Warnings: OOCness, potential historical inaccuracy, mentions of war and violence

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership.

Matthew is stone-faced, sitting on the edge of a trench, legs hanging listlessly into the empty space. His golden hair—shorn short in a style more reminiscent of Alfred's hairstyle—is grimy, dark with mud and blood and sweat. The boy had taken refuge in the spot after doing his part to carry the dead—his dead. He had been one of the last to stop working, wordlessly slipping away in the heavy silence of the camp.

Arthur watched him, surreptitiously, the entire time. Even when his commanders addressed him, his watchful eyes drifted to his colony, that had shown up—despite his express disapproval—under a false name even—Williams, really?

There wasn't much Arthur could do or say. Steven and Michael and Joshua had stubbornly enlisted at well—to a much less successful end, Arthur winced, sober thoughts of the failed Gallipoli campaign coming to mind. Arthur knew he needed all the help he could get, especially since that useless idiot was taking his bloody time making a decision.

Arthur didn't know how it happened, couldn't pinpoint the moment that everything shot to hell. One day, he heard news of a navy to challenge his (challenge him? He was born among the waves. The ocean was his tempestuous mistress.) One day there was an heir, the next there was none. One day, the treaties failed. One day he woke up from a nightmare of Belgium's screams and found that he couldn't ignore it anymore. Ultimatums were issued, ignored all around and now here he was.

And now here was Matthew.

Finally, Arthur gathered his courage, adjusting his torn and filthy uniform, gun slung around his back, and stepped delicately towards his colony.

Matthew didn't say anything until Arthur stood directly behind him.

"I smell." He said bluntly, voice raspy.

"We all smell, lad." Arthur responded easily, gracelessly slipping down next to the blond.

Matthew's jaw tightened, ever so, and he didn't reply.

"It was brilliant." The Englishman said quietly. "Quick-thinking, my boy, will keep you alive during this war."

"No it won't." Matthew said suddenly, voice harsh. A trickle of blood formed at the corner of his mouth and trailed down the curve of his jaw, dropping onto his collar.

Arthur watched the crimson droplets fall from the other's mouth, realizing belatedly that Matthew must've inhaled some of the gas at some point. Thankfully, they weren't quite human so the effects must've been delayed and the boy was still healing.

"No." He amended. "But it could keep you alive longer."

Matthew sighed, violet eyes sliding over to look at him. "I'm going to die over here aren't I?" He stated, completely resigned and Arthur hated it.

But he couldn't bring himself to tell the boy otherwise. He wanted to smooth away the tenseness in the other's brow. He wanted to reassure the boy.

In the end, he only had a few words for the other.

"We need you." He said firmly. "I need you, Matthew."

Matthew just looked away.

"Where is he?" Alfred demanded, glasses askew and filthy as he stormed into the tent, wild-eyed.

"Calm down, git." Arthur said without looking up from where he was neatly stitching up a gash on Matthew's chest. "He'll be fine."

"He's dead." Alfred's face was now a deathly pallor, staring down in horror at his brother. "Oh Matthew…Matthew…" He murmured, moving forward and reaching out, hand wavering over his brother's still form.

"He'll be fine." Arthur snapped, a little colder this time as he snapped the thread and stepped away.

"Could you be even more of a heartless bastard?" Alfred snapped, blue eyes sharp.

"I'm not the one who sat twiddling his thumbs while the rest of the world—" The sandy-haired man catches himself, shaking his head viciously before leveling an imperious glare at the rising power. "Don't even think that you can stand there and judge me, you twat. When you were off making money off the rest of us and pretending that everything was right and dandy, I was here popping in his dislocated limbs and sewing up his mangled body—because your brother is just as foolhardy and pigheaded as you—"

"You guys are the ones using him as canon fodder." Alfred threw back, lips pressed into a tight, white line and an enraged flush on his cheeks. "A little bit of mud here and there and a stupid hill is worth the lives of all your little colonies, I guess—"

"You don't even understand." Arthur hissed, green eyes smoldering.

"I don't?" Alfred sneered. "You know why he's fighting for you right? He just wants your—"

"Please don't fight." A soft voice interrupted, dragging the attention of both countries as Matthew struggled to sit up.

"Don't stress yourself out, bro!" Alfred said hurriedly, all traces of fury disappearing from his face as he tried to push Matthew back onto the cot. "I'm here so it's all okay. I'll save the day, Mattie. I'll make things better so you don't have to worry."

Matthew looked a little wary, yet touched nonetheless. "I'm fine, Alfred. Its not the first time." He said tiredly before giving Arthur a small smile.

"Yeah, I heard!" Alfred said excitedly, looking all too much like a hyperactive puppy. "I heard the Germans were all like 'oh no not the Canadians' and then they all ran away like a bunch of pussies!" He laughed madly. "I bet Prussia was shitting his pants when you guys took that ridge. You're so hardcore Matt!" The blond clapped his brother on the back, a little too roughly thus eliciting a hiss from the violet-eyed boy and an angry curse from Arthur.

Arthur, who was still caught on Alfred's words before Matthew awoke, couldn't help but look at his colony a little closer, catching the shadows under his eyes and the vacant shade of his gaze. Grayish skin and burnt fingertips and a new devil-may-care attitude that had been absent before all began to connect as well as the slight glances Matthew gave him prior to battle.

As an Empire, he should have been pleased to know that his dominion knew his place and respected his authority to the extent he was willing to die for him.

He couldn't find any satisfaction in it.

Matthew's once too young face—still soft with childhood's touch—had sharpened. The boy was turning in on himself with each battle, with each fiery baptism. He was a little more self-aware and much more terrifying (a demon, Arthur had realized once he caught a glimpse of the other during combat).

Each time he looked at Matthew, he kept remembering the sullen little colony that had glared at him with enormous indigo eyes and the reserved adolescent whose face fell infinitesimally during each departure.

He ached for the child Matthew once was, if only because he yearned for a second chance to make things right. Now he had a young man who was still so very wounded and hesitant—like a young deer—and distant.

Somehow, the lad seemed broken and Arthur had the distinct feeling that he was to blame.

"Please take care of her." Matthew requested softly, scratching the docile black bear between its ears.

"Of course, my boy." Arthur said, reassuringly, watching with an affectionate smile as Matthew offered his hand for the animal to nuzzle at.

The younger man had a tiny little grin on his face—so much more earnest than the way his lips would half twitch, weary and wry. It was quite a charming smile, fitting for Matthew's demeanor, and when the other stood up, a blank look settling on his maturing features, Arthur frowned and searched for a way to bring it back.

He couldn't think of a single way.

Pinned to the other's lapel was a scarlet poppy, standing out in stark contrast to the drab color of Matthew's suit.

For a moment, Arthur considered, wildly, ordering an entire new set of suits for the young man, for his upcoming debuts and such, but as quickly as the thought came it disappeared. There was too little money and too much else to do and, without a doubt, Matthew would politely decline the gift. It would be an inappropriate gift, in light of recent sacrifices and explosive carnage and it was almost appalling, the idea of celebrating and giving gifts when so many died for peace.

The two stood in silence. And, surprisingly, it was Arthur who broke it.

"Matthew."

The boy looked at him inquisitively, a slender eyebrow quirked in interest.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, eyes tracing the strange way the other's face had aged, wizened. After a few years in the trenches, thousands of moments punctuated by cries and artillery, the millions of seconds of slowly unfolding terror as the wind-dragged gas moved closer and closer, leeching onto soft tissue and killing cruelly, and countless minutes of clenching a lifeless body, whispering prayers to an absent God and swearing to change your ways if those eyes would just open or if that finger would just twitch, and bloody hell that boy just wanted to die and please let him come back safely, and of huddling together underground, fingers pressed into each other's sides just to make sure you were still alive, and Arthur felt closer to Matthew than ever before.

What was a little honesty with the person who had willingly stood by you and died—again and again and oh God again and again and how could there be so much blood?—and still smiled at you like you were the best thing in their life?

"I'm so proud of you, Matthew."

Matthew looked a little dumbstruck before surprise then fury then resignation and finally something much softer settled in his expression.

He didn't make a snide remark (all I had to do was die for you, is that it? Or, are you sure its me you're proud of it?) or some polite statement (Thank you Arthur. I'm glad I could help). He could've. Heaven knew he had many things he wanted to say to Arthur that he wouldn't dare say under normal circumstances.

Instead he just smiled and leaned forward, pressing his lips chastely against the other's cheek in a fleeting kiss.

And then he turned around and headed home.

The first scene is during the Battle of Ypres. The second is during the Battle of Amiens. The third is post-war with Winnie the bear :D

Steven, Michael, and Joshua = Australia, New Zealand, and Newfoundland

Yeah, so, way late updating. I do have a reason. Its kinda a personal thingy. -sighs- The truth is, I was feeling really bad about this story. I'm not Canadian, you see. So I felt really dumb writing a story about something I don't really understand. Because this is pretty historical-based. I don't understand how Canadians feel at each junction of their history or how they feel about England and/or France. I barely understand my own country, the US. So, how can I possibly write about Canada? I actually felt really horrible because I was like "Who the hell do I think I am? I can't do this justice." So, even now I'm still not sure about what I'm doing or even understand what exactly I'm getting at it. I do like this story, even if I'm not even sure what the hell I'm doing. And a lot of people have asked me to update, something that I've been planning for months. I just didn't have the confidence. I still don't and I'm still very hesitant about this chapter.

So I updated. This story isn't in a very safe place, dear readers. I'm actually quite scared of it and of ruining it. I won't get rid of it, but I do often lack inspiration. So, if you guys wouldn't mind, what are some events that I can still write about where Canada and England interacted in some way.

I'd appreciate any and all criticism as well.