And I'm back again with yet more angst, sorry!

Warnings: blood, gore, mentions of death

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Hetalia. I wish I did but don't we all?

Anyway, enjoy!

The sky was a deep bruised purple above him, coming with the promise of rain to come and shells to fall. For now, however, that all lay in the future: for now everything was silent.

Francis picked his way through the trenches, ugly hastily constructed things abandoned to everything but the rats and the numerous decomposing corpses of various soldiers. They hadn't been properly prepared when the attack struck, had been taken by surprise and paid the ultimate price for that fact. A purely defensive trench, one set up to keep an eye on the enemy and nothing more. Now it was to be the grave of loyal men who had done nothing more than to fight for queen and country until the bitter end.

They deserved better than this, he thought angrily. They deserved better than an open hole in the ground where the vermin stripped the flesh from their bones and the desperate looted the clothes from their backs. But right now, there was no better option: this was all they had. A lonely death in a muddy trench away from all that they held dear: such poor reward.

The dirty water sucked at his ankles as he took another step forward and for a moment, Francis allowed his emotions to get the better of him, swearing at his surroundings, at his situation, at the sheer in injustice of it all. And then it passed and he was composed once more.

Truthfully, he didn't know why he felt the need to come here. The war had forsaken this area for greener pastures; there was finally hope on the horizon; there was no need for him to be here, walking the paths of the dead. Yet here he was, when he could be back in what passed for comfort these days with relatively decent company. The camp had been set up not far from here, a hospital camp mainly, far enough from the front line to avoid the worst of the bombardments but close enough for injured soldiers to be quickly transferred. He and some of the other allied nations, granted temporary leave from their duties, had been stationed here to recuperate, a welcome relief. Things were at last looking up: America had entered the war, Germany and his allies appeared to be crumbling, for the first time it seemed an end was actually within sight. And yet still, he could not shake the urge to view their failures, to see with his own eyes the destruction this 'great'war inflicted (two days ago these men had been alive. Weary, cramped, fearful, but alive).

A sudden noise caught Francis' ear, a pained animalistic keening that spoke of a desperation for release. He halted his tour of the graves, turning heel to search for the source, eyes scanning the sprawled bodies for any trace of life. And there! Tucked away in the entrance to a tiny dugout, curled into a trembling ball that only served to emphasis his slender frame, was the survivor he searched for. The man was young, he could see immediately: a boy really, looking no older than 20 at most. His face was masked by a battle paint of mud, blood and grime: his hair, perhaps once golden blond, was darkened by the same combination, and Francis could see the dark crimson staining the man's uniform, centred around his abdomen. It did not appear likely he would last another night but Francis would be damned if he allowed another soul to perish within these muddied coffins.

His touch was gentle on the boy's arm, his voice reassuring as he slowly explained, first in French then in English, what he was going to do, that it may hurt at first but relief was going to come. In response, hazy eyes flickered open - they were a brilliant green, dulled by pain and exhaustion but filled with an open trust that took him by surprise.

"Please," the soldier murmured, allowing his eyes to slip shut again. The accent was unmistakeable - a British one, not particularly strong or upper class, that was surprisingly comforting in its familiarity. He easily scooped the man up, holding the light form close to his chest where a head quickly snuggled in closer. Young, oh yes: young indeed, far too young for a death like this. He remained near silent, other than occasional whimper: Francis could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the sticky liquid slowly seeping into his own uniform.

The journey back to camp did not take long, even with the extra burden, and throughout it, the boy was near incoherent: gaze unfocused, lips murmuring senseless words. If he survived this, he would most likely end up with a bad case of shell shock: as it was, well...

"J'ai besoin d'un lit: I need a bed!" Francis barked as soon as he crossed the boundary of the camp, sending an on-duty soldier leaping to his feet and scurrying off to alert the nurses of an incoming patient. In complete opposition, Matthew came hurrying towards him, expression curious and at the same time concerned. As one of Britain's colonies, the Canadian had been brought into the war without the same options afforded to his twin, but he bore that burden without complaint, silently supporting his elder sibling. The affection he held for Arthur did not go entirely unreturned either, even if the older nation had a strange way of showing it.

Matthew let out a slow resigned sigh as he caught sight of the dying soldier, quickly averting his eyes rather than face him. He didn't, however, make any comment on the matter of his being brought here, other than to quietly remark, "He doesn't look very well, does he?"

There was only the slightest hint of admonishment in his tone: the smallest lilt that suggested Matthew wished Francis would stop putting himself through this. It was a bad habit, he had to admit, to be rescuing these hopeless cases from their graves but it was the only comfort he had left to give. And some of them did make it. Some, but not all.

"Alfred arrived today," the Canadian added, hurrying to keep pace with Francis' hurried stride. "He found out where we are: he's here right now." A silent warning was present: neither of the pair wanted Alfred's first sight of this war to be a death and neither wanted to risk Arthur's wrath if that became the case.

"...Keep him distracted for the time being. I...I don't think I'll be long."

His foot caught in a dip as he took another step forward: he stumbled, only just catching himself, but the movement jarred his fragile bundle, sending the young man starting awake with a muted howl of pain. His back arched beneath Francis' firm grip, his fingers clawing into his arms, and when he at long last slumped, his gaze was finally lucid.

"The others," he gasped, each word forced out laboriously. ", where... what happened... still alive?"

He had a hold of Francis' forearm now, staring at him beseechingly, and the Frenchman was at a loss for words, because how did you explain to a man that all his comrades were dead?

"I'm sorry, I don't know," he said instead, deciding to forgo the French in order to be understood. There was gratitude in the soldier's expression at this concession: his head tipped back and he relaxed slightly, although his free arm remained tightly coiled across his torso.

"Merci. Mon… mon français ce n'est pas…vrai…vrai bon, J'ai regret."

With that, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell completely limp, only the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassuring him that the soldier remained in the land of the living. It was with relief that Francis handed him over to the tender ministrations of the volunteer nurses, barely able to tear himself away to allow them access. A bad habit, yes, and made worse by the desire to see them through to the very end.

He wished he had asked the man his name whilst he was still coherent. It was part and parcel of the package after all. Even if the name was destined to slip from his mind, even if later on he looked back and all he saw was a nameless face, at that particular moment he knew each soldier: at that particular moment they were more than just an unknown pawn in some dreadful war.

"Hey. Sorry for being late to the party."

The Frenchman half turned to see Alfred standing at the entrance with a hand lifted in a wave. Unlike many of the other nations he had encountered, the American was fresh faced, untainted by the pervading depression of the trenches, ears free of the shrill ringing of shells. He snuck a glance at the British soldier on the bed, a frown appearing on his face.

"What, uh, what happened?"

Francis sighed, attempting to redirect Alfred out of the tent and away to a safer, blood free area, perhaps to talk with some of recuperating soldiers or maybe to meet with some of the powers that be in order to get an idea of where the American soldiers were most needed. Anywhere more uplifting than here. Alas, it was like trying to move a brick wall.

Alfred was still staring: his face had abruptly paled and he took a sudden step forward, brushing the other blond out of the way as easily as swatting away a fly.

"That's not...? Francis, what's going on? Mattie said he wasn't here: I thought..."

What? At first, none of what the younger nation said made sense but then he glanced back and it all came crashing together. He hadn't noticed the resemblance before, too distracted by the blood, by the soldier's pain, but now that the mud mask was slowly being removed, now that the man was away from the perils of the trenches, it was all too obvious.

But he wasn't supposed to be here! He was several miles away, at least, and besides, the soldier was three years too young: any resemblance was coincidence and that was all.

The young man had jerked back to consciousness again: a nurse was kneeling beside him smoothing back his hair, her touch oh so gentle as if handling delicate glass.

"Careful now, sweetie," she soothed whilst one of her colleagues examined the nasty looking wound on his abdomen. "You're safe now, okay? How about you tell me your name?"

The soldier turned his gaze on her, opened his mouth... and promptly leaned sideways and vomited across the floor and the nurse's feet. It was bloody.

"Sorry," he gasped, curling back into his protective ball with his chest going like the bellows as he fought to halt the frantic pants his breathing was descending into. "Didn't...mean to."

His eyes flickered shut then opened again: this movement was followed by the statement Francis had been dreading.

"Arth'r,"

"Sorry sweetie?" The nurse had taken the addition of bodily fluids to her attire in her stride, barely batting an eyelid. But then, strength of stomach was a requirement in her line of work.

"Name," the man explained. He was barely aware, yet still trying his best to force out protesting vowels, trying to make himself be understood. "Arth'r... Arthur...Kirkland."

The only word for the reaction that went on behind Francis was an explosion; the only thing that saved him from being barrelled into the ground by a panicked American was the quick appearance of Matthew. He lunged at his brother, folding his arms around his twin's chest to hold him place as Alfred fought to lunge forward, muttering reassurances all the while. At the sudden outbreak of violence, the nurses had halted, looking to the two squirming brothers than glancing to Francis for orders. He motioned for them to keep going: however, the head of the trio approached him from the side.

"Sir? There's nothing we can do, you do know that? Perhaps if he'd been brought in sooner..."

Alfred let out a strangled moan.

"I appreciate your help, thank you ma'am," Francis reassured the uncertain woman. In a way, the new knowledge was a relief: it meant that any death here was to be temporary. However, explaining such an incident was going to be a real pain. "Now, if you could leave us, I think his brother would like some time alone."

"I understand." As one, the three women gathered up their equipment and exited the tent, leaving Francis free to take Alfred by the shoulders and all but shake some sense into him.

"Je ne sais pas, je promets,"

Alfred stared blankly at him: next to him, Matthew elbowed the Frenchman in the ribs and hissed, "English, Francis: other languages were never his strong point,"

"I didn't know," he repeated. "Mon cher, he will be fine: the cold, the mud, the stress – it is most likely all that stopped him from healing at his normal rate. You'll see: by this time tomorrow, he'll be fine."

He had to admit though that at this particular moment, it didn't seem likely. The national personification of Britain was still slumped on his side on the cot, skin glazed with sweat, head bent over the floor in case the nausea overtook him again. He shook with the chills, fresh blood congealing across his abdomen from where the wounds had been disturbed, and though Francis knew they were superficial (for a nation that was), he also knew that at least some of that pain came from the stresses of his people dying all around him. It was...worrying, even more so considering Francis hadn't recognised him to begin with.

He blinked, suddenly realising that in the time he had wasted in thought, Alfred had bulldozed his way free of Matthew's grip to storm over to his elder brother's side and drop to his knees.

"Iggy? It's me Iggy, come on, open your eyes for me." His hands carded through the nation's hair, regardless of the grime. The response was almost immediately: the Brit cracked open weary eyes to stare at Alfred in confusion, one arm stirring to reach upwards. It was unclear whether he was still lost in delirium but either way he recognised his brother and in a display of unexpected strength lunged upwards to grasp him in a desperate hold. He was mumbling something – Francis couldn't quite catch it but Alfred's eyes widened and his hold grew tighter, pressing the smaller nation close.

It was the first outright display of affection he'd seen from them since America declared independence.

"Peut-être que nous devrions les laisser," Matthew suggested mildly, taking Francis' forearm in a light grip. He was smiling at the sight before them, despite the concern in his eyes.

"Oui, bien sur…" The Frenchman allowed himself to be led from the tent, telling himself all the while that the younger nation would be fine and really, it wasn't his fault he hadn't recognised Arthur: maybe if he hadn't been mud bathing beforehand, his identity would have been more obvious (it didn't matter what excuses he gave himself: they weren't working).

It would all be fine.

~~~APH ~~~

The nurses drifted in and out throughout the night, never doing anything more than observing – Francis could see the tears in some of their eyes as they left, believing they had witnessed the touching final moments between a dying soldier and his brother. He would have laughed under any other circumstances: as it was, he merely concealed a smile. There was no need to let on to the other nations present that the semi-conscious British Empire was curled up next to the United States of America and clinging on for dear life.

Maybe 5 or so hours after he'd first brought Arthur in, the swarming medical personnel started expressing first confusion then disbelief as their fatally injured patient began to show signs of improvement rather than deterioration. An hour later, they were outright stating divine intervention.

Despite it all, however, it wasn't until early morning that the Brit began to show signs of regaining lucidity. It began slowly – he shifted out of his defensive ball, stretched out stiff limbs, allowed his eyelids to flutter open slightly. Then he groaned and rolled over, reaching up to push messy blond bangs from his forehead. All in all, Francis thought from his own cot at the opposite end of the tent, it was rather like his normal method of waking.

Except with a tall muscular American added into the mix who continued to snore on obliviously to all that was going on.

One of Arthur's hands had found Alfred's chest: his expression wrinkled into one of bewilderment and he allowed his eyes to open fully, staring at his brother as if unsure he was actually there. He reached out, quickly snatched the limb back as if he was stopping himself from committing a cardinal sin, let out a small squeak of disbelief. Francis was uncertain if the Brit had remembered to breathe yet. He watched with some degree of interest as the small blond nation attempted to worm his way out from underneath the arm thrown across his chest, making it as far as sitting up on the edge of the cot before vertigo overtook him and he folded in half with a groan. Unsurprisingly, Alfred was up like a shot.

"Iggy? You're awake!" It was quickly followed by, "Oh god, are you okay?" then by "I mean, oh good: you're awake, now I can leave 'cause I know you're not going to die."

It was all quite amusing actually.

Or at least it was until Arthur raised his head, glanced up at Alfred once then focused his gaze on an innocuous area of canvas tent wall, chewing on his lip all the while. At that point, it became more sad than anything else. How was it possible for two people to be so oblivious? Love was supposed to be shared, not left to rot at the back of the mind, and certainly not here, in a place so lacking in positive emotions that Francis was certain they had died at some point previous to this and were now in hell. But seriously, he wanted to walk over there and bang the pair's heads together until they saw sense or stars, whatever came first. However, he had promised Matthew he wouldn't interfere: l'amour had to develop by itself after all. As it was...

"I thought you were an hallucination," the Brit murmured suddenly, still not meeting his brother's eye. "God, I thought I was bloody well going mad!" He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, then finally looked up at Alfred. His green eyes were wide, filled with a vulnerability that he rarely allowed to be seen. "Why did you come?"

For once, Alfred didn't have a response, taken aback by the elder nation's complete lack of hostility. He ummed and ahhed, threw out a few sentences involving Mexico, Germany and some sort of proposed offer before ending it with a hasty, "And anyway, you guys were clearly in need of a hero so here I am!"

The statement was uncertain for once, with none of its usual vigour or enthusiasm. The effect wasn't particularly helped by Alfred's next move: he all but fled the tent, leaving Arthur looking a combination of hurt, disappointed and, rather oddly, relieved. He gave a soft sigh as he coiled one arm back into defensive posture across his stomach, the only sign of the previous day's injury he gave. His position made him look small and helpless, even if he was anything but, and really it was a wonder Alfred had managed to leave in the first place with Arthur looking like that. The American's 'hero' instincts surely should have kicked into hyperdrive.

Before he could even think what he was doing, Francis was on his feet and walking over. And really, was it any surprise – he had never managed to resist the Brit when he decided to be receptive to affection, even less so when he was a child. Whether it was because the stresses of being a fledgling nation got to him or his preceding nations were picking on him again (it took a while for them to realise their time was past) or because the youngster simply wanted someone to play with, Francis had always been more than willing to provide that older brother role. Of course, a nation's childhood never lasted long and neither had that dependency on Francis but they still had their moments. This was one of those moments.

He sat down gently beside his one-time brother, bypassing the usual taunting comments and insults in favour of sitting in companionable silence. He was rather surprised when Arthur leant against him, permitting him to put an arm round his shoulders. It was nothing, however, when compared to his shock at what came next.

"Thank you." There was no hint of grudge in the tone: no open hostility. There was simply gratitude, as if Francis were just any other man and not a long term enemy. But maybe, he thought, things were changing – they had the Entente Cordiale; now they were allies. Perhaps...

"They were clearing those trenches, you know."

Francis didn't know but he remained silent, allowing the Brit to continue with his little monologue.

"It wasn't a very strategic location – difficult to defend, and isolated from the majority of our forces. So they gave the order to pull out – I thought, because I was already here, that I could go along and offer what assistance I could. Look how that turned out." It was said with such bitterness that Francis nearly stopped him there and then, but still he held his tongue, knowing this was part of some weird human healing process that involved lots of talking. Arthur was always picking up quirks from his people. The other blond frowned suddenly.

"How many died?"

"Most, if not all, of them, I think. I'm sorry."

Arthur merely nodded, the frown remaining firmly in place. There really was no proper response to news like that. Francis did his best, however, to lighten it.

"You're not supposed to pull stunts like that – I don't think my old heart can take it, chère." He was pleased to note the smirk begin to play at the corners of the Brit's mouth, knowing his rival would not be able to resist the door he had just opened.

"That explains why you're all words and no action then, old man." It was a weak response, without the usual passion, but welcomed none the less. He had been worried, oh so worried – at first seeing him as an unfortunate soldier in the wrong place at the wrong time and then as his own brother. The two had blended into the one. Before any protest could be made, he drew the Brit into a quick hug, chuckling at the half hearted threats and squirming that followed. A chaste kiss was planted on a forehead that was still slightly too warm: he carded his fingers through the muddied, and bloodied, mess of blonde locks, barely caring at the admittedly disgusting sensation. The silence took over again, except it was warm, comfortable even: the sort he liked. Eventually Arthur pulled away.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly, without need to explain just what he was referring to. Francis nodded immediately.

"Oui, mon petit poussin: you got hurt and you scared him, amongst other things. Heroes apparently don't like to be scared."

"Oh."

"He'll come round eventually, you do know that?"

"Yes."

"Il est têtu, Arthur, sans oublier complètement oublieux. But he does love you, truly, even if he denies it."

Silence: Francis let out a long suffering sigh.

"Mon canard, not everyone hates you. Or have you yet to realise that?"

At first, there was no response but then: "...I'm not a chick. Nor am I a duck."

The Frenchman stared, truly unable to believe that someone could be so genuinely afraid when faced with affection. And then, he began to laugh: he couldn't help himself. It was loud enough that the various people bustling to and fro past their quiet little tent were peering in bemusedly, convinced they were witnessing a descent into insanity. "Okay, you win: I'll be quiet. Now, please, just this once will you do as I ask and rest? Take the chance to relax, a few days without worrying about this cursed war, and for the sake of all that is holy, do not unduly irritate anyone."

He stood up, a suddenly sly smile sliding into place. "Now, I think there are some nurses who may need a little assistance? And then we'll see about all words and no action."

He saw the predicted eye roll as he left the tent, loathing to do so even though he knew privacy was what Arthur wanted right now. And then, just before he went out of earshot, he heard it.

"Francis? Thank you. You're not actually too bad... for a frog at least."

He let out a smile. Yes, there was hope yet, even if at times it didn't seem like it. They would win this war and eventually Arthur and Alfred would stop dancing around each and maybe, with time, the Brit would stop being so uptight and defensive. A nice thought, and one he was sure would prove true. Eventually.

Francis raised his head to the sky: it was no longer so dark, with only light streaky grey and the occasional dull burst of blue. Perhaps, the sun might at last come out.

Apparently I am incapable of writing anything Hetalia related without it involving angst. Oh well.

Please rate and review: your comments are more than welcome!