Any and all French used was done with an online translator. Sorry. I took three years of Spanish. If I could go back to eighth grade and change what I took, I'dve totally taken German instead, but I digress.
That has nothing to do with French...
And sorry in advance for the kid-talk. Especially in Mattie/Canada's case. I know it's bad, but…I mean, he's little and only spoke French up until now...
Anyway, this is just…stuff.
A bit fluffy. Pairing if you sorta tilt your head. Won't be there if you don't want it to be. Can be seen as brotherly love.
Alfred/America POV and also third person.
Do not own anything but the semi-there-except-mostly-not-there plot. So, yeah.

"M…Mattie?" My voice cracked a bit as I looked inside the room quietly, "Are you awake?"

"Alfie?" a pause, "I am now. What is it, eh?" He sounded sleepy and, deep down (deep, deeeep, deeeeeeeeep – is it even really there? – down) I knew I shouldn't be bothering him. We were too old, too mature to be scared of a little st—

CRASH CRACK ZZZZZAP ZZZZZZZZ

I crossed his room in two long strides before pausing beside his bed. "I…I was scared that you…that you would be afraid of the…the storm. I ju…just wanted to see if you were OK…" I stopped. No way was I afraid. No. No.

No, no, no, no.
Nonononononono.

I don't get scared. I'm the hero. Hero's can't get scared of anything. It's what makes them her—

ZZZZZZZZZZAPPPZZZ

"Mattie! I can sleep with you if you want! You know if you're scared! Of the storm, you know. Right? Right Mattie? Right? Aren't you scared? Of the storm, I mean. It's pretty bad out there, right? Like those ones from when we were little, right? Dontcha' 'member, Mattie? Are you scared, cause I can sleep in your bed and protect you from the lightning and the thunder and the storm and —"

"Alfie? Shut up," the covers were shifted and raised up a few inches. I took it as my invitation and scrambled into the bed before curling up against my brother. "You know," he started in his small voice, thick with sleep, "you ramble when you're scared."

Me? Scared? "Me? Scared? Psssh. No way am I the scared one, Mattie! I'm the hero! I'm just here to protect you! Not the other way around!"
He smiled at me before rolling over and presenting me with his back. "Yeah. Sure. Just go to sleep, ehh." I nodded slowly before turning my back to his. We both knew it was a fruitless effort. We both knew we'd wake up facing each other, with me curled tightly into Mattie's chest, his arms wrapped protectively beside me. We both knew we'd never mention it to anyone. It's how it had always been.

I stared out the window as the lightning leapt through the sky. Each time the flash would slice through the black abyss, I felt myself shrink closer to my bedmate. It wasn't as if I tried to; it had become a natural occurrence…

Small feet pounded on the floor of the hallway, stopping in front of the large wooden door, hand reaching for the door knob, but hesitating a moment before chubby fingers could brush the cold metal. Would Iggy be mad? Would he yell, scream, shout? Send me back to bed? Criticize me for crying and being scared ("I wasn't scared, gosh darnit!") of the storm raging outside?

It wasn't worth the risk.

The small hand retreated from the doorknob, falling limply at the young child's side. Said child sniffled before lightly rubbing his eyes with clammy palms. He turned on the spot, going to retreat to his room, maybe hide in the closet and wait out the storm, when he heard it.

'It' was barely noticeable. (It was surprising that the little blonde even heard it to begin with) The small whine had started three doors in the opposite direction and was more of a keening cry than anything else. The boy turned and padded his feet back down the hall. What could this be? A monster in the guest room? Tip toes and a two handed doorknob twist revealed a small child roughly the same size as the door opener. The new child (blonder than the first with hair more like silk than the original child, whose amber mop would much more be akin to animal fur) sat in the middle of the large bed, hugging a bear (that thing was stuffed, right? I mean, it can't be real…Iggy wouldn't let it in the house if it were real! That would be dangerous…dear God did it just blink) tightly against his chest. Tears streaked down flushed cheeks and violet eyes clouded over with fear. Whether from the sudden intrusion or the weather outside, it wasn't clear. Nevertheless, the mirror-boy (for young America couldn't recall seeing the child in his life ever and small children clutching (stuffed?) bears don't just suddenly appear out of thin air, right? Because that's impossible and nothing like that had ever happened before in my life, even though I'm really not that old and I haven't seen a lot and stuff. Well, unless you count all the stuff Iggy's showed me and stuff, but. God, that kid is crying!) was crying and Alfred didn't wish to see that.

Small legs wobbled over to the mattress and short arms struggled to lift himself up onto the plush surface. (Blankets are awesome! They're such good leverage!) "H…Hi? Who awe you?"

Violet eyes snapped up, finally noticing the other boy. The orbs widened in surprise for a split second, before settling on confusion. "Ehh...vous m'a rencontré plus tôt, se souvenir?"

Sky blue eyes blinked in confusion. "Pawdon?"

"Oh!" The mirror boy's cheeks flush red. "Vous parlez seulement l'anglais! J'ai oublié, désolé!" He paused for a moment, his eyes darkening a shade or two as he tried to remember his words. "Ya…yooo mat…met? Yooo met me – meh? Non, me – eeearl. Earl-lie? Early-air? Ear? Air. Yoo met me early-air, non?"

America tilted his head a bit, working out the terribly (see: butchered) pronunciation (Whoever this kid is, he sucks at my language.) from his mirror image before realization dawned. "Oh! You're Mattie! I a'member!" Americas impossibly bright smile faltered as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. His voice hitched in a loud squeak before his cheeks blushed pink. God, he was acting so little and scared and unherolike.

"La tempête est...fort, non?" Another pause before, "The st…storm? Starm. Low…low-out? Lowout. Lowat? – loud! The starm loud, no?"

Americas head bobbed quickly, "Yeah! Yeah it is! I thought you might be scawed so I figuwd I'd come and check on you and make sir you were OK, and I was wight because, I mean, look at you! You're cwyin', wight? So, umm…you want me to stay here tonight? I can pwotect you while you sleep and stuff! I mean, if you don't want me to, that's fine too, but I mean. What I'm twying to say is—"

A small hand covered his mouth. The owner of the hand had his face twisted in light confusion and, with a careful and calm voice, mumble out a single response of, "…What?"

America smiled lightly. "I…I can sleep in hewe if you want someone to pwotect you."

Mirror-Boys eyes light up. "Oui! Oui, dormez s'il vous plaît avec moi!"

Though not completely understanding the words, America smiled. The eagerness in the other child's voice was all the permission he needed. The two children curled under the blankets, bodies lumping at either end of the large bed, leaving an imaginary border neither dared cross.

It wasn't until morning (when Arthur had nearly worried himself to death because he couldn't locate Alfred and, having completely forgotten that he did indeed have another child to look after, had spent the better part of an hour trying to find his small charge before remembering his second son. Which is when he went to see if the new child was in his assigned room) that the boys were discovered. The two were curled up – much like a pair of sated cats would be in a single ray of sunshine – together on the bed. Americas head was resting on the other's chest, Nantucket ("That stupid cowlick will. Not. Stay. Down. Alfred…what did you do to it?" "Nothin', Iggy! It's always been that way!" "…") lightly tickling the younger charges nose. (The evidence in the aforementioned statement being that Little Canada's nose was wiggling every time he inhaled.)

Arthur's lips twitched upwards as he quietly padded into the room. Emerald pools flickered to the discarded blanket before lifting it off the floor gently and situating it over the boys lightly shivering bodies. A tug on his pants leg turned his attention downwards; the bear, Kumajiro (or something like that…) was looking up at him with expectant black eyes. The Briton pulled back a bit, but reached down and lifted the small bear up nonetheless. "I suppose I'll make you breakfast at least. These two can sleep as long as they want today…" his voice was barely above a whisper as he left the room and its occupants behind.

That day, England learned that even a polar bear which eats raw baby seals would still refuse to eat his cooking. ("Inconsiderate little bugger…")

"Mrr…" I shifted, hearing the rumbling in my ears. Not the best thing first thing in the morning. "Al? Alfred? You…you're crushing my chest. I can't breathe…" I felt hands try to move my body. Oh no he's not.

No way was that going to happen. Not now. I was warm, goddammit. And I was not going to move. Not yet, at least. Not for anything. I was never going to move. Ever. The world could be about to die and I wouldn't be getting up. Nope. Not me. The world can save itself. All the McDonalds in the world could be about to explode and I won't be moving from the spot, thank you very much have a nice day goodbye.

"Al? Please. I'll die of suffocation if you don't move your fat head." I opened my eyes to small slits, glaring at the violet windows that stared at me patiently.

"Don'wanna'…" I snuggled my head deeper into his chest, my hands tightening into his night shirt. Or, well, his hockey jersey. Dude lived the sport, seriously; slept with a different jersey on every night. The Maple-Loving Freak…

"….I'll make you pancakes."

Wait, what? Did I say I was warm? How could I say that? Must've been delusional in all my freezing coldness. But…pancakes can cure that, that's for sure. Nothing warms a body up like fresh pancakes.

I sat up slowly, smiling at the boy. "You weren't scared since I was here to protect you, right?" He nodded, sliding himself out of the bed. I took the time to study it – the bed, not the boy. It looked so much smaller now that we were older. I mean, it's not like it was the same bed (that particular object was back in Ol' Iggys place with a lot of our old childhood things. It was all left there when we gained our independence), but it was the same size. We used to be able to keep ourselves completely separated when we lay down next to each other. Now we could barely lie on our sides and be comfortable enough for a night's sleep. Weird.

Maybe beds get smaller as you get older?

Mmmm. Pancakes.

In my wondering, I'd failed to see Mattie actually leave the room. But, now that a seductive aroma was wafting up the stairs, down the hall way, and into the bedroom, I knew he was down in the kitchen, flipping over the first of the delicious flapjacks.

Now, it's not like I'm dissing my own country here, but nowhere will you find a better breakfast than in the home of a Canadian. Whether it be a citizen of the country or the country himself, it simply just isn't possible. I mean, they make maple syrup here. That's like, breakfast staple 101. If they can't cook breakfast than aliens aren't real.

Have you ever met Tony?
Mmm. Pancakes.
Wait a minute….déjà vu…didn't I just…Naw. I'm just still sleepy.

Yawning and stretching my arms about my head, I worked my way out of the room and down the halls. His house was nice and clean. Very proper looking. The hallway was a bland white color and the doors a rich hickory. It was odd, knowing that once you opened one of those doors, your eyes were pretty much gonna get color raped. I swear my brother had to have at least every fucking color ever known to man in his house somewhere. No kidding.

Anyway. Down the hall I went before I stumbled into the kitchen, where, surprise surprise, there stood my baby brother giving a hotcake a flip in the pan. I smiled warmly at the scene before sitting at the table.

Arthur was sick. And not just normal queasy stomach sick or runny nose and a cough sick. He was sick sick. The kind of sick that, when his charges happened to catch it, they were forced into permanent bed rest for forever (or at least that's what it felt like for them – of course, it was really only for about a week before they were back to their old selves and allowed to play again). And, because of this, he was having some trouble with his sleep schedule. He couldn't make his body get up when he wanted it too. It had only taken him eleven days to finally give into the ailment and simply let himself sleep in.

Well, eleven days and eleven smashed-beyond-all-recognition-and-or-repairs alarm clocks, that is.

The man had put himself on bed rest and given the rule of the house to the younger of the two children (which had irritated the older ["Iggy!" he had whined, "I'm owdar den Matthew! I should be in chawge!" "Yes, Alfred. You may be older, but I trust him with my house more"] boy to no end). The man hoped that he wouldn't recover from his illness to find every room in his house, save for his own bedroom, utterly destroyed.

England would've been happy to know that, no; his house would not be destroyed. Only one of his rooms would be completely decimated. And, of course, it was the one that hated him the most of all.

The kitchen.

Not that the destruction would be completely purposeful. No, everything that happened in the two week period that Arthur was bedridden during was a complete accident. And, although the youngest charge tried to clean up after himself and his brother, he was just too short to reach the ceiling on his own, so that tiny little smear (see: giant glob of OHMYGOD WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?) (Wait….DID IT JUST MOVE?) would just have to stay there.
Anyway. It just so happened that Matthew only knew how to make one thing (well, two…sorta). Matthew could make pancakes (or crepes if they turned out too thin). He could make all kinds of pancakes (or crepes if they turned out too thin); strawberry, chocolate chip, vanilla, raspberry, blueberry, peanut butter, chocolate, and, Alfred's favorite; double-chunky-chocolate-chip-with-whatever-looked-like-it-would-go-well-with-it-that-was-in-the-pantry-or-fridge-at-the-time pancakes (or crepes if they turned out too thin) topped with whip cream. And the Canadian was good at it.

So this is where he was found every day; breakfast, lunch, and dinner (plus anytime Alfred wanted a snack). He would be making pancakes over and over and over again. It got to the point where he could probably have done it in his sleep (which he practically did once or twice prior to the not-yet-mentioned-but-if-you-keep-reading-it-will-show-up-event).

Today, however; was different. For Alfred wanted to help. To help make pancakes and learn how to do it on his own.

"Fine, Alfie. But you have to listen to everything I say. Okay?"

"Yeah yeah yeah. I heaw ya'. Now wet's get stawted! What do we do fiwst? Com'on' Mattie! Huwwy up! Pancakes, Mattie! Pancakes!"

Canada sighed while he washed his hands. This was going to be a long day.

Needless to say, before barley getting half of the ingredients out and onto the counter (which had to be reached with chairs [that had somehow migrated from the dining room to the kitchen] by both boys), Alfred had managed to break five eggs, slosh about two cups worth of milk on the floor, shatter a bottle of vanilla, pour all the toothpicks out of the cup and onto the floor, and (worst of all) cover both boys head to toe with flour.

Coughing up some of the powdery substance, Canada glared at his mirror image. "What, did I tell you?"

"To…be caweful?"

"And do you think you were careful?" Though he was going to protest, Alfred thought better of it upon seeing the look in his brother's eyes. It was a warning, much like the kind Arthur gave when he was about to yell.

"No. Sowwy Mattie. I'll help you clean up!" And so they set about the task of scrubbing the floors. It took a considerable amount of time (they ate breakfast at lunch time) but once they finished, the floor shined like it were new.

I've never, in my life, ever tasted anything as good as a fresh pancake (well, except maybe a Bid Mac with large fries and an extra-large milkshake…) that was made by my baby brother. Coated with layers of butter and maple syrup and sweet as ever (I swear, he puts triple the amount of syrup on his pancakes – I'm surprised he hasn't gotten diabetes [even though we really can't. I'm sure he would be the one that does.] yet), they are incredibly addictive.

Maybe I only visit him for his pancakes?
Naw. There's something else that makes me visit too.
"So, Al. You do realize you were so terrified of that storm last night that you were crying, right?"

...

...

Nope. I only come for the pancakes.

"…Mattie?"
"Eh?"
"I was protecting you from the storm. If I was crying it was simply because I was scared for your sake. I didn't want you to feel like the only one who could cry."
"Al; I wasn't crying."
I stiffened. "…can we just drop it, Mattie?"

"Whatever you say, Brother." He moved his fork towards his mouth. I smirked. My hand went across the table faster than he could have anticipated and I smacked the fork lightly to the left. The smear of maple syrup that coated his cheeks was laughable. His glare was not. "Alfred?"

I tried to stop laughing. "Yes?"

"I'll give you an hour to make yourself scarce." With that, he went back to eating his pancakes, ignoring the syrup that dripped down his face and onto the table and floor. (His bear would probably clean it up once he graced the room with his presence.)

I paled. A threat from Matthew was equivalent to Russia randomly showing up at your door. (see: a terrible thing to happen) Though no one really remembered my brother, there were times when he would come up in conversation. Usually during meetings when we were discussing the World Wars. The Canadian soldiers had been referred to as shock troops or storm troopers. They were vicious and great fighters.

Germany still had trouble making his eyes meet Canada's (Well, when Ludwig remembered Matthew, that is) even though Vimy Ridge has long been recorded in history books.

I was redressed and out the door in five minutes, heading for the states. No way was I sticking around to see my brother go hockey player on my ass.

Canada was sitting tentatively on a soft chair, a bad of ice held against his vital regions. "Al…" he whined softly, "I told you not to throw the ball so hard! It hurts!"
"Well maybe if someone wasn't so slow…"
"You throw too fast!"
"I throw just fine, thank you very much! You're just a wimp!"
The Canadian sighed angrily before glaring at his brother. "I bet you I can beat you at hockey."
"What? I bet you can't! I'm great at every sport I play!"
Matthew smirked. "Fine then, give me two hours to get better and get ready, then let's go find some ice and play! I'll show you!"
"Fine!"

Had Alfred known what would be going down, he might not have agreed so hastily.

The two boys were standing across from each other on the ice. The rink had been closed for the day, but Arthur had pulled some strings so the two boys could play a game of hockey (as long as they promised not to break anything) without being disturbed.

By this point in time, even without there being any form of goalie for either teen, Alfred was losing. The score was one to thirty-seven, and Al's head was throbbing from the numerous times it had hit the ice. His brother knew how to play this game. "Give up yet, Al? You're not going to win. I invented this game. I live for this game."

Alfred sighed, repositioning his feet on the ice. "I guess…maybe…" Matt's eyebrows rose into his hairline at the words. His brother never gave up. Ever. Violet eyes narrowed.

"What are you playing at, eh? You never give up."

"I'm appalled that you would accuse me of trying to trick you!" The taller blonde was slowly skating forward; hockey stick raised an inch off the ground and one hand raised in surrender. "I'll do nothing of the sort…RIGHT AFTER I MAKE THIS GOAL!" The stick crashed forward, swiping the puck out from under his younger brother's nose. The elder pelted down the ice, raising his stick to make his goal.

He wound up sliding across the ice on his stomach with a hard weight against his back.

"Hoser!" His brother snarled, eyes burning in anger and teeth tightly clenched shut. America gulped. Not. Good.

His brother had switched to hockey mode. (see: vicious body checks and unrepeatable swear words in a mushy [yet highly amusing] combination of English and French) He was screwed.

By the time the two had returned home, Alfred was nursing a black eye, a bloody lip, a twisted ankle, and numerous cuts, scrapes, and bruises. He would definitely be feeling every single muscle in his body in the morning as they screamed at him for being stupid.

He just hoped Mattie would not tell anyone that he had lost by fifty-nine points.

I smiled giddily as my brother showed up at my door. "'Ello, Alfred. And how are you this fine morning, eh?"
"Are you planning on harming me?"
"…no…?"
"Well, then. I'm actually quite well. Thanks for breakfast. I'll do lunch!" Matt's eyes flickered with sudden fear.
"Y…you're not planning on….cooking, are you?"
My eye twitched. What? Did he not trust me or something? "What? Do you not trust me or something?"
"When it comes to cooking? No. Sorry." I sighed.

Grumbling out, "It's not like I'm Arthur or something," I grabbed my bomber jacket and guided my brother to my garage. Opening the door, I smiled as his eyes widened.

"Al…we…we're not taking that are we?"

"Yup," I grinned, pulling down a second leather jacket, tossing it to my brother and two helmets, watching as he shoved his arms into the coat, eyes never leaving the Harley that was propped up in the garage. I put my own helmet on, followed by my gloves and mounted the bike. "Come on, Mattie! Hurry up! Mickey D's awaits us!" He moved his helmet to his head and pulled himself up onto the bike behind me.

I revved the engine.
He screamed.
I laughed.
The sound of his hand hitting the back of my helmet resonated inside and hurt my ears.

"…Maple…"
He glared at me through the helmet, adjusting the speaker volume of the two way that I had hooked up inside the helmets (for easy conversing on the road). "What was that?"

I grinned as we pulled out of the garage, hitting the button on the garage door controller, I repeated my insult. "I said 'Maple'"

Mattie growled. He literally growled. Like a dog. All 'grrrr' and stuff. I grinned to myself before, "Egotistical."

Oh no he didn't.

"Tree-hugger."
"Nosey."
"Curling nut."
"Jerkface."
"Lumberjack."
"Cowboy."
"'Always Fresh. Always.'"
"'America runs on Dunkin'.'"
"Beaver Pants."
"Hambur—wait. What?
"….Beaver Pants…"
"'Beaver Pants?' Is that really the best you could come up with?"

I glared at him. Well, I glared at the road in front of me. I'm pretty sure he could feel my glare, you know? Like eyes in the back of your head kinda style? That kinda thing.

"Eh!"
"You bastard! How dare you!"

I laughed in triumph as we pulled into the parking lot of the GREATEST FRIKEN' PLACE ON EARTH AND ALL WHO DISSAGREE ARE SIMPLY LYING!
"Al?"
"Yeah, Baby Bro?" I asked, parking and demounting my baby.
"You did not just say that?"
"Say what?"
"Don't make me repeat it…" he was whining and I was confused. Sighing, Mattie mumbled out a quiet, 'greatest friken' place on Earth and all who disagree are simply lying.'

Well shit. I said that out loud.
"Well shit. I said that out loud."

"Yup. You did. Crazy, eh? How that happens?"
"I guess…NOW! To get lunch!" I dragged him behind me as we walked into the restaurant.

"Slow down, Alfie! You're gonna crash!"

A laugh of unbridled joy sounded from further down the road. "No I'm not! Mattie, you're such a worrywart! I'll be fin—!" The sound of plastic and metal smacking against a cement curb was deafening, but not so much that it drowned out the pained sound of little Alfred flying off of his first training wheel-less bicycle.

"Alfred!" Roller skates glided against pavement, coming to a complete stop, followed by knobby knees landing in plush grass beside the fallen blonde. "Alfred? Alfie, are you OK? Answer me! S'il vous plait!" Matthew was worried for his brother. He turned his head to see Arthur racing down the block, having seen the crash from the window of their small house.

"Alfred?" England worriedly questioned, stooping beside his eldest child. "Lad, are you feeling well?"

The small blonde, who had been lying in the grass since the crash, finally moved. He blinked dizzily, before rising up to a sitting position and throwing a million-watt smile to his family. "That. Was. AWESOME!" He was on his feet in seconds, flipping the bike back into the correct position before peddling off down the road, laughing as he went.

Arthur watched him go before turning his attention to the smaller blonde at his side. "He's just too rambunctious, isn't he? He keeps going and going and going."

"Oui. But, it's what makes him so…so…sympathique?"
"You mean to say 'lovable?'"
"Oui. That's it."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Yes, Matthew. Yes it is."
Ten minutes later, the two more level-headed blondes found their third, who had stopped in front of a small building. "What's this Iggy?"
"Don't call me that, you git. And it's a hamburger place."
"What's a hamburger?"
"A patty made out of meat and placed between a bun. Why?"
"Can we come here for dinner tonight?"
"It's 'may'(you twat), and I don't see why not."
"AWESOME!"

Had England known that he was creating a monster, he may have thought twice before agreeing to what was for dinner.

I knew I looked more excited than I should have been, but really, had anyone else been in my position, they would've been too. I mean, it's not every day you get to watch horror movies with your baby bro!

God, this was so exiting!
Maybe Mattie will forgive me for making him eat McDonalds for lunch. I mean, it's not like it was that terrible, I practically live off the stuff and I'm fine.
Anyway.

"What exactly, Al, are we going to watch?"
"The Death Brought On. It's this new horror movie about this creepy little girl who, when you see her, causes you to die! She like, eats you and stuff! It's supposed to be so good!"
"So, it's essentially like half of the other movies Hollywood produces?"
"Yupp!"

Wait. No! Each and every movie is completely different and none of the plots are ever recycled!

"Wait. No! Each and every movie is completely different and none of the plots are ever recycled…shut up!" He was laughing at me. I glared. He laughed some more. "I'm serious, Matt! Shut up and let's watch the movie!"

"OH GOD DON'T GO IN THE ROOM! MATTIE WHY IS HE GOING IN THE ROOM? THE LITTLE GIRL IS IN THE ROOM! OH GOD MATTIE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE HIM STOP!"
"Al?"
"OH GOD SHE'S IN THERE, MATTIE! THE GIRL! HE'S GONNA DIE! MAKE HIM STOOOOOOOOOOOP!"
"Alfie?"
"AHHH! NONONONONONONONO! DON'T DO IT! TURN AROUND! MATT, HE'S OPENING THE DOOR! MAKE HIM STOP! STOP!"
"ALFRED!"

The TV screen went black. "Huh?" I turned to Matt (well, I turned my head; I was using him as a human teddy bear, so he really wasn't sitting beside me anymore. He was more cradled in my arms. So I could protect him from the creepy girl in the movie that killed people. Yeah. That's it.) and stared. "Why'd ya' turn it off, Mattie? It was just getting to the good part!"

He held three fingers up in between his face and mine. "One," he lowered two fingers to emphasis the number he was starting at, "you're screaming in my ear. And, no matter what anyone says, hearing you scream in my ear just might make me the first deaf nation." He raised the second finger, "Two. You're cutting off my circulation. I'm pretty sure my toes are turning blue and I need those to play hockey." I loosened my grip on my brother's body, letting him slide out of my lap and onto the sofa ("Chesterfield, Al. Chesterfield.") beside me. "And three," the last finger went up, "It's just a movie Al. Stop watching it if it scares you."

No.
No, he couldn't have.
No, he couldn't have just suspected that I, the Hero, was scared?
No way could that happen.
No way.
No.

"What fun is a horror movie if you don't play along and feign freight? Come on, Mattie! Scream with me! It's fun to pretend to be scared!"

"Okay, yeah. How about no? See, Alfred, I can't fake freight. If I'm scared of something, I'll be scared of it. I'm scared of your crappy little movies because they aren't scary. And you should really think about revising your sentence. That was terribly worded and if anyone over heard it, we would be up for questioning next UN meeting."

I paused then, "Why's your mind in the gutter, Matt?"
"I was raised by France, that's why."

Oh. Good point.
"Oh. Good point."

I stared at the black TV screen for a few seconds before snatching the remote and restarting the movie.
"OH GOD MATTIE! LOOK AT THAT! SHE'S SO MUCH BIGGER THAN HIM! SHE'S GONNA KILL HIM! MATTIE PROTECT MEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

The blonde teen sat on the couch, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. His eyes were focused intently on the screen before him. Said screen was pronouncing clearly a 'Play Movie' shot, accompanied by many scenes from the movie it would soon be playing.

The blonde gave up his staring match and pressed the play button.

In no less than ten minutes, tears were streaking down his face, his knuckles were white from his grip on the fluffy pillow, and he was calling the attention of the only other person in the house with his (incredibly loud and girly) screams.

"OH MY GOD NO! DON'T GO THERE! GET OUT OF HERE! STOP!"

Another blonde figured suddenly appeared in the doorway; hair sobbing wet and a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. His breath was coming fast and his eyes livid "Al?" The teen crossed the room in five quick steps and paused the movie. "Al? Are you alright?" Though his voice was calm, his face portrayed his real emotion; anger at his brother. The older teen had scared the younger half to death with his yelling. The younger had, in all honesty, expected someone to have broken into their house and attacked his older sibling.

"Shut up and start the movie again." A glare was directed at the dripping teenager.
With an agitated snort and a press of the play button, the film resumed, as did the screams of terror.

The movie was paused again. "Al?"
"Mattie. Start the movie."

Matthew's finger pressed the play button. "AHHHHHH!" And then the pause button.
"Matt. I'm not kidding. Stop pausing my movie. I want to watch it."

The movie was put back into action. Matthew crossed his arms over his bare chest, fingers pulling lightly at the limp curls of his hair as he waited. He was leaning on the arm of the chesterfield for a few minutes, listening to the screams and gasps of terror his brother was making, before pausing the movie once more.

The room went eerily silent. "Matt. Stop that. I'm watching this."
The movie was restarted.
Screams filled the house.
The movie stopped playing.
Silence ensued.
Matthew pressed play.
Alfred started screaming as the movie picked back up.
Matthew slid his figure to the pause button, pressing down.

Alfred tackled the freshly showed teen to the ground and wrestled the remote from his hands. "STOP THAT, YOU JERKFACE! I'M WATCHING THE MOVIE!"

"No you're not! You're screaming at the TV because you're scared. You're eyes aren't even open half the time! And besides, the second the movie stops, you're fine!"

"That's because only the movie is scary, not the house you idiot!"

"Avancez! Vous êtes si stupides, Al. Vraiment? Effrayé d'un film?"

"You know I don't speak French, Matt. I have no clue what you just said." The older blonde stood up, adjusting his glasses before settling back down on the couch, patting the spot next to him with his hand. "Come on! Watch it with me! It's just getting to the good part!"

There was an exasperated sigh before the younger stood, fixed his towel, and sat on the couch. "Fine, Al. Fine. I'll watch the stupid movie with you."

"Great! (And it's not a stupid movie, you jerkface. It's a great piece of Hollywood art)"

It's always been a wonder that Matthew can hear as well as he does.

I knew something was wrong later that night. I mean, I know everyone thinks I'm terrible at reading the atmosphere, but I'm really not all that terrible! I know what goes on, maybe not all the time, no, but a lot of it.

Anyway. So, I was at Mattie's house, right; well, anywho, I noticed it right away. We got to his house, right? Right. And I told Mattie:
"Hey, Bro! I'ma go use your bathroom, kay? Kay."

"Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Third door on the left in the right hallway straight from the kitchen. Don't screw anything up, eh?"
"Gottcha!"

Now, in all actuality, I didn't really have to use his toilet. My stomach hurt (I did not eat too much!), so I wanted to raid his medicine cabinet for Pepto or somethin', you know. Well, holy cow was I surprised when I found the cabinet had a false back.

A false back that revealed a small cache of metal.
A false back that revealed a small cache of metal with blood stains splashed all over the blades.

Well, shit. My Baby Brother was a cutter.
"Well, shit. My Baby Brother is a cutter."

SMASH CLANG CRASH CLAAAAAAAAAAAANG

My head snapped to the door; I'd left it open. Even from this far away, I could see how dilated the violet orbs that took up most of his face were. Pots and pans were littering the floor of his kitchen. I was out there before he could back away from his position.

"Mattie? Mattie, explain these." I raised the bag of bloodied metal up to his face. His eyes were still impossibly wide, the corners starting to bubble over with tears. "Mattie." I don't think I had ever talked to anyone (well, maybe just one of my States…) in such a warning tone of voice. Even I knew the difference it made to my appearance. I could feel my eyes narrowing, my lips pursing, the hair on the nape of my neck sticking straight up.

I watched him try to back away, pale hands tugging down the sleeves of his red hoodie. "Al? Do…don't jump to conclusions…i….it's nothing, Alfie…"

I snapped my hands out, gripping him by his left arm and tugging him towards me. "Don't 'Alfie' me, Matt." I pushed his body between the kitchen counter and my own, giving both my hands ample maneuverability as I tugged the sweater off of his body, watching as his blonde locks feel softly against overly-pale skin. He tried folding his arms against his chest, but I (after tossing his hoodie out of reach) stopped with a quick intervention of my hands. "Matt." A command.

He listened.

His arms dropped to his sides. I grabbed one and held it up, examining the small patterns of criss-crossed scars that dotted over the skin. Most of them were white and old, but I noticed some seemed fresher; like they still needed a bandage, but hadn't been given the pleasure of receiving one. "Oh Mattie…."

He hissed as I rubbed my fingers against the skin, pulling lightly on his arm. "Alfred, let me go. Please. It's…it's not as bad as you think it is. Please. Just, let me go. Please."

He was begging. He would've been groveling at my feet if I didn't have my hips holding his in place. "Not as ba—Mattie! You…you're cutting yourself! Slicing your wrists open!" I paused, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I could feel myself physically calming. Gently, I laid a hand on Matthews shoulder, tugging him into a tight hug. "I just want to know why."

I let us sink to the ground as he pulled himself closer. "It reminds me that I exist. I'm not just an invisible space-taker-upper. I actually have a purpose. Even if the purpose is to keep razor blade companies from going out of business." He paused, taking a deep breath. I could feel him exhale against my skin before he nuzzled his face into the crock of my neck.

I let him cuddle against my chest, his hands gripping the back of my shirt tightly. I didn't mind 'cause I was running my hands over his back. It had always been soothing when Iggy did that to me when I was cryi—erm small. When I was small and he wanted me to go to sleep. Iggy always rubbed my back when I was small and he wanted me to go to sleep. Yeah. Not when I cried, because I am a hero and heroes don't cry.

I heard myself making small shushing noises, but I wasn't thinking about it. My little Mattie, my best friend, my everything, was cutting himself because he was terrified of not existing. And here I was, his next door neighbor, the one spending a lot of time up here with him and inviting him down to my house, not knowing what was going on.

Despicable.

Eyes the color of the spacious skies flickered up into the tree as the mind behind them whirled. "Mattie? Come on! It's just a tree! Climb down already so we can go have dinner! Iggy called us, like…thirty seconds ago! I'm hungry!("When are you not, hoser?" "Stop being mean to your brother, Matthew." "Sorry, Daddy.") And…and if you don't come down soon, I'mma leave you up there all alone!"

There was a small scuffling before: "I can't Alfie! I'm too scared! I'm going to fall if I try to climb down!" a sniffle, "Don't leave me! S'il vous plait, Alfred!" The older blonde shook his head, turning on his heels slowly.

"This is it, Matt. I'm heading in for dinner. Have fun being alone! Don't stay up there too long! It's getting dark and all sorts of creepy things come out in the dark! That and it's getting cold out here…" Off Alfred went, smile leading the way as he bustled through the door.

Outside, little Matthew Williams clung to a tree branch twenty-five feet from the ground, crying softly to himself for being forgotten. And for being stupid enough to climb the stupid tree. Stupid hoser of a dare he dare me to climb this stupid tree. Stupid hoser. When I get my hands on him, I'll…I'll…I just want down!"Help!" the small voice whined out, before it was carried off by the oncoming wind.

Alfred had eaten his dinner, mind not on his brother in the slightest. He was happily gobbling his dessert when Arthur called him for his bath. The young boy shoveled the rest of the pie into his mouth as he walked to the bathroom where Arthur had drawn out a bath for the boy. Said man had taken care to make the water the correct temperature for the young charge. He didn't want to scald the poor lads skin or freeze him half to death.

Though, in the farthest recesses of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking that he was forgetting something. Something completely important.

Oh! That's right! Oh God, how could he forget! He was such a terrible father!

"Here's your toy submarine Alfred…" the man chirped lightly, handing the grey craft to his young son before exiting the washroom.

It wasn't until early evening, right before he started cooking dinner, that Arthur remembered he had a second son.

It wasn't until mid-evening, right when he had finished cooking dinner and had the table set (with three plates) and ready to be used, that Arthur remember he hadn't seen the boy since lunch time the day before when the two had disappeared outside to go play some sort of climbing game and—

The Briton rushed out the door, calling loudly for his youngest son. It was unneeded as he soon found the young boy on a low branch of the tree, a mere three feet from the ground. The child was strung up by his trousers, having lost his grip and fallen during the frigid night. His skin was pale; hands and body bruised from his fall, and dried blood streaked his hair and arms."Cor blimey." The Englishman unhooked the boy and rushed him inside and to the washroom before looking him over.

Needless to say, Matthew was fine. A bit dinged up and covered in scrapes (most on his arms from the instinctive protection he had tried to use as he had fallen from his outrageously high perch) and bruising, but no worse for the ware.

Also needless to say, Alfred was punished for not telling Arthur that Matthew had been stuck in a tree and also for daring the younger to climb in the first place.

However, Arthur did congratulate Matthew (after the boy had woken up [four days later] and was giving cognizant responses to questions) on being able to climb that high.

Matthew was also punished for being stupid and listening to his brother.

But, mostly for listening to his brother.

I don't remember how long we sat there held together by my strong arms and his strong emotions.

I don't remember caring.

I only remember waking up in the middle of the night as a storm raged outside his house (I was spending the night, hoping to talk him into seeing a human psychiatrist in the morning [those guys know their stuff. How does that make you feel?] after we would eat breakfast). The thunder and lightning was illuminating the world outside the window of his guest room.

I freaked and sat up, startling the bird that had taken roost on the windowsill. It didn't matter though. I was up and out of the door to the guest room before I knew what I was doing.

I made my way to his bedroom door, opening the door lightly and pausing before making up my mind.

"M…Mattie?" My voice cracked a bit as I looked inside the room quietly, "Are you awake?"

"Alfie?" a pause, "I am now. What is it, eh?" He sounded sleepy and, deep down (deep, deeeep, deeeeeeeeep – is it even really there? – down) I knew I shouldn't be bothering him. We were too old, too mature to be scared of a little st—

CRASH CRACK ZZZZZAP ZZZZ—

Déjà vu. This seems really familiar….

If you want to kill me for the ending, go ahead. By the time I got there, the story was long and I was bored of writing it. I like the first parts too much to scrap it, so I finished it up and tacked a 'done' on it.
In all honesty, I just wanted to use loads of clichés that have found themselves taking root in USCan fanfiction.
So I did.
And thus, this child was born. And I probably should have killed it…

Anyway, the little flashbacky parts aren't really part of the cliché pattern – they are mostly there because I felt like having fun and writing lots of cute little kid moments. They don't go in order, not that that's hard not figure out.
Really, the USCan is only there is you tilt your head a bit to the left whist standing on your left foot and spinning your right arm while you paint a kitten dandelion yellow with a paintbrush that must be held in between your teeth as you run away from rampaging penguins.
Yupp.
Unless you saw it that way. Then, by all means, go ahead! I don't care! :D

Oh, and the whole name calling bit? 'Always Fresh. Always.' is Tim Hortons little phrase thing (So says the website…I don't live in Canada. Or know anyone from there...).
Like Dunkin' Donuts has a phrase, except Canadian. xD (Which, 'America runs on Dunkin' is the American phrase thing for Dunkin' Donuts, for all of you non America's out there that don't have a Dunkin' Donuts anywhere in your vicinity!)
I really don't know.

I really do apologize to any Canadian reading this. I've been horrible to you; really I have. Sorry.
Please forgive me (please). I've only been there once. And that was back in seventh grade when my mum took me on an impromptu trip to the Canadian side of the falls. (I really don't count that though, a'cause I was stupid and little and didn't enjoy it for what it was worth.)
So, yeah.
I would totally go back to Canada again, and not just the falls.

The Death Brought On doesn't exists either. At least, not that I know of. (Watch; it'll be this intense movie exactly like I put it. xD) So, yeah.

French – English Translations
Ehh...vous m'a rencontré plus tôt, se souvenir? – Ehh...you met me earlier, remember?
Vous parlez seulement l'anglais! J'ai oublié, désolé! – You only speak English! I forgot, sorry!
Non – No
Oui – Yes
La tempête est...fort, non? – The storm is...loud, no?
Oui! Oui, dormez s'il vous plaît avec moi! – Yes! Yes, please sleep with me!
S'il vous plait? – Please?
Sympathique – Nice (was supposed to be 'loveable', but hardly are translation's perfect…)
Avancez! Vous êtes si stupides, Al. Vraiment? Effrayé d'un film? - Come on! You're so stupid, Al. Really? Scared of a movie?