Hi, whoever gets to reading this. Here's another oneshot, slightly longer than others. I wrote it in one sitting, and I'm hesitantly proud of it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Disclaimer: We do not own Hetalia.

The once lively fire was beginning to die down. Canada considered adding a log, but decided against it. Moving would only wake Alfred.

Not that he was sleeping much anyway. The American hadn't actually slept in days. What Matthew referred to as 'sleeping' was in reality more of a drifting in and out of semi-consciousness. Alfred now spent most of his time in the semi-conscious state, with only the occasional cough or hoarse cry interrupting his ragged but steady breathing. For this, Matthew was glad.

His waking hours were hell.

His skin, once tanned under the California sun, was blistered and red. Strange burns covered sections of America's body, as though he had been in a storm of acidic rain. Any skin not affected was still extremely sensitive to touch, Canada had discovered.

Though he had originally complained of a mild headache, Alfred soon became seriously, violently ill. For days, the nation was unable to keep any food in his system at all. He would be dead of dehydration now, if his body still had the strength to vomit.

And if he were a person, and not the embodiment of a nation.

His gums had begun bleeding. As the American slept, Matthew had noticed a small amount of crimson on his lips. The water he tried to give Alfred often dribbled out of his mouth more pink than clear.

Then there was the fever. Matthew could feel it now, burning his brother from the inside out. The Canadian's lap, where Alfred's head was currently lying, was hot from the transferred heat. Matthew wasn't sure just how long one could survive such a high temperature, but still Alfred hung on.

Of course he would.

Matthew knew he should wish his brother death, but some selfish part of him wanted Alfred to keep fighting. Canada had never existed without America, and Matthew knew he did not want to consider a life without his older brother.

The fire, once so full of life, was reduced to a few flickering flames. He knew that if he let the fire die it might be an hour or so before he would be able to light it again. The remote single-room cabin's supply of lighter fluid was exhausted, and there were no matches left.

Matthew took a pillow from the head of the small bed and gently lifted his brother's head, attempting to use the pillow as a temporary replacement for himself. As he did so, he noticed a few too many golden strands where his brother's head had previously lain. More hair loss, Matthew thought to himself. He examined Alfred's scalp carefully. He did not notice any bald patches, but still, the once thick, healthy hair was thinner. Carefully, carefully, he placed his brother onto the down pillow and rose from the bed.

Another log was added. The fire flashed uncertainly as if it were unsure whether to accept this new chance at life, or simply flicker out of existence. After a few agonizing seconds, the flames began to lick up the side of the wood. Matthew gave it a few halfhearted jabs with an old iron poker.

He knew Alfred wouldn't eat. As difficult as it would be, Matthew would force him to eat for his own good, if he thought there was still a hope. This time he knew that there wouldn't be any point. Still, Matthew began to put together a simple meal of plain oatmeal for himself. Just for something to pass the time.

Using snow from outside, Matthew boiled the water to cook the meal. There was no milk, no sugar. If he were at home it would be different. Looking back, it seemed like a lifetime ago when he used to sweeten his oatmeal with maple syrup. Alfred always enjoyed that part about visiting Canada. Matthew didn't think there was anyone who appreciated maple syrup as much as he did, except maybe Alfred. The American would put the sugary concoction on everything except hamburgers, it seemed. Probably hamburgers too, if I didn't stop him, Matthew thought with a wan smile.

He spooned the finished oatmeal into an old wooden bowl. Not waiting for the mash to cool, Matthew took a few bites, burning his mouth. He didn't really care. That kind of pain didn't register with the Canadian anymore. He just felt numb.

Putting the half-finished bowl aside, he sat on the rough wooden floor with his back against the wall. Observing his brother. From here, he didn't even look sick. The flattering firelight masked the pale hue of the skin of Alfred's face and the bruises under his eyes. From this position, the angular thing his brother's body had become wasn't even visible. Alfred looked just like a child. And the crackling fire masked the rough sound of his lungs struggling to continue.

Matthew stood up and moved towards the bed, stopping over Alfred's sleeping form. He brushed a few errant hairs off of the sweaty, feverish forehead. Matthew didn't like not being able to hear him breathe.

Instead of sitting on the bed, Matthew pulled up the lone chair in the cabin. No use disturbing his sleep, he thought to himself. And there he kept watch, violet eyes never straying from the sleeping form as the moon rose, visible outside the window.

In the early evening hours, Alfred woke. After a particularly violent coughing fit, the once powerful nation managed to sound himself awake.

Much to Canada's surprise, he was coherent.

"M-Mattie..." He tried to speak but managed only a crackling whisper.

Matthew wasted no time. He grabbed a glass kept on the windowsill and lifted it to his brother's lips, forcing water down Alfred's parched throat. The American tried to drink. Only a small amount actually made it past his mouth. The rest dribbled out to the side as the American tried to hold back the instant urge to retch. At least his mouth no longer felt like parchment.

"I'm sorry, Alfred," Matthew whispered, mopping his friend's forehead with a damp, clean cloth as the sputtering ceased. "Sorry, but you have to drink." He felt guilty whenever he forced his brother like this, but what else could he do?

Instead of falling back into a stupor as Matthew expected, Alfred managed to sit up slightly. "Thanks, Mattie," he choked out as he smiled a small half smile. More of a cruel imitation of the former ear-to-ear grin Alfred usually sported. It hurt to see.

The American sighed; a weak noise compared with past Alfred and his huge gusts. "Why are you doing this, Mattie? I'm nearly gone; anyone could see that." He tried to look for his brother with shortsighted sky-blue eyes. Matthew reached and grasped his hand, squeezing it lightly so as not to hurt the American.

"You aren't done yet, Al," the Canadian tried to joke. "You've made it through worse, right?" Matthew had no clue what he was doing with his weak display of levity. It was just too painful for him to see his brother admit defeat.

"I'm so sorry, Matt. Some hero I am, leaving you like this," Alfred spoke with emotion heavy in his voice. Tears didn't fall; the Canadian doubted he had enough water in him for that.

"No, Al." Matthew's voice shook slightly, betraying the light tone. "This isn't your fault here. If I had just agreed to that whole anti-"

"No, if I hadn't gone and made so many enemies then-"

"Does it even matter?" Matthew met his brother's eyes for the first time in days. "Alfred, you're always my hero." He removed his hand and dipped the cloth into the water basin and began to wring it. "It doesn't matter, all of this. All that matters is now and here." He began to cool off his brother's face. "And I am not giving up on you," he lied smoothly, heart aching.

Alfred gave another sad attempt at his old smile. "Thanks, Mattie," he whispered, barely audible. Soon Matthew's caring attentions had put him back into a restless semi-sleep.

Matthew doubted he would be able to speak with his brother while he was lucid again.

He put another log on the fire.

In the early morning hours, Alfred woke again. This time there was no coughing fit or other discomfort to awaken him. He simply woke up.

Matthew was still on the wooden chair, but had fallen into a light sleep while standing sentry. Alfred gazed at his brother. He looked tired. Older than he had mere days before. And so melancholy.

He reached a bony, trembling hand out to his brother, touching his arm softly. Matthew started immediately.

"Hi, Mattie," Alfred said, sounding stronger than before. "I didn't really mean to wake you," he apologized.

"Al, are you okay?" Matthew asked, panicked. He grasped for the half-empty water glass.

"No, don't worry about that," he waved the water away, "I'm fine, just like this," Alfred answered. "I'm not really thirsty anymore, Mattie." The American looked up at his brother, eyes still fever-bright.

"What's that supposed to mean, Al?" Canada asked softly. "Is this it?"

"I-I'm not sure," Alfred said weakly. "I'm kind of..scared." And he certainly looked frightened. America, possibly the bravest nation of them all, had never looked more uncertain. "I don't mean to give up. But I can feel it. I can feel my people. The ones who are left...they're dying, Mattie." Alfred shuddered involuntarily. "I don't have much time left here."

"It's okay to be afraid, Alfred," Matthew murmured. "Lots of people are afraid of dying. It's just the fear of the unknown, really." A thought passed through his mind and he smiled. "You're America. You conquered a good chunk of this continent. You're a hero, Al. What makes you so sure what's next won't go just as well for you?"

"But...but Mattie," Alfred whispered, real fear bright in his eyes. "What if there isn't anything afterwards?" He swallowed dryly, shaking slightly at admitting such doubts. "What if it's just...dark? Blackness?" He looked away, trembling. Matthew wasn't sure if it was out of fear or weakness.

"Alfred, if it's nothing but black afterwards, then don't worry." He put his hand under his twin's chin and turned his head so their eyes met. "I'll be right there beside you."

Alfred smiled. He smiled his real smile, once full of promises and hope and excitement. Now it was a smile of love. "Thanks, Mattie."

And Matthew would follow. He knew it was only a matter of time. He could already feel the loss of Canadian lives in the tingling of his fingers and toes. He had already seen too many strands of orange in his hands after he'd raked his fingers through his hair in worry. He could already feel the pain.

Shifting Alfred slightly, he lifted the covers and crawled underneath. He cradled his weakened twin, holding him close as he twined their fingers together.

Outside, the clear night sky began to darken. A large, smoky black cloud from the south was creeping northwards.

Inside the cabin, the fire took its last breath before snuffing out, leaving the cabin in darkness.