So...this started very different from how it ended, most likely because I had something in mind, got distracted, and then couldn't remember what it was when I came back to this. It was mostly written while waiting around to hear back about a new job. *fingers crossed*

Some vague US/Can involved, but nothing terribly significant happens.

The sky cracks and rumbles, and the lighting jolts Canada out of his sleep. The wind and rain are loud and constant against his window and he's spared only a moment before he hears the thump of bare feet running across hardwood. He subconsciously traces the sound up the stairs and down the hall to his door, where America bursts in.

His eyes are wide and he's missing his glasses. His hair is sticking up on one side and he only manages a cursory "There was a storm and I thought you might be-" before thunder shatters over them again. America jumps and dives into the bed, body tucked into itself tight and nestled under Canada's arm. Canada lets out a small "oof" when his brother barrels into him.

The thunder tapers off and America picks his head up slightly. He looks so much younger when he's frightened and without the shield of his glasses, and Canada thinks to himself that he must look the same way at times.

"The storm woke me up," America says, and Canada knows it's a lie. "A-and I just wanted to check and make sure you're okay."

It's so patently false it's cute. He can feel America's heartbeat hammering against his shoulder and the way he flinches at every bright flash that sneaks through the curtains.

Has anyone else ever seen America like this? His chest flares in an odd sort of pride, and it aches in a good way.

"Yeah," he finally answers, "I'm okay."

Unlike America, he's telling the truth. The lightning had startled him awake, but he's never been really scared of storms. He can feel that it's stronger just to the south of them, and he's a little worried because it can affect his people much more than him, but scared? No, not really.

(Fire, though, that's kind of frightening. Not the kind that is nicely contained in fireplaces and bonfires, but the ones that catch and spread, like they're almost alive and they eat everything in sight. Sometimes he's convinced that England's bedtimes stories have irreparably traumatized America and him on some level.)

"Okay, good," America murmurs. He settles marginally and takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. Canada can feel it, warm and moist against his collarbone. His eyes drift partway closed and he absent-mindedly fiddles with the strap of America's tank. He wonders why he continues to let America get away with this childish phobia of his, and yet he already knows the answer before he completes the thought. America isn't doing it for attention like his fear of ghosts (but even that has more than a grain of truth to it), and Canada thinks it would be far too cruel to chastise someone for being honestly scared, childish or not.

And he comes to him when he's scared.

The thought comes through like white noise on a record, but as soon as he recognizes it, it loops around in his mind, louder and louder. Canada feels his face heat in shame. God, that was so low of him, feeling glad that his brother came running to him when frightened, when really, he shouldn't want him to be frightened in the first place.

America is breathing slow and even, shifting uneasily with the changes in the wind, but down from his panicked high alert from earlier. Or at least he is until lighting flashes so close they can hear the crackling and thunder booms louder than should be possible, rattling the whole house.

America shrieks.

He shrieks and throws and arm and leg across Canada and clamps on so tight he can hardly breath. A strangled noise escapes and he's so grateful America doesn't have his glasses on, because he's pretty sure they would have cut his chest open. The thunder rolls on for a moment, and when it finally slips away into the rain, his brother loosens his death grip and sighs, shaky and nervous. Canada sighs too, wraps his arms around his twin and holds him there.

"Alfred," he whispers into his hair (because he isn't America right now; Alfred is both more and less than America, just like Matthew is more and less than Canada, in a way that doesn't quite work in reverse), "it's okay. You're okay."

"I know," Alfred whines. Matthew knows it's because he's frustrated with himself. It's the same exact same sound he hears every time he loses a game he likes.

He wants to kiss him.

Instead he says, "do you remember the songs France used to sing?"

Alfred makes a weird noise that's halfway between an affirmation and a groan. "A little bit. I remember England's better."

Matthew is quiet for a long moment, and the only sounds are the rain against the window and distant rolls of thunder. And then, softly, he starts to sing.

"Alouette, gentille Aloutte,

Alouette, je te plumerai.

Je te plumerai la tête..."

He tapers off and waits patiently, knowing that Alfred knows what comes next. Finally, he dutifully repeats the last line, voice muffled by Matthew's shirt. "Je te plumerai la tête..." Matthew thinks it's a little funny; Alfred's accent is actually quite good when he's able to mimic someone else. He brushes the thought away and continues the song.

"Et la tête."

"...et la tête..."

"Alouette."

"...alouette."

They slowly work their way through the whole song, head, beak, neck, back, wings, feet, and tail until the entire imaginary bird has been plucked. By that time, the thunder is nothing more than an occasional murmur in the distance, and the rain has become a gentle patter. They stay quiet for so long that Matthew starts to think that Alfred has fallen asleep again (and is nodding off himself) when he speaks up.

"...you taught me that song."

Matthew glances down at his brother, but Alfred is looking away, gaze fixed at a spot on the wall.

"No, France taught us. When we were little, remember?" That's how he recalls it, though a note of doubt creeps into his voice. Matthew thinks back and he can see the fireplace and the quilt he'd been sitting on, and the way France would bounce his hand along with the beat. And his brother right next to him.

Right?

Alfred shakes his head, nuzzling against Matthew's chest. "Uh uh, you taught me, during the Great War, after Ypres."

And now Matthew's really confused. Ypres? He blinks a few times; his eyes always stung and watered just thinking about it. "Alfred, you weren't even there yet."

Alfred picks his head up just enough so he can look Matthew in the eye, frowning slightly. "Not to fight, but I had to visit England. Had to talk to him about the Lusitania and stuff." He stares at Matthew, gaze flicking from one eye to the other as though he's searching for something, but Alfred doesn't seem to find it and he sighs. "I saw you then, too. I guess you don't remember."

The silence that follows has a weight to it. Matthew wants to outright reject what Alfred's saying, but something stops him short and he furrows his brow, poking at the blank spots in his memory. He doesn't remember much of Ypres or the weeks that followed, except for small flashes, a cool hand on his forehead, or a couple words of conversation. He'd imagined all kinds of things, drifting in and out of delirium, and never quite sorted out what was real.

"...you were there." Once he says it, it sounds true, and little snatches of time come back. Alfred's laugh, which had seemed both out of place and right at home, the way the light came through the canvas of the medical tent, a hand resting on his.

Alfred nods, slowly. "Yeah. A couple of your guys were singing it, so I asked you what it was." He looks down, baby blues hidden by his bangs. "You didn't tell me, but you started singing along." He snorts, and his mouth pulls to the side in a wry smile. "Over and over, even when the other guys stopped." And he lays back against Matthew and they're quiet again for a long while. When Alfred speaks again, his voice is quiet, sleepy.

"I had it stuck in my head for months."

Matthew doesn't know what to say. He suddenly realizes that Alfred must have sat with him for a long time, holding his hand while he sang a children's song on repeat like a madman. The thought makes his heart clench. It was almost painfully ironic that one of the few times he had his brother's complete attention, he wasn't even cognizant enough to appreciate it. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, closing his eyes and resting his head against Alfred's.

"Thanks, Al."

Alfred's eyes are closed and he doesn't say anything, but Matthew can feel the smile against his chest.

This was partially inspired by the description of Alouette on Wikipedia, where it says: "Alouette is a popular French Canadian children's song about plucking the feathers from a lark. ... Many American doughboys learned the song while serving in France during World War I and brought it home with them." Because I'm an unrepentant US/Can shipper, I took it and ran with it, even though the result isn't terribly romantic...

The Battle of Ypres (specifically the Second) was the first large scale use of poison gas, and where the Canadians kicked butt, despite said poison gas. I am...pretty much making up the after-effects, since chlorine gas killed pretty quick. It does make your eyes sting, which I'm sure you've noticed if you've opened your eyes in a pool.

The Lusitania was sunk May 7, 1915, and pissed America off pretty good. It was actually a British ship, which is why I have him going to talk to England about it, and since it was smack in the middle of Ypres, Canada would be there too. (France as well, but he was apparently absent for this story.)

So. Yep.