to--oh--do it?” he asked, as she kissed him deeply and nearly tore his shirt off.
“Fuck yes,” she swore. They closed the distance between them, and didn’t stop until she needed to breathe again. By then, Matthew had already removed her blouse and bra. He traced the lines of her curves with his hands, his tongue and there was a scar from the Burning of Washington just left of his heart and he had a matching one from the Burning of York.
He fumbled his belt loose, and his girly girl jeans no they aren’t you fat lummox fell in a heap on the floor with his boxers. Emily returned his favour by making love to him with her fingers, her mouth, leaving marks where their matching scars for their First People should have been, but their Second People’s denial of problems made their scars deeper than skin.
Emily pushed him on to her bed where no thinking of England was allowed, and Matthew pulled her closer, till she was straddling his chest and leaving hickeys on his neck and where the War to End All Wars tore him open and left him bleeding but so very alive.
“Let me fuck you,” he said to her. She complied and left her skirt and underwear in a pile. Her glossy blonde ringlets spread across the pillow and see they’re totally amber waves I never doubted hoser and she let him straddle her because I’m not your fucking hat just because I’m fucking on top you selfish useless bastard!
The world didn’t stop moving, but the nations stopped for a moment.
---
“That would probably be Queen’s University,” said England to America. They were at a bar in one of Matthew’s cities--Ottawa, his capital, where France had camped out in protest to all work in general until Matthew was back. “I remember being there when Prince Charles made a visit. It’s a good university.”
“But why is he there of all places?” America tore his eyes away from the hockey game--it wasn’t his sport like football was, but one of his teams was playing that night--to look at England.
“I can’t say.” He swirled the straw of his water, wishing Matthew hadn’t made him promise not to drink in Canada. He could really use a beer, a gin and tonic, even an American beer, right about now. “I don’t even know why this happened. It happened to, er, Eitch-Ar-Ee because his, er, home was destroyed.”
“But we’re here, aren’t we? So that can’t be why.” America hadn’t been sworn off alcohol in Canada, and was legal as well, unlike in his own country. He chugged the remainder of his Labatt and ordered another, counting how many it would take to forget the last thing he said to Matt.
“It’s unheard of,” admitted England. “In all my time--and don’t you say a damn word about me being old--this has never happened. We don’t become that unless we have to. No one has ever wanted to.”
“What if he did?” he asked, his voice shaking and soft, and it hadn’t done that since he was still small and scared enough to cry for his brother to save him from the ghosts.
The waitress brought over another beer, and America’s knuckles were white on it. “What if he wanted to forget us?”
---
It was dark on the morning of November 11. It was also three o’clock in the morning, and Matthew had to hold his pants up with his hands since he had forgotten his belt in his haste. Doug sat on the front steps of Emily’s house, turning his lighter on and off.
“Who the hell are you?” Matthew--Canada--said. His head hurt from the onslaught of memories (who was his family? Did he ever love Emily? What happened to Mom? Did his family really love him? Were any of them real?) , and he forced the-boy-who-pretended-to-be-his-friend to his feet by the shirt.
“I’m you.”
Matthew--Canada--slammed him against the front door. “No, you’re not! I’m me!”
Doug--whoever he was--broke Matthew’s--Canada’s--hold and punched him in the right cheek. “I’m what you wished you could be. I look like you want to look. I act like you want to act. I’m smart, capable, and most important, I could never be mistaken for America.
“I’m the part you abandoned when you wanted to forget you were ever anything but human. I’m the part that changed history so that Matthew Williams remembered parents who loved him and was never mistaken for a brother who was kinder and smarter than the one who hurt you. And if it wasn’t for that bastard’s national you would have never remembered and been happy.”
Canada--Matthew--punched Doug in the stomach, and when the other boy doubled over in pain (I’m just as strong as you, Alfred, I don’t need you to save me) he pulled the back of Doug’s shirt over his head and punched him thrice more. “I’m not happy now, and forgetting won’t make me happy again.”
Doug gasped for air. “How--do--you--know? You--were--happy--”
“No, I wasn’t! I had just forgotten that I was unhappy!”
“You--could be--happy. If you--ugh--forget. I’ll deal with America and them. They barely--remember you, anyway.”
“They aren’t yours! They were mine before you ever existed!”
“No--I’m you, remember? What’s was yours--”
“--Is mine and mine alone.” Canada turned his back on Doug, who still gasped for air. Blood trailed from his mouth, and Canada could taste his--his country’s, his people’s--own blood. A single tooth wiggled slightly in his jaw.
“You could never be me. You can’t even throw a decent punch.”
---
Matthew woke in his own bed, unsure if the last month had been a dream. His skin was unmarred from Emily’s love-bites, but he couldn’t feel that molar loosening in his jaw. He would check more closely later. For now, though, he got dressed and headed downstairs.
Light filtered in through the front windows after he opened the curtains. Francis had apparently fallen asleep on his couch, and Kumajirou curled up on the matching armchair. The polar bear woke when he stepped into the room and lumbered over to him, nudging his hip with his head.
“Canada’s home,” he said.
The bear waited patiently for its master’s response, though he needn’t have, as Matthew immediately knelt down beside him and buried his face in his fur. “I’m home.”
Matthew stood up eventually and walked over to the couch. He didn’t know how Francis got in, but as much as the other nations hated being anywhere alone with him, Canada did not mind. “François,” he said, speaking in French. He lightly shook the Frenchman’s shoulder. “Réveille-toi. Il est matin.”
The man groaned but grudgingly woke. “Matthieu, j’ai sommeil,” he complained. He paused, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and stared up at him. “Matthieu?”
“Es-tu bien, François? T’es blanc comme un mort.”
Francis said nothing, instead pulling Matthew into a hug, bringing the younger man’s head to his chest. “Tu te souviens,” he said, eventually. Matthew nearly asked what he meant until he felt something warm and wet fall onto his hair.
“Je me souviens,” Matthew agreed, and he managed not to jump when his front door opened with a loud crash.
“You damn frog,” shouted Arthur as he stepped inside. “Your boss keeps calling me to get you to go back to work! Stop this bloody strike alrea--Matthew?”
Matthew wrestled his way out of Francis’s hug to greet his new guest. “Hello. You want some tea? I can put a--urk!”
“Don’t do that ever again!” said Arthur, nearly choking Matthew in his own impromptu hug.“You nearly gave me a heart attack! And yes, I will take you on your offer.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t.” Matthew waited a few minutes for Arthur to let go. Nothing happened. “Uh, Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t make tea in a headlock.”
“Just a few more seconds.”
“Alright.”
Arthur released him eventually, but he followed Matthew to the kitchen. Everything was left as Matthew remembered it, even though a month had passed since he had lived in his own home. He didn’t use the Lipton Red Rose he preferred, but the loose leaf Earl Grey he knew Arthur liked better.
“I didn’t think you kept that one,” said Arthur, as Matthew placed the leaves in the infuser, and then in the tea pot.
“Why wouldn’t I? You gave it to me.” But Arthur looked away instead of responding.
The water came to a boil fast. Matthew poured the water in the pot. None of his mugs matched, but Arthur didn’t comment this time as Matthew set three on a tray with the tea pot (which also matched none of the mugs). Arthur did take the tray from him, though, and carried it to the parlour.
It was probably for the best, that way, since Matthew thought he might have dropped it when seeing Alfred in his home, Alfred who always always made a racket wherever he went and appeared in silence this time. Alfred, who got on Kiku’s case about not looking people in the eyes, who looked everywhere but Matthew, his fingers knotted into the elastic woollen cuffs of his bomber jacket.
“Hi, Alfred,” said Matthew, crossing the room. He hugged his brother, who stiffened briefly, before relaxing enough to hug him back.
“It’s raining,” said Alfred. His voice was choked, strangled-sounding, but he didn’t let go of Matthew.
Matthew laughed. “I know, I know. Heroes don’t cry, after all.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Notes
The epigraph is from T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men.
Ta Gueule is a very rude way of telling someone to shut up. But if I was hungover near Alfred, I would be rude too.
St. Bernard Dogs are famous for finding people in the Swiss Alps, and Switzerland is known for humanitarian aid groups. I think he’s kind of tsundere/yandere like that. And since he had to turn his guns over to fly to America, he er, procured one from the streets of New York City, which is where the UN General Assembly Room is.
Historically, France dissolved the Holy Roman Empire under Napoleon. Headcanon states that HRE became Germany somehow, in a process that erased his memories. Interestingly, under Prussian leadership, the German Empire formed in 1871 as the predecessor to modern Germany. This is me just extrapolating for story purposes, where HRE was given a choice to die like Rome and disappear, or (live and) die as a human (like Matt chose). He chose Option C, to wait and be reborn as a new nation.
Je me souviens is the official motto of Quebec, meaning I remember. It comes from a longer phrase:
Je me souviens
Que né sous le lys
Je croîs sous la rose.
I remember
that born under the lily
I grow under the rose.
However, I and Switzerland took liberty with the grammar (as the verb is se souvenir with a reflexive pronoun), and used me as a direct object instead of a reflexive pronoun, so now it is I remember myself and I do not remember myself for France’s negation of the phrase. French is also one of the national languages of Switzerland, which is how he knows it.
Tim Horton’s and Pizza Pizza are two Canadian franchises, the former having the Iced Cappuccino or Iced Cap (which I like better than Starbucks’ Frappuccino) and the latter having a unique pizza delivery service and really good creamy garlic sauce. There’s also way too many of these in and near Queen’s University, where I have placed Matthew. And I think America has a population of 500 million or so. It’s too late to correct me if I’m wrong, though.
Hammersmith is a part of London that I like very much, and Rockcliffe Park is a very affluent part of Ottawa where many politicians live. Matthew’s house, which appeared briefly in the comics, wouldn’t be out of place there.
Ritual is this, er, activity at Queen’s Clark Hall Pub to “keep [us] busy on Friday afternoons,” to quote a student. Lots of drinking, basically. Queen’s school colours (red, blue, and gold) are also referred to as the Tricolour a lot. Prince Charles also did visit Queen’s in 1991 with his then-wife Diana.
So much history in this foreplay section. And a reference to a picture by Bluef0x is in there; read some of the comments. That last part of the foreplay section is what Matthew got so upset over, also, that caused this whole debacle. Doug, which is a common name in Canada (I can think of five off the top of my head), also bastardizes a quote from Fight Club. Speaking of names, Emily is a popular name in America and means ‘rival’ or ‘adversary’; I still haven’t decided what happens to her without Matthew.
France has gone on strike because of the disappearance of Matthew, but a man from Marseille, France once told me that they will go on strike in his city if the weather’s good. And Matthew is speaking my lame attempt at Québécois. Blanc comme un mort is white as a corpse or as pale as death.
Minor changes were made from this version and the original, only for a word and to complete a thought.