Notes: I truly missed writing genfics, so I'm back with another short, fluffy story focusing on the ACE family, this time set while both America and Canada are still colonies.

I hope you'll enjoy this! And please review :)

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, and so does the cover picture. I don't get any profit from writing this.

Chapter One

The tree stood in front of the small colony, tall and majestic. The wide trunk told about all the winters it had withstood, and the ample branches gently descended until they almost touched the ground.

Perched upon one of those branches was the origin of Canada's woes, with his small legs carelessly dangling and his incredibly blue eyes bright with mirth.

"Come on Mattie, Follow me! It's easy, see?"

To offer a proof of his words, America's small hands grasped a higher branch as his body tensed. Canada's heart missed a beat – but his brother safely hoisted himself up before turning back to Canada, his lips curled into a confident smile.

"Mattie, come on!"

Canada pouted, his forehead furrowing as he wrung his small hands.

"But… Mr England said we shouldn't try to climb this tree, it's too big for us and it's not safe!" he protested, hating himself for how shaky and small his voice came out. America was never going to be swayed by something like that.

Predictably, America rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated puff.

"Your point? Artie's such a worrywart, he never lets us do anything… If it were for him, we'd be just stuck inside the house drawing or reading. Bo—ring! And he can't even see us now, he fell asleep because he's an old man!"

Canada bit his lower lip, uneasiness blossoming across his stomach at America's words and attitude. So much was wrong that he didn't even know where to start: first of all, England wasn't asleep because he was an old man. England had fallen asleep because he had withstood a long and exhausting journey only to be able to visit America and Canada. He had even played with them the entire morning, but for how much he was smiling, Canada had noticed the violet shadows under England's eyes, his pale and drawn skin. England deserved his rest… and seeing America disrespect him that way brought a sour taste to Canada's mouth. Couldn't his brother see how much England was doing for them? How disrespectful he was being, in belittling their older brother's tender concern the way he did?

The fact that England clearly favoured America made the anger boil hotter in Canada's chest. Why did his brother, who had everything, have to dismiss it that way? Canada wanted to yell at America until his brother opened his eyes and realized how blessed he was.

But in the end, as usual, the words died in Canada's throat in front of his brother's determined features. There was no way that Canada, small, meek Canada, could compete with America's boldness and vitality.

"If Mr England says that we shouldn't climb this tree, there is a reason," he said instead, his words so feeble that they barely carried over to America.

His brother heard them, however, and his features hardened in annoyance.

"You're such a bore, Mattie. Why do you have to be such a goody-two-shoes? It doesn't make you much fun to be around, y'know."

The remark stung, making Canada recoil, for he was aware of the shred of truth in America's words: Canada obeyed rules because it was the right thing to do, but… there was a small part of him, usually carefully repressed, holding onto the minute seed of hope that England would one day acknowledge his good behaviour. Canada didn't demand his caretaker's undivided attention, but one more smile or a moment tailored just for him even if America was present as well would have been the greatest gift Canada could ask for.

Oblivious to his brother's distress, America stretched on the branch and went on talking, a playful glint glimmering in his eyes.

"Or is it because you're scared? Are you a wimp, Mattie?"

"I'm not!" Canada bristled, clenching his hands into fists as he stiffened.

The only answer was a mocking laugh from America.

"Oh, but you are!" the child declared with a sing-song cadence, climbing a couple of branches higher. "Wimpy Mattie, wimpy Mattie… Mattie's a little wimp!"

The words made Canada's stomach twist, gathering hot tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Stop it!" he pleaded, his voice so weak and feeble that it hardly carried over the gentle wind.

America either didn't hear or pretended he hadn't, going on with his stupid rhyme as he climbed higher, swift and confident.

And maybe he was right, Canada found himself thinking: looking at America, climbing the tree seemed easy enough. Maybe England was a bit exaggerated in his protectiveness, after all, he didn't see America and Canada that often, he didn't know what they were capable of…

Besides, there was another issue on which America was completely right, for how even admitting it felt like something was squeezing Canada's chest: no matter how hard he tried, Canada wasn't going to gather England's attention. He could behave perfectly, learn to read and write and recite poetry just like England wanted, but England was never going to regard him with that soft, adoring gaze he reserved to America. No matter what, Canada was always going to be a second thought to England, a faint shadow of his brother.

America, instead, was usually willing enough to play with Canada – but he would stop, if he thought Canada was boring. So, at that moment, Canada was at a crossroad: he could keep obeying England in the faint and unlikely hope of gaining his affection, and lose his only playmate aside from Kumajiro in the process, or he could disobey England and follow America up the tree.

Canada cast a timid glance behind his shoulders, towards the direction their house lay, blocked from his view by the thick vegetation. England was probably still asleep, he had been so worn out, he wouldn't know anything…

Canada's stomach coiled at the thought of disobeying his older brother, but when he glanced at America's frame, getting higher and higher as he went nimbly from branch to branch, the child had taken his decision.

Taking a deep breath to try and calm down the trepidation clawing at his insides and his hammering heart, Canada placed his small hands over the branch, feeling the rough bark. He closed his eyes for a moment as he gathered courage, then he hoisted himself up.

It wasn't the first tree Canada climbed, he had just never tackled such a big one, but he was surprised to realize that there wasn't much difference: the branches were strong, easily supporting his weight, and they were dense enough for him to seamlessly move from one to another.

It wasn't long before Canada reached America, and the beaming smile his brother offered him loosened the tension.

"You came! I knew you weren't truly wimp, Mattie!"

Canada's only answer was a faint smile, but the sight of America's sparkling eyes was enough to banish even the last flickers of doubt. Together, the two boys kept climbing higher and higher, following the thinning branches.

"Alfie, maybe we should stop now…" Canada tried once, his stomach lurching as a glance down revealed how far they were from the ground, but his brother laughed off the suggestion.

Canada swallowed down the uneasiness with a shake of his head – after all, he had already decided to disobey England, the best he could do was to carry it out to the end.

The two colonies finally stopped when the branches started creaking ominously under their weight, suggesting that going any higher wouldn't have been wise.

"Look here, Mattie," America said as he sprawled comfortably on his belly over a broad branch. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Canada tried to imitate his brother, relaxing his body. They weren't at the top of the tree yet, but glimpses of bright blue sky could be seen through the green leaves. Looking down, instead, Canada was surprised to see an ample glimpse of the woods. His head spun at the realization of how high he was – he didn't think he had ever been so high over the ground – but, after the first moment, it brought a strange sense of elation that finally made the grip on his chest loosen.

A glance at the house, barely visible through the trees, brought a small pang of guilt at the thought of having disobeyed England, but it was quickly smothered when America offered Canada a conspiratorial glance. After all, England was never going to know. Maybe, America was right, Canada was just too rigid for his own good… Slowly, the child let his body relax and returned a timid smile of his own.

The two colonies spent the following hours lazily spread over the branches, chatting and looking at the birds that rose in the clear sky. It was beautiful, Canada had to admit, a bubble of tranquillity that seemed completely separated from the outer world. Almost magical.

A big part of the afternoon had already passed by when a clap of America's hands jerked Canada out of his dazed state of mind.

"That's it! It was fun while it lasted, but I'm hungry now! Let's go back and wake up Arthur, he'll cook something for us!"

Canada grimaced at the thought of England's food, his stomach turning – but he was never going to admit how much it didn't appeal to his taste. After all, England could have just delegated the cooking to another person, instead, when he visited his colonies he always insisted on taking care of everything on his own, as if to make up for the lost time. Canada certainly did appreciate his intentions, regardless of the outcome.

"All right…" he muttered, turning to his brother only to find him already a few branches down, moving swiftly.

"M—maybe you should be careful?" Canada cautioned, his forehead furrowing as he started lowering himself down, extending his small feet to reach a lower branch.

America laughed as he climbed down quickly, almost jumping.

"Back to the worry-wart, Mattie? Come on, it's easy! Don't be a wimp, just follow me!"

America made the entire process sound easy, but Canada found himself not agreeing. While climbing up hadn't demanded a great effort, the bark now felt slippery under his feet, unsafe. The fact that the child could clearly see just how far the ground was didn't help, making his stomach coil with tension. It wasn't long before America distanced his brother, his high-pitched laughter echoing through the leaves.

"Come on, Mattie! What are you waiting for?"

Canada wanted to retort against America, his heart missed a beat every time he saw his brother move so carelessly, but America's features tightened in impatience as he looked up at him.

"Mattie, stop being a bore, you're taking forever!"

Canada sank his teeth into his lower lip to avoid retorting, his stomach twisting with uneasiness. He wanted to tell America that he was being reckless, that he was going to get hurt – but he knew that his brother wouldn't listen to him, and the cold, annoyed glance the other colony sent him made Canada's chest grow tight. The last thing he wanted was to peeve America, his sole playing companion.

"Don't look down, it's easier if you don't," America added then, in a kinder voice.

Trying to ignore the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead and the way his hands felt sticky and slippery, Canada resolutely quickened the pace, trying to focus his attention only on the most immediate action instead of the ground. The trick seemed to work, slowing down Canada's heartbeat as a bit of tension was finally washed away from his tense body.

"Yeah, that's it! You're doing great!" America cheered from somewhere among the leaves.

Canada finally allowed his lips to curl into a small smile as he looked down, searching for his brother's face. Exactly at the same moment, his feet hit a branch sideways, not where it was supposed to, and immediately slipped down into the void. A wave of pure panic washed over Canada as his arms flailed, desperately trying to reach for a support. For a moment, his fingers brushed against the bark – but the branch was too wide for Canada's small hand to get a strong grip.

The child's eyes widened as gravity took hold of his body, depriving him of any support. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he plummeted down, the small branches whipping his body barely registered in his's brain as sudden sparks of pain. His arms desperately extended forward, but nothing was stable enough to stop his fall, not even the branches his body hit in its journey.

"MATTIE!"

Canada automatically turned his head towards his brother's shrill voice, catching a glimpse of his wide, panicked blue eyes. A moment later, Canada's body slammed against the unforgiving ground, making the worst pain the child had ever experienced burst in his left shoulder in an explosion of white agony.

Somewhere above the ringing in his ears, Canada heard America's voice call his name in a panicked, pleading intonation, then he faintly registered America's pain on his own knees as his brother tumbled to the ground in his rush to get down, but he couldn't answer, nor could he utter a single sound when America's desperate cries rose to the sky, his chest tight and his consciousness eaten by the agony that had spread to his entire body.

England jerked awake with a gasp, almost falling out of the rocking chair in a convulsed movement. His clouded brain took a moment to get accustomed to the situation and realize that the wooden patio surrounding him belonged to his house in the New World.

England rose to his feet, his eyes scanning around as he tried to give a name to the unpleasant hollow feeling at the pit of his stomach.

Something is wrong.

"Alfred? Matthew?" he called, the uneasiness stubbornly refusing to leave him.

The only answer was the ruffling of the leaves in the wind.

Damn. Where did those two little pests run off to?

The mere thought made England's stomach twist, letting him understand that his intuition was right: something had happened to his little colonies – who weren't in the house.

And if he didn't find them…

With his chest heavy with dread, England quickly strode into the woods America and Canada were so fond of.

"Alfred? Matthew?" he kept calling as he made his way through the vegetation, his mind running over all the possible scenarios as the uneasiness grew with each passing moment – had somebody attacked the children?

'Somebody's hurt,' a malicious yet confident voice whispered inside England's brain.

The thought flooded his mind with horror. While immortal, America and Canada were just colonies, and still very young ones, too. They weren't as strong as a full grown-nation and they wouldn't heal as fast – but that wasn't the only reason England's stomach was unpleasantly knotted. America and Canada were still so young… the mere thought of them experiencing any kind of pain brought a sour taste to his mouth.

Swallowing to bring relief to his painfully dry throat, England kept trudging on, calling his colonies' names as loud as he could.

No voice ever answered him – but England suddenly halted in his steps as his ears caught a faint sound.

Is that…

England's legs automatically spurred back into motion, anguish surging in his chest at the realization of what the sound was: a child's wail.

"Alfred, Matthew, wait right where you are! I'm coming!" he cried unnecessarily, breaking into a run.

With single-minded determination, England moved towards the source of the sound, mentally cursing the vegetation that grasped his clothes as if trying to hold him back. His heart was hammering in his chest, threatening to explode, and the fear swallowing any rational thought was only amplified as the desperation-filled cries rose louder and louder as England got closer.

It was with a sudden lurch of his stomach that England identified the voice as America's.

"Alfred!" he couldn't help but cry out, even if a corner of his brain rebuked that the colony wasn't probably going to hear him and he should instead use his breath to run faster – but any rational thought was gone at that point, all England could focus on was the utter desperation seeping through those heart-wrenching cries, his heart shattered at the thought of America, alone, hurt, and scared.

England couldn't take it.

Finally, when the cries had risen to a volume that was almost unbearable, England burst through the bushes to find himself in front a big tree, barely registering its presence as his eyes focused on the small figures huddled in front of it.

Just like in England's worst fears, America was bawling, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks. England's heart constricted painfully as he took in the agonized expression warping the child's soft features. His eyes frantically scanned him for injuries. All England could see was that America's knees were skinned raw, but the child was clutching his shoulder, that had probably taken the brunt of the hit.

"Alfred!" England cried out as stopped right in front of the child, his hands hovering over him.

"Oh, poppet, what happened here? How badly are you hurt?"

Predictably, America's cries didn't slow down – he was probably in too much pain for an answer. England's hands were trembling, his head spinning from the scare, but panic wasn't something he could afford. He took a deep breath to force rationality to take control of his mind again and tried to scan over America more efficiently.

Having failed to detect any life-threatening injury, England lifted the child in his arms, doing his best to jostle him as little as he could and with his heart weeping with the knowledge that if America was badly hurt, no gentleness was going to spare him from the pain.

"It's all right, poppet," he said anyway, trying to sound soothing but unable to hide the trembling in his voice. "It's all right. I'm here now, I'll take you home and I'll fix you up. It's going to be all right."

England would have wanted to run, but he gritted his teeth and forced his gait to be steady and confident, forcefully reminding himself that some more minutes of wait weren't going to worsen America's condition, but being jostled in a hurry would increase his pain. The child was still sobbing, the desperation and fear in his tears stabbing England's chest like scorching knives.

Only when a white form sprang up from the bushes and flashed past England, almost brushing his leg in the process, he was suddenly reminded of the second person who had been present on the scene.

"Matthew!" England called, turning his head.

Even at a brief check, the second colony had been traumatized by witnessing his brother's injury. His ashen face was slack, his lilac eyes dazed. Considering that Canada had already lived through an entire war, England would have expected him to have a bit more of resistance – but maybe, seeing his brother hurt in what should have been a safe environment was a different matter. Either way, that was a concern England would have to deal with in a second moment.

"Matthew, come on, follow me. Alfred is going to be all right, I promise, but he needs some medical attention, I have to bring him home."

There wasn't any answer. When England shot a look behind his shoulders some moments later, no small colony had followed him.

Oh, bugger.

His chest constricted at the thought of how scared Canada had to be, but he didn't have time to worry about that, America's injuries were far too urgent.

England swiftly walked back to the wooden house, mindful of any misstep and murmuring words of comfort at the same time. By the time England crossed the door, America's tears had thankfully slowed down and his features had softened, but he had yet to talk.

"See, poppet? We're home, it's going to be all right now," England murmured, placing a gentle kiss on America's hair as his eyes swept over the room, trying to locate his medical supplies.

Luck was on his side: having almost being assaulted by America upon his arrival, England hadn't had the time to unpack yet, and his medicine chest had been abandoned by the door along with the rest of the luggage.

England deposited America sitting on the big table in the middle of the living room before retrieving everything he needed, almost running in his effort to speed up the process. Tension clawed at his insides, the blood pounded in England's ears as he tried to look more closely to America's form, sick with anticipation. He had had to clean scratches and skinned knees before, and America had always reacted with loud cries and fat tears to his ministrations. Now that he was seriously injured, it was going to be even worse.

But America was finally starting to blink his eyes open, his sobs reduced to sniffling. England couldn't show himself scared to him.

"Artie?" the child mewled in a small voice that stabbed England's heart.

He forced his frozen lips to curl into what he hoped to be a tender smile.

"I'm here, poppet. Now we'll get you looked at, all right? You're going to be fine."

America blinked owlishly, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"It hurts. So, so bad."

America's voice had never sounded so small and vulnerable, it was like the lively child England was so used to had been wiped away by the injury. England's stomach turned at the wrongness of the entire situation.

"I know, pet," he murmured soothingly, his eyes focusing on America's left shoulder, that the child was still clutching. "Now, let me have a look, all right?"

Much to his surprise, America simply lowered his hand in response to England's hesitantly prying fingers.

"Mattie?" he murmured in a shaky voice, tears still welling at the corners of his crimson-rimmed eyes.

"He's going to come in when he feels to, love," England answered absent-mindedly as he neared a pair of scissors to America's tunic.

Before the child could get scared at the sight of steel, England tore the fabric off to expose the injured shoulder. His eyes widened, his fingers stilling over America's unblemished, soft skin. The uniform golden tan didn't show any injury, not even a single hint of blossoming redness.

England blinked, but the sight in front of him didn't change. He hesitantly pressed a finger to America's soft skin, and the child didn't show any reaction. There was no mistaking it: America's shoulder was completely healthy.

How… Could he have healed so quickly?

The thought that had suddenly sparked in England's mind was completely absurd, yet, he couldn't stop lingering on it. After all, America had already shown an abnormal strength, could his healing rate be the same?

No, this is ridiculous. It might be a bit faster than normal, but this is just too much. Not even I would heal this quickly...

With his eyebrows high in confusion, England focused back on America's reddened face.

"Alfred, love? Where does it hurt?"

America sniffled, a pout twisting his lips.

"Shoulder. And knees, but the shoulder hurts more…" The child let his voice trail off.

America's knees were quite badly skinned, England could see it, but his shoulder was undeniably healthy. Yet, he had been wailing so much when England had found him…

From the scare, maybe.

Now that the haze of panic was finally receding from his mind, England could reconstruct a possible dynamic of the accident: given the position, America had probably fallen out of the tree – if England wasn't mistaken, that tree was too big for his small colonies to attempt climbing, its apparently safe branches treacherous because they were too big for their hands, as slippery as they were sturdy.

'Of course, I tell him not to climb a tree and the exact second I turn my back, there he is. I honestly don't know what I had been expecting.'

England closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smothering down the irritation that was rising in his chest. There would be time for reproaches later, America was still hurt, even if not as badly as England had initially feared.

"And this is why I tell you not to climb trees," he couldn't help but comment as he bent closer to have a look at America's knees, a wave of exhaustion washing over him.

He didn't know what the deal with the child's shoulder was, but he would worry about it after tending to the injuries he was sure of.

"But Mattie!" America protested, an odd hint of desperation in his voice.

England took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way the lingering after-effects of the panic were turning into anger.

"Don't push the blame on your brother, Alfred. Whether he followed you up the tree or not, I'm quite sure he was not the one who started this. And you must have given him such as scare, as well…"

After a glance at America's still wide, too bright eyes and his trembling lips, England's rage simmered down.

"But never mind this. Let's have a look at your knees, then we can go back to retrieve Matthew, all right?"

America gave a violent shake of his head, another broken sob bubbled up his throat. His eyes were wide in desperation when they focused on England's ones.

"No! Mattie… Mattie's the one who fell! And he's hurt! I… my shoulder is not really hurt, but Mattie's is! He's so, so much hurt, and he's scared, he thinks we have left him behind!"

The blood ran cold in England's veins, he felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs. His mind ran back to Canada's pasty face, to his dazed eyes. To how he hadn't followed him.

"N—no," he stammered, his head spinning with the dread that was pressing down on him.

America's impossibly blue eyes seemed to be looking right through him, confident in spite of their unnatural shine and the tears that were again pooling at the corners. His words made old memories stir in England's mind.

"He's so precious, Angleterre," France had told him a lifetime before, gloating about his acquisition of Canada. "The sweetest child… just like Amerique. I'm sure they're twins, you know."

At the time, England had retorted that they couldn't know it, there wasn't such thing as twins for nations, even if America and Canada were the same age in human terms.

But, if America and Canada were actually twins…

Twin-sense, people whispered sometimes, afraid of the connotation such a term carried. England knew enough about witchcraft to say with certainty that most of it wasn't just superstition.

The realization of what he had just done washed over England with the weight of a stone, constricting his lungs and making bile rise to the back of his throat. America's limpid eyes staring right at him spelt out all his faults.

Canada couldn't understand what was happening. All he could focus was the horrible pain pulsing deeply in his left shoulder and making his head spin and his stomach churn, immobilizing him – it hurt almost as bad as the memory of England walking away after turning his back to Canada.

Canada didn't understand, but the anguish was clawing at his chest. America had been crying because he had felt Canada's pain and he had been scared, but he wasn't too badly hurt, he had just skinned his knees… Then, why? Why had England been so tender with America, only to leave Canada behind?

"Get up," Kumajiro said, rubbing his nose against his owner's knees. "I know it hurts, but you can't stay here! You have to get up. You have to take shelter somewhere, then you'll heal. But it's going to rain tonight, you cannot stay here!"

Canada didn't acknowledge Kumajiro's words, but another pang of pain gripped his chest at the implication: Canada didn't want to move because he was in too much pain, but he had to get up on his own because England wasn't coming back for him.

'It's not true,' a small voice pleaded in Canada's mind, 'He will come back for me. Just like he did in Montreal when I was so sick and he came and stayed with me until I was healed.'

But Montreal had been different: there hadn't been Alfred, in Montreal. And if America was there, Canada faded to nothing in England's eyes.

England wasn't going to come back for him.

(word count: 4,760)

Notes:

It's a headcanon of mine that, before America grew up faster, America and Canada used to be twins – and, as such, they shared a twin-bond that was strengthened after they both fell under England's domination, allowing them to feel each other's strong emotions and pain. I also think that the link became fainter and fainter (and eventually almost disappeared) as America started growing up faster and eventually gained his independence (both for political reasons and both because I think that America and Canada aren't twins anymore in modern times, with Canada being younger), but it hadn't happened yet in this story.
Another headcanon incorporated here is that nations can occasionally feel if their colonies are in distress, provided that the personification was born out of the colonization. This is what happened with England and America.

This story was originally born as a piece of dialogue of another fic I'm planning, in which, years later, Alfred explains Arthur exactly what happened. That particular story is too complicated for me to tackle right now, but I keep thinking about this anecdote and thought it could make a story of its own.

This story is almost completely written, I would add small pieces from time to time when I was stuck with the story that is my main project at the moment (so, for the people reading Chrysalis – I know I've been criminally slow with updates lately, but I promise that whatever happens is not influenced by this story) so next chapter shouldn't be late.

I would also like to add that English isn't my first language, I apologize for any mistake.