In the early days, he and Belgium would sometimes try to find a house to stay in together. It was never very hard, and worth the risk to get away from the eyes that were always watching them. People on both sides of their border were disappearing, leaving their homes dark and abandoned. This desolate variety kept Lars and his siblings safe from their watchdogs for a night.

They'd speak freely, on those nights. He and Belle, quiet like mice in the rafters. Sometimes they'd have small Luxembourg tucked between them. Mostly, it was just an exchange of updates, a way to get at information the Nazis hadn't twisted. However, sometimes it was just to distract themselves from the present. Lars liked it best when Belle spoke about flowers. She would murmur the descriptions into poetry, wax lyrical in soft French. He could almost forget the fear for a moment, then. He could almost let her sooth him into the fields she whispered of.

Then, somewhere in his land, there would be a scream. He would feel it rattle in his bones, building from his guts. The flowers in his mind would wither. Turn brittle. Die. Emile would cling like he expected Lars to turn to dust in his hands.

Sometimes Lars would wish that he could. There was nothing that stood to describe how much he wanted to join them. His people. So badly that he wanted to shake away his smallest sibling's hands and follow after their trail of fear. Wrap any he could find in his arms and beat away the monsters. Take the bullets. The beatings. Anything he could do to stop the screaming. Anything.

But the screaming was all over. In the streets. Homes. At the far away camps his sleep was riddled with nightmares of. Lars, a lone man, was powerless to stop any of it.

It ate at him.

Belle could recognize it in his eyes. The desperation. The delirium. It was then that her whispers would take on a different tone. It was then that she'd tell him, them, about the Allies.

It was then that she'd wax nations into heroes.

Valiant France. Noble Britain. Their struggles to defend her in this war and the last. He would let her rock him to the rhythm of these stories. Pretend that he was small like Emile and drift to her words. Be weak for a while.

It could never last. He was too old, knew too much. He'd looked too often into the eyes of France and Britain and seen their greed. Their cruelty. He knew all too well why they fought. Fear. Rage. Pride. There was no nobility hidden there. They were all too old for it.

Even Canada, whom Lars had never met and made Belle grin to speak of. He'd heard of how the young nation's government refused to harbour refugees. It seemed to clash with how Belle described him. How could a nation be sweet, or genuine, when their government was so cold? It reminded Lars of Spain, and that just made him feel ill.

With great reluctance, Lars pulled himself to his feet. The floor boards creaked like old bones underfoot and he had to repress a flinch. Immediately, he missed feeling Belle's fingers in his hair.

She and Emile were curled together, having fallen asleep while Belle murmured her stories. He wanted to rejoin them but he knew it was too risky. Too risky, even, to let Emile and Belle sleep. At night, they'd discovered, they were clear to do as they pleased, but days were dangerous. If they were discovered... Lars didn't want to think about it. He already had too many worries, with his royals in Britain's ugly mitts and the Resistance trying to pull itself together. The last thing he needed was those German fucks having a reason to watch him or Belle or Emile any closer.

"Belle," he whispered, crouching beside her. "You need to wake up."

An eye cracked open, green and baleful. "Wasn't sleepin'," her hand carded idly through Emile's hair. "He is, though."

Lars nodded. "I know, but if we're found..."

"We're fucked, yeah." She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. Her gaze settled on Emile. "He's so young, Lars."

Lars shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "He was founded a thousand years ago."

Belle's glare was poisonous. "And he's been fully independent for hardly more than seventy. Don't give me that, Lars."

"You don't deserve this either, Belle." She paused in gathering herself, jacket half-buttoned. Lars had the mad urge to hug her. He would have, too, if Emile hadn't still been in a sleepy puddle at her feet.

Instead, she sucked a breath through her teeth and smiled. "But I have done it before, and I will do it again. Chin up, my brother." Then she hugged him, stepping over Emile, who was rubbing tiredly at his eyes. She offered her hand and the younger nation joined them, standing at least a foot shorter than both Lars and Belle.

"It will get better." She murmured. Lars held her tighter, one hand fixed on Emile's shoulder, trying to ignore how thin she felt even through her thick coat. At last, she pulled away.

"One way or another," she smiled tightly, "it gets better." Lars nodded, not prepared to argue views that would only bring her down. Instead, he drew Emile into a quick hug and then sent them on their way, confident that the muted hustle of the city in the morning would be enough to cover their movements.

Once he was certain they'd left his streets without molestation, Lars turned away from the window and gathered his own few things. When done, he left out the backdoor.

Following a convoluted network of streets, he made his way to where he'd set up his base. His own home was watched far too heavily to be any place of rest, so he'd been forced to find another. He'd drop by the other house later, just to give the spies something to report, but for now he was as safe as he could be.

He only hoped that it would remain that way, for all of them.

It was 1944, barely so, and Lars' people were always in pain. Those involved with the Resistance did what they could, but many cells were small and disconnected, and the Nazis were clever and brutal. They withheld food and food stamps and took hundreds and hundreds of people to deport and lock up and blatantly kill.

Lars did what he could. He helped make forgeries and hid people away, fluttered from cell to cell breaking German communication networks and sabotaging what trains his people could still reach. He smiled complacently when the Nazis looked his way, every inch the cooperative government drone, and then sent them on wild goose chases. He ignored his fears for Belle and Emile, whom he hadn't seen since the February strike in 41' tightened restrictions, and focused on keeping his people alive.

Still, he did manage to find the odd quiet moment.

Wincing as he settled himself into an ancient rocking chair, Lars cursed his aching joints. He'd never felt as old as he did now. He'd taken to avoiding mirrors for just that reason, finding a quiet horror in his pallid face and hollow cheeks. By nature, nations were hardy creatures. It took a significant amount of suffering for his kind to retain injuries like the bruises Lars had noticed crawling up his arms and across his chest. What that meant for his people... Well, he had his nightmares to dissect that. Now was time for a rare pleasure.

Ignoring the fine tremors in his hands, Lars untucked a small letter from a pocket hidden in the seam of his jacket. Only half the size of a regular piece of letter paper, the spidery red scrawl contrasted sharply with the white background. Lars smiled a little at that. The last note had come on the back of an old newspaper, and before that, a napkin. It would seem that the author of the notes lived about as turbulently as Lars did. It gave him some extra confidence that the notes, which had fast become the highlight of his day, weren't just some trick of his invaders.

When he'd received the first note, Lars had been hesitant to so much as open it. The continued occupation of his nation wore on him, leaving him distraught and paranoid by turns. It had only been a hateful combination of curiosity and boredom that had pushed him to unfold it.

He'd had to force himself to stifle tears when he'd read the words contained.

The writer spoke of Lars' royal family, how they were safe and secure in Canada, of all places. Lars had had no news of them since they'd found sanctuary in England. Assuming that the note was genuine, knowing the location of his royals went a significant way in soothing his desperation. The birth of his newest princess was especially welcome news, and Lars couldn't help but be grateful to the mysterious Canada that he'd allowed Lars' princess to be Lars' alone.

That night, Lars had forced himself to comb over his day, searching through his memories for how the note could have possibly found its way into his pocket. It had taken him some time, but at long last he'd been able to put a face to the act. Or, at least, the semblance of a face. From what he recalled, the only direct contact he'd had that day was when he'd bumped into a tall, slim blond on the sidewalk. It only stuck out because Lars had noticed he'd lost the Nazi tail assigned to him almost directly after. At another point in the war, that would have been enough to make the note too suspicions to tarry with any further, but Lars had been desperate.

If he was going to remain strong for his people, he'd needed something to resemble a light at the end of the tunnel. The first note had been that. He couldn't have given the following ones up if he'd tried.

Always appearing in the pocket of Lars' coat, Lars had become greedy for them. Sometimes they'd be long and incredibly detailed, filled with military outlines for Lars to pass along to his Resistance. Other times, there would be no mention of the war. Just updates from his royal family, gentle encouragements, funny jokes, stories. Never with enough detail to give the writer's identity away, but with so many little hints of personality that Lars craved to meet the author like a man lost at sea prayed for a port.

The author had become Lars' hope. His own personal light.

If he were any younger, he would have even called it love. He'd taken to dreaming of blond curls, to checking corners for the man's smile. He still couldn't be sure that the blond was the one who penned the notes, but something in Lars' gut convinced him of it. Perhaps insanity, he thought with a smile.

The note Lars now held was a short one, but the message increased the shaking in his hands. The Allies were making plans to move into his land. They were making plans for liberation. He could feel the hope bursting in his blood, hot and irrational. It took serious effort to limit his reaction to a single smile.

There was still a small part of Lars that was sure that the notes were a Nazi test. That the raging hope in his veins was going to solidify into despair and drag him down into whatever fresh Hell was left to him. Yet, as he watched the note burn in the fireplace so it didn't have a chance of falling into enemy hands, Lars couldn't help but to relax.

He could feel the end coming. He only hoped his light would be there when it came.

Later that year, when Lars felt the first of the Allied troops roll over his borders, his grin grew so wide that he was sure his face would crack. Immediately, he itched to arm himself and fight, but the push and pull of the battle on his land made him ill. Racking coughs had begun to shake him for days at a time, until blood splattered with every hack. Delirium caught him at random. It was during one of these episodes that he'd had his first close encounter with his light...

Lars feels cool hands on his forehead, quickly replaced by a wet cloth. There's a gentle voice murmuring to him. It is soft, with notes of warmth and care. This is a voice that should be used to laugh, he thinks. It coaxes him to drink and he can't resist. It asks him to open his eyes, please, and Lars does his best. Instantly he's glad he followed the request. The finer points of the blond's features are still obscure, by some strange magic or malice, but this time Lars is able to make out his eyes. They are stunning. Like amethyst, but brighter. Deeper. Lars is fascinated, utterly. If he believed in love, oh, he wants to believe in love -

The voice laughs, honey-tinged and affectionate. Hands touch his face once more, calloused fingers oh so careful, and then two lips press against his forehead. Lars' breath catches, comes again in an airy sound he would be embarrassed about if he wasn't sure this was a fever dream.

He closes his eyes and lets himself relax for the first time in years.

"Sleep, Lars. It'll get better soon. One way or the other, it always gets better."

And so he does.

When Lars woke up, he'd thought for sure that it was a dream. How could it be anything else? He'd been under house arrest since the Allied invasion began. If there was a way to slip past the guards, he'd have known about it by then.

And yet, when he'd managed to sit up, he'd found a vase of fresh tulips set on his bedside table. Lars hadn't had fresh tulips in his room since the war kicked up. Even if it hadn't been for the quick note in red ink tucked among them (It will get better), they would have brought confirmation along with a smile to his face.

(And perhaps a blush, but that was neither here nor there. His writer couldn't possibly know what red tulips represented, could he?)

From that point forward, the mystery blond began to appear more often. Particularly, Lars noticed, among the Resistance cells. He'd only been allowed out by his captors briefly, during a period where the Allies had been pushed back far enough that the Nazis had grown more confident, but it had been enough time for Lars to bring himself up to date. Lars still couldn't give a very solid description of him, but even the cell members that had the most contact couldn't seem to do much better. When Lars had asked, they'd said the blond was an Allied spy. Called him quick and clever, and perhaps more brutal than even the Nazis.

Lars had found it hard to believe, at first. The man he saw peeking from alleyway mouths and blackened windows was always smiling, a quiet little twist of the lips. Not as though he found something funny, no, but as if he was trying to calm someone's fear. He handed out sweets to children, and bread to adults. The SS never noticed his presence, nor even that of those he stood near. Lars saw it happen, once. He'd watched in anger as an officer cut close to a frail looking woman, snarling at her roughly. The blond had stepped forward from an alley, stood maybe a pace from the woman's shoulder, and the officer had seemed to become confused. He'd wandered away not long after, and so too had the blond.

That was not the kind of person who was brutal. A brutal person did not write comforting notes and sneak tulips into an ailing nation's room. A brutal person was not the kind of person Lars would find himself longing for so deeply.

A strange person, Lars would concede. Perhaps even unnatural. Maybe even a nation, dare he think it. But not brutal. Not as the cells whispered.

It was only when the fighting started in town that Lars saw that side, and finally made the connection between man, note, name, and nation.

Lars was locked away as soon as the first bullet flew through town square. Already, he'd been placed back under full house arrest, but now guards stood outside his bedroom door, armed to the teeth. Had he been feeling any better he would have charged them, rushed out into the street to fight for his freedom, but he could not. Winter had set in not too long ago and all over his country people were starving. With the war on his lands and the oppression and violence against his people, Lars was left weak and feeble.

The hacking cough that left him spitting blood continued to plague him, and his skin stretched skeletally over his bones. Deep hollows gouged his cheeks and his eyes were lost in sleep deprivation. Dizziness and nausea had kicked in not too long ago, and the trembling of his hands had spread throughout his body and made it hard to do much else but lie still. He'd received no visitors since his light had shown up during his first lapse into fever dreams. He was almost eager to return to that state, if only to escape the loneliness and pain.

How shameful, he thought, and closed his eyes. What a disgrace of a nation, how weak, just like his occupiers said. But... he'd been holding out for so long. A small nap, just a little respite from his awful self, it couldn't -

A burst of gunfire sounded, cutting off his thoughts.

Snapping to his feet despite the misgivings of his body, Lars froze and willed himself quiet. Through the window he could see that the guards assigned to the front had been taken out, their bodies bloodied and lax in the dirt. The door had been kicked in. Below him guns exchanged fire, dropping bodies until all rang quiet. The guards outside his door exchanged some angry German and charged from their posts. Lars assumed they'd left to position themselves at the top of the stairs, where they could bottleneck the intruder. Gunfire broke out instantly. Lars' heart pounded in the sudden quiet.

The stairs creaked as one set of feet ascended them. No doors were smacked open on the way, nor did he hear anyone calling out. This wasn't a mission to clear the building.

They, whoever they were, were here for him.

Lars wished he could say the thought wasn't terrifying.

There was a sharp crack as the lock on his door met with the butt of a gun. Stealing a breath, Lars braced himself, praying that he didn't look as godforsaken as he felt. Best case scenario, this was someone coming to free him. He'd never hear the end of it if this was one of Britain's brats and he gave them a reason to describe him as anything other than dignified -

And then he was met with blond curls, and a sweet face splattered with a poor simile for bright red ink.

"So," Lars murmured. He sounded weak even to his own ears. "You're Canada."

He never had been a great conversationalist. It would follow that talking to his - well, he guessed it was a crush, at this point -would be just as cringe-worthy.

His light - nation of Canada, nice to meet you - turned over his shoulder and smiled back at Lars. He was even taller up close, about six feet to Lars' five ten. Quick on his toes, and strong, too. Currently he was the only thing holding Lars up as they scuttled through the battle-ridden streets. It was hard to believe they'd been so quiet a few hours ago. Thus was the mayhem of war.

"Mathew Williams."

What? "Pardon?"

His light (Canada - Mathew?) just grinned harder, amethyst eyes glittering even through the gloom. "I said, my name is Mathew. Mathew Williams. Lord knows I've been calling you Lars long enough that you shouldn't be calling me Canada." He laughed, and Lars tripped a little trying to listen harder.

Oh, god. He was such a sap. Here they were, hauling ass through his warzone of a nation, and he was mooning over Mathew's laugh. God couldn't save him from the Nazis (no, that was all Mathew, wasn't it?) but maybe He could keep Lars from embarrassing himself too much. Oh, who knew lucidity was such a pain in the ass.

It would be better when he wasn't so tired, Lars decided. When his body didn't ache quite so much. Eventually, his nation would put itself together and then, well, he wouldn't make such a pathetic case of himself in front of Mathew. Just had to get past the dizziness and weakness first.

Maybe he'd even be able to pay Mathew back for the tulips -

Oh, god. The tulips. His delirium!

- lips press against his forehead. Lars' breath catches, comes again in an airy sound he would be embarrassed about if he wasn't sure this was a fever dream -

Oh, God. He'd managed to put it out of his mind until now. Mathew must think he was such a dork, God -

"I was worried about you, you know." And Mathew was talking again. Had he even stopped before? Lars couldn't recall. The world was too blurry. It was affecting his hearing.

Wait. That didn't make sense.

Mathew's fingers were tight on his jacket, his shoulders straight and strong under Lars' arm. It was a nice feeling. Better than half the other embraces he'd been caught in before. However, Lars was a big nation even in his concaved state. Mathew just barely managed to keep him up as his legs went out from under him.

"Lars, you have to stay with me, please," Mathew murmured, keeping up a steady dialogue of sweet nothings as he ducked them into an alleyway mercifully free of fighters or fleeing Nazis. Lars was promptly sick as soon as Mathew set him down, thankfully missing Mathew himself. He had that at least to be happy about, even as his vision shaded in and out.

"I know it's bad, but it'll get better. One way or another, it always does." Mathew hummed, pressing a canteen of cool water into Lars' hands, helping him drink. His sweet, intelligent eyes ticked over Lars' frame for any other troublesome symptoms of what was going on. Lars found himself smiling as he sagged against the brick behind him.

"My sister... she said something like that to me, last time I saw her." It was a memory he'd taken to revisiting in the dark of night. His family, safe, together. He'd wept over it more than once.

Mathew blinked, expression clearing in surprise. "Really? Belle? She always used to tell me to keep my optimism to myself whenever I said that to her." He settled beside Lars easily, shuffling close so that Lars could use his shoulder as a head rest. Lars stopped fighting the urge after his headache picked up.

"That was you?" He muttered, words half-lost in Mathew's jacket. Mathew hummed and ran a hand absently through Lars' hair.

"Yes, it was something my childhood caretaker used to say to me. I suppose I adopted it as my own, at some point." There was something almost self-deprecating in Mathew's tone, and very much so in the muted laugh that followed after. It made Lars frown.

"No, it's good advice." He said, attempting to straighten up until the pain got to him and Mathew hushed him back down again. "God knows I've been repeating it to myself for too long to think otherwise."

Mathew smiled, a soft, sweet, peaceful expression. Being under it felt like sunlight, Lars thought. "I'm glad you found it useful," Mathew said through the smile, though a look of worry soon settled in his eyes.

"Perhaps you should rest, Lars," He said at long last. "We're not very far from the rendezvous point. I'll signal to have them pick us up." Something in Lars rankled at that, at his own weakness, but the world was fading around him. He wouldn't have been able to stand even if his life had depended on it. Even if Mathew had begged him to.

"Alright," Lars agreed, letting his head fall heavier on Mathew's shoulder. Mathew made an encouraging noise and took up running his fingers through Lars' hair again. Suddenly, Lars smiled.

"Maybe you can tell me more about you while we're stuck here? Seeing as you already know my sister." It was the blood loss, or the nausea. He usually wouldn't pry, but he'd found he liked Mathew's voice almost as much as he liked Mathew's stories. He wanted to see them put together before he passed out and their little peaceful bubble popped.

"I think I can do that." Mathew said after a silence.

Lars spent the rest of the time drifting to tales of a brother who loved like fire, and parental figures who could move mountains when they weren't causing earthquakes. Of a hundred cousins and aunts and uncles who sparkled brighter than stars and played pranks at dawn. When the black of unconscious hit him, he felt the most peaceful he possibly ever had. He only had one question on his mind when he slipped away, and that was to ask why Mathew never told stories of himself.

I'll figure it out, he swore to himself. Just let me have a tomorrow with him in it to do so.

"Good morning, my brother."

Lars groaned as the voice intruded on his peace, eyes blinking blearily. Yet, by the time they focused, he was already reaching for his sister, a strangled laugh clawing out of his throat.

Belle came into his arms easily, her grin even more pronounced than the wetness in her eyes. She laughed with him; deep, unladylike guffaws that sounded like they were crossbred with sobs. Her weight felt right in his arms, even as his ribs rebelled against him. God, it was so good to have her safe.

When they separated, it was only so Belle could sit comfortably on the bed, their hands still linked. They took a moment, then, just to look each other over. On Lars' part, he took in her dank, mussed hair and sallow face. The independence of the fine bones in her hands that couldn't be hidden in baggy clothing the way she did the rest of her body.

He quickly decided that he didn't want to know what she saw in him.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "What's going on?" And where's Mathew? He added privately.

Of course, he knew that Mathew was a nation at war. He was likely with his troops, preparing for whatever needed to be done. However, even now there was a dark part of Lars' mind that said Mathew wasn't there simply because Matthew didn't want to be there. Why would he? To see a weak nation with a crush? Mathew probably had plenty of interested parties, why would he -

Lars yanked himself away from those thoughts, recognizing the dark path they led down. Mathew would come if he had time, and even then, it would only be as friends. Lars had never hinted about his feelings, after all. And Mathew was France's son, at least partially. Perhaps he was merely that tactile with everyone he helped. It had certainly made Lars feel better.

He would not let his own feelings destroy him. Not when so many other things were still threatening to.

"We're in an Allied medical camp, in one of your villages," and suddenly Belle was talking, an appraising glint in her eye that Lars didn't like. "Emile and I made the trip when we heard you had been recovered."

"Emile's here?" Lars had assumed their youngest sibling would still be in his own country, healing. The younger a nation was in their independence, the harder the wounds of war and catastrophe were on them. It was why everyone in the nation world liked to make such a fuss about how powerful the likes of America and Germany were (had been, in the later case?). Belle would have never let Emile come and visit him if he wasn't under her supervision twenty-four/seven.

So... where was he?

Belle's smile was playfully cool. "Yes, he is. He wouldn't shut up about coming to see you, you know. I think this whole nightmare's made him a tad clingy. Rightfully so, I guess."

Alright, Lars would take her bait. "So, where is he, then?"

"Here I am!" And suddenly Lars' arms were full of five feet of blond nation. Lars laughed out loud, covering the gasp of pain he expelled as Emile latched onto his middle. Whatever. The pain was worth seeing the sheer relief on Emile's pale face.

"I missed you, Lars," Emile murmured, face buried in Lars' chest. Lars immediately began whispering back loving nonsense, rocking them both until Emile had wiped the tears from his eyes and settled himself between him and Belle.

And that, of course, was when he noticed Mathew leaning against the door jam.

Straightening so fast he was sure he slipped a disk, and pointedly ignoring Belle's snickering, Lars pasted on a wide smile. Mathew, arms weighed down with a tray of hospital food, returned it easily. They seemed to be stuck in this loop of quiet mutual observation until Belle cleared her throat. Mathew jolted back to reality first.

"Oh, um, right. Soup." He stuttered, face blushing four shades of red, and Lars was immediately charmed. It seemed that Mathew wasn't half as smooth off the battlefield as he was on. It made Lars want to scoop him up and press kisses to his skin until the blush was permanent.

Unaware of Lars' thoughts (though, from Belle's smug expression, she, at least, was), Mathew sighed. "Ah, what I meant to say was that was where Emile and I were. Getting you lunch." Mathew smiled, which seemed to be his natural expression, and set the tray on the bedside table. "Hopefully it's not as awful as my guys set up here like to joke about."

"Oh, I'm sure my dear brother will love anything you give him, Mathieu, mon cher." Belle swanned, unfolding gracefully from the bed to press two friendly kisses against Mathew's cheeks. While Mathew laughed and returned the favour with a kiss to Belle's hand, she sent Lars a significant look.

Lars gulped, scalding his throat with suddenly tasteless soup. He never could get anything past her, could he?

Turning her expectant eyes away from her sufficiently cowed brother, Belle gave a considerably sweeter look to Emile. "How about we go see if we can't find something for ourselves while Lars gets himself sorted out? I hear a certain someone might be in for a treat if he eats lunch without a fuss today." She added, patting her pocket lightly. Trust Belle to make it through a World War and still have enough chocolate lying around to use some as bribery.

Emile looked torn for a moment, caught between his desire to stick to Lars as long as possible and the chance to get a taste of one of Belle's chocolates. Lars gave him a reassuring look and gestured for him to go after Belle. "I'm not going anywhere, but you never know who might catch Belle's fancy if you don't go win your prize quick." He added, and Emile pushed up off the bed a moment later.

"Promise?" He asked, standing halfway to Belle.

Putting on his most solemn face, Lars nodded. "I swear."

Emile gave him one last long, judging look before nodding and grabbing on to Belle's hand. "Kay."

And with that, and one last pointed glare from Belle herself, Lars was alone with his light.

Who immediately started to chuckle.

Lifting a brow, Lars couldn't help his own smile. Mathew's laugh was infectious. "What's so funny?"

Sitting himself of the edge of Lars' bed, Mathew looked up, surprising Lars with just how violet his eyes really were. "Nothing really. You'd just be surprised how much my brother used to be like Emile."

"Who? America?" Lars snorted. "You've got be kidding."

Mathew shook his head, eyes aglow with fond memories. "Nope, not at all. Al was actually very shy as a kid. And that hugging thing? Happened anytime Arthur came back from being farther away than the local market." Mathew paused for moment, and then turned back to Lars. "Just don't tell anyone I told you that. Alfred would pitch a fit."

Lars laughed. "No worries. You can trust me."

Somehow Mathew's smile seemed to become softer, more sincere. Lars mused that Mathew seemed to be able to portray just about anything with a smile.

"I thought so, too."

And suddenly, the air seemed to be charged with something different. Not exactly uncomfortable but... tense. When next Lars caught Mathew's eyes, he held the connection like a life line. This sort of regard seemed to be foreign to Mathew, who shifted until he finally let out a sigh.

Lars let himself feel only a little guilty for not being the one to bow down to the tension. His injuries had to be worth something, at least.

After stifling minute, Mathew seemed to be able to string his words together.

"I, um, understand if this a bad time - well, obviously, it's an awful time, but what I mean is, I -" Mathew cut himself off, frustrated. Then he straightened, his shoulders sliding back until he actually looked like a man who could be six feet tall again.

"I'm really, deeply bad with feelings. I tend to bury them, most of the time, because they get in the way. God knows Papa tried to teach me different, but I guess I've always been more like Arthur that way." And there was that self-deprecation again; as though whatever it was, it could only be Mathew's fault, and that was just par for the course. Lars had to bite his tongue to keep from jumping in and telling him different.

"But you... You make it very hard to do that." Mathew murmured, soft like a confession at church. "When I wrote that first note to you, it was a whim, because I know what it's like not to have a clue what's happened to your people and to be expected to be okay with that. But... I couldn't keep it professional. The more I saw you at Resistance meetings and on the streets, the more I grew to admire you. How strong you were. Are. How dedicated and smart and, above all, kind." Mathew took a breath, and Lars was kind of surprised, because Lars probably hadn't taken a breath since Mathew started talking, and who needed air, really?

He just wanted to hear Mathew say it. Say the three or more words that would confirm to Lars that he wasn't just a creepy, crazy old European lusting after a beautiful young nation who could do so much better. That what he was feeling -

"I guess you could say I fell in love with you from afar."

... was returned.

"And then I just started writing, on anything, anytime I felt alone or scared. I wrote things about me that I wanted to know about you. God, I must have at least a dozen I never sent because they made me sound like some sort of romantic idiot. And then, with the tulips, well... that night I could hear you crying out from your room. I knew those fucks keeping you captive wouldn't help, so I slipped in... the flowers' colour, well, you probably know what that means better than me..."

Mathew was rambling. He was nervous and blurring words, flushed and unable to look Lars in the eye for longer than a few seconds. Lars wanted to scoop him up and decorate him with kisses and bite marks until there was no possible way Mathew could ever be unsure of how much Lars wanted this. But at the same time, Mathew was saying everything Lars had ever wanted to hear. Lars couldn't make himself reach forward to stop him.

At last, Mathew slowed. He breathed softly, and Lars wanted to hold him until the tremors in his hands stopped. But then Mathew was speaking again, and Lars was suddenly okay with being powerless for the first time since his creation.

"I understand if you think I'm insane. Or if this is the wrong time. Or even if the right time is never. But I just know for a fact that if I went home without asking you this I'd kick myself all the way back to North America, so... Lars, would it be alright if I kissed you?"

Fragile is a word Lars would have never thought to associate with Mathew Williams. Here is a man who has now been on the winning side of two World Wars, played referee between empires and upstarts, and represented the second largest nation next to Russia. None of these things made for a fragile nation. And yet, Mathew's eyes sparkled like stained glass, and his fine features were bloodless with nerves. Lars could have broken him, here, and no one, least of all Mathew, would have ever blamed him for it.

But Mathew didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve Lars, really, either, but that was because Mathew deserved empires. Mathew deserved respect and attention and devotion, because even if he could take a life faster than most could take cover, Mathew was kind, innately. Gentle. Good. Lars would never let anyone convince him differently of his light. Not while he was still breathing.

And that was why Lars would be selfish. That was why Lars would say what he would and spend the next eternity kissing all the aching parts of Mathew Williams, until Mathew realized his own value. He would pry names and dates from Mathew's lips, find the hurts and heal them. And in the dark of night, he'd press marks into Mathew's pale skin until anyone who sought to do harm knew that they would be fighting two nations, not just one.

It would take time. It would be bloody and messy and he could already see that Mathew thought Lars was the one who needed to be held. If anything, it would be an interesting match. One Lars was intent on winning.

He just had to make the first move.

"Yes," he said, and Mathew stilled. Lars didn't know if it was his own heart making that hammering sound, or if the camp was being shelled. "I would like very much for you to kiss me."

There was a beat, and then Mathew was on him.

Tiny Emile had managed to fill Lars' lungs with pain when he'd gone in for his hug. All six and a bit feet of Mathew managed to enclose him in such a way that not one of Lars' wounds even twinged.

Braced with his knees bracketing Lars' hips and one hand flat against the headboard, Mathew was primordial in his gentleness. Corded muscle pulled taut in his arms and the thin tank he wore was no protection from Lars' worshipful eye. His free hand, rough with calluses, traced the pronounced curve of Lars' cheekbone all the way down his jaw, one roughly-skinned thumb brushing the chapped edge of Lars' lip. Lars almost wanted to postpone this, to move it to a time where he didn't quite hate himself or his appearance so much, and maybe Mathew was telepathic, because a moment later "so beautiful" passed his lips and it was reverent. It was prayers and confessions and midnight mass, tinged with the want and need of every sinner ever backwards-blessed by the Devil. If they were ever angels, Mathew would be Lucifer - the most beautiful, the most misunderstanding.

And then Mathew shifted, taking more weight onto his calves and thighs of muscles defined by scaling the mountains of Italy. Lars desperately wished that those weren't hidden by his uniform pants, but then he was distracted by Mathew's hand coming up to cradle the back of Lars' head while tracing the outlines of his face with the other and then -

If all of the previous moments happened in minutes, the kiss must have taken hours.

There were no sparks, just forest fires. The tingling he'd felt in every other kiss before was replaced by lightening, and there was no warmth pooling in his lower stomach, just lava. Mathew may have started slow, with a glacial press of lips cooled by wide expanses of northern tundra, but while Lars was left gasping by the preternatural chill of the arctic nation, Mathew claimed dominance. His tongue took and gave and teased, and Lars had never had a kiss that felt so much like laughing. Like sex. Like sneaking off and being young and discovering that all dragons had a deathly-deep fear of courage.

When they separated, it was because magic and science were not so far apart that one may cancel the other, so air was still a necessity. Mathew fell to the left of him, bouncing on the tiny bed not made for two people, but still managed not to jolt Lars' many pains. He wondered if this would be what their entire relationship would be like; Mathew doing the impossible and Lars being amazed.

He rolled onto his side, heedless and carefree, and caught Mathew's eyes. They were dark with desire, Mathew's mouth bitten and reddened. Before he was even conscious of it, he was poised over Mathew, and then they connected, and who needed consciousness anyway?

He knew, eventually, that Belle and Emile would come back. They wouldn't knock, and Belle would throw her hands over Emile's confused eyes and accuse them of tainting the youth, even while she fought the giggles. Mathew would squeak and blush and make apologies while looking for the pants that Lars hoped he would never find. Lars would smile, and be grateful as all-fuck that nearly all of Mathew's violent family members were in Berlin right then.

However, before that happened, Lars had time to learn one last lesson and that was this: love was real. Even in Hell, love was real. Flowers withered, nations fought for no more than survival, and devils never reconciled with angels, but love was real.

You just needed a light at the end of the tunnel to be able to see it.