A/N: This... is... depressing. I'm just going to say that now. So when you get to the end and feel depressed because of how horrible this is, don't say I didn't warn you. Because I will point you right back up here.

It's REALLY ironic that the doc this is under is labeled "Something Cute". Because this is about as far from Cute as possible.

Title: Letters from the Silent

Genre: Is "Depressing" a genre? Angst/Hurt/Comfort.

Characters: Canada/Matthew Williams, America/Alfred F. Jones, England/Britain/Arthur Kirkland. Mentions of France/Francis Bonnefoy

Pairing: N/A this chapter. Maybe UKCan if you squint.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

Word Count: 2455

Letters from the Silent

It probably started at first because of a stupid idea.

Wait, no... it probably started at first because of The Dare.

The Dare, of course, being a stupid idea. By Alfred.

Matthew could hardly think back to what the exact words of 'The Dare' had been, now. Something about writing everything for a month since his voice was so quiet it would be the only way to have people know what he was saying. That month had passed in selective mutism, where everything he wanted to convey had to be done with words. He had written a lot of letters to Alfred, and to Francis, and to Arthur, and mostly to himself. The letters he didn't 'send' (some were really sent in the post, some were handed to their recipients) he tucked away in a cardboard box beneath a loose floorboard in Arthur's big, posh, English house.

Those were mostly the letters he wrote himself.

Why do you let yourself be silent without a fight? -Day 2

Carefully written words, written with the hand of a young boy who was still getting accustomed to a pencil, adorned most of the pages. Some of them were written in Arthur's best blue fountain pen (he had always gotten caught when he used it and the pages, as evidence, were smudged from where the ink would rub onto his hands) and a few in Alfred's favorite red crayon (that crayon had broken shortly after) and even a few in the green artist pen that Francis had sent him to replace the one he lost (He still had that pen in his house... somewhere).

Matthew wondered sometimes if the box was still there, under the floorboard. If it was, then it would likely never move, for all of eternity, and his scribbled words of long ago would be forgotten to the sands of time. Something that hadn't been disturbed in almost 300 years would probably never be disturbed. Probably for the best - those letters had depressed him back then, and would likely only depress him now.

If he remembered correctly, the letters he 'sent' to Arthur remained unopened.

He wasn't sure what became of the ones he sent Francis - or the ones he got back from his father figure. He knew Alfred had used the letters he received to make paper mache soldiers to battle the red coated ones Arthur had given him.

No matter what he had done back then, the people he lived with hadn't cared.

Why don't you act to make them care? -Day 4

He had written fifteen letters to himself, just short little epithets, one every two days as it got worse and worse. They were numbered, too, on the back of the cards. So he could always tell which order they were in. Day one had been half decent, and by day two, he was feeling ignored. Alfred would sometimes look at him, and see him, and say, "Don't give up on the dare, or I'll use your soldiers to battle mine! I'll go to war with you!"

Day three, he wanted to talk. He wanted to, but didn't. He gave them letters, every day. Sometimes three and four and five letters. Things he wanted them to know that he couldn't say aloud. He was torn when he saw Alfred tearing up his letters, his words, as carelessly as though they didn't matter - as though he didn't matter. And maybe he didn't to them. Maybe they just didn't care.

Day five, he felt anger welling in the pit of his stomach. He got his first letter back from Francis that day, but Arthur hadn't even so much as looked at him for the past five days. Alfred would play alone, making shooting noises and mowing down the redcoats with his newly made paper mache soldiers. Matt could stand in front of him, waiting to be noticed, and never have it happen. Alfred would put his toys away and then idly wonder what he, Matthew, had been doing that day.

You're screaming at them inside. -Day 6

Day seven, he tried as best as he could to make them pay attention to him, without breaking the bet. He found Arthur's letters, the ones from that day and the week before, lying unopened in his dresser drawer. Day eight, he stole them back and threw them in the fireplace, one by one, watching the paper curl and blacken and the words, like his voice, disappear.

Why had he so foolishly thought that they would care? Arthur had an entire empire to take care of, and if they weren't connected by a border several thousand miles long - even today, in the new millenium, Alfred didn't quite care what happened to him up north, if he got snowed in or starved for several days before being able to eat again it wouldn't affect Alfred in the least - if they weren't connected, he would be nothing to Alfred.

Why did he think that he would matter? He was just a cold, worthless colony with wood and water and beavers, lots of beavers.

You're screaming at yourself. -Day 8

He wrote to Francis every day, and got letters back every day for his trouble. It was hard, he wrote, he felt ignored. He hated it. He wanted to be with Francis again, where he was always noticed, where he wasn't forgotten. He wanted to be home.

On day nine, Kumajirou had looked at him blankly and wondered who he was. Tears had welled up in his eyes - the bear he had been with for millennia, for the first time, couldn't even remember his name.

Alfred and Arthur had argued that day, as they invariably had for the past month. They always argued now, and Matt was a silent observer. Always in the background, never in the fore. Maybe it was for the best.

You want to disappear. -Day 10

In the middle of the night, around midnight, the start of day eleven and the ending of day ten, he had actually broken the Dare. He was only a third of the way through it, but he couldn't keep going in this total silence. He had slipped out of his and Alfred's shared room, down the hall to the bathroom, and sat in the washing tub silently for about an hour before he had opened his mouth and spoken in what he believed to be a normal leveled voice. "This is too hard."

The voice his ears heard was barely above a mumble.

His silent sobs had settled him back to sleep after a couple of hours, when the sun was just barely rising. Arthur found him around noon, wondering why he was sleeping in the bathtub, and why his face was so dirty when he was in the washroom. A solid berating later and Matthew was sent to his room for insolence, and not answering, when he was just too miserable to answer. Arthur had forgotten about the Dare.

You want to die. -Day 12

Francis missed a day on day twelve. His letter didn't come.

Matthew had again curled up in his room, hiding in his closet and closing his eyes. Francis had promised, in his first letter, that he would send one back every day. It would save Matthew the feeling of being forgotten, at least by one person.

While he was hiding, Kumajirou had come into the closet and curled next to him comfortingly. He almost felt comforted-then the bear had opened its mouth.

"Who are you?"

At that moment, Matthew had wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and stay there for the rest of eternity.

You want to. -Day 14

Most of the week after that had passed in a blur. Alfred had gotten new clothes, a formal suit and tie. Both he and Matthew shot up in height on day thirteen of the dare. Physically, now, they were about eighteen. Matt briefly realized he had been about twelve the day before - Alfred had been 13 - and a rebellious teenager.

Somehow, Matt was thankful that he had seemingly skipped puberty, and the rebellious portion of it.

Alfred still argued with Arthur at every step of the way, however. Neither one took notice when Matthew would slip away more and more often. On the fifteenth day, halfway through the Dare, he had skipped dinner entirely. He went downstairs hours later to see the table completely cleaned, not even his plate had been left out for him.

You will. -Day 16

On day seventeen, he stopped writing letters to Francis. He still slipped a couple of letters to Alfred every now and then, and Arthur, but now he barely ever sat down to write. He wasn't even sure why he was still writing to Arthur, when he already knew the Brit wouldn't read them.

One he had written to Arthur had read something like this:

April 4th, 1775

Arthur,

I know you probably won't read this, or even realize that I gave it to you, or even recognize who I am. But in the case where I simply (here the writing was smudged and the paper was a bit stained from water damage, though Matthew would never admit he had been crying while writing it) disappear, and the miraculous idea that maybe you would notice, I wanted to leave tangible evidence to say I'm sorry. I should never have taken this stupid Dare (even during the Dare he had capitalized it, sensing its inherent importance) because if I had never had taken it, then maybe you would still recognize that there are two boys in this house. Soon there will only be one. And maybe soon after that, none at all. (He had assumed that he would be the one to disappear from the house first, however, so Alfred's leaving first was rather a slap to his face - he couldn't even do suicide without Alfred taking the spotlight away) So in the case you actually recall that you had a colony named Canada, that you stole away from France, that had come to accept and even respect you as a ruler, I'm sorry I was never more like Alfred.

Soon. -Day 18

After his suicide note that he was sure Arthur hadn't read, he had taken a few days to hide away and build up his courage to actually do the deed. There was a lot of crying during those days. He had only written one note from the day he wrote to Arthur to the day he attempted it:

Die. -Day 20

On day twenty, he had walked out of Arthur's house with a bag containing only one item, out into the woods nearby. He found a large tree with open roots and curled himself in one of the spaces, just sitting there and staring into nowhere for an hour before he moved again. He pulled out his bag, bringing it to sit in his lap again, and opened it carefully; from it, he extracted the one item he had brought with him.

The serrated kitchen knife would hurt, yes, but it would serve his purposes better than anything else. He brought the jagged edge up to his throat, hesitating for just a second before ripping it across the skin with a pained yelp. He let it drop from his hand limply as everything faded out to black.

But he had woken up, hours later in the middle of the night, his throat healed and only the slightest indication of a scar there. He ran two fingers over the slightly raised skin and winced at a bit of phantom pain, confused as to why he was still there. Why he was still alive.

Just die. -Day 22

He tried again, two days later, convinced that maybe it had been a fluke. His hands shook as again, he curled beneath the tree and again, he raised the knife. The sense of deja vu was too strong for it to be coincidence, for the first bit to be a dream.

Again, he woke up. Again, the wound had healed. The scar on his neck was now barely noticeable to the naked eye, and he had cleaned the knife and slipped it back into the drawer with all the others. He had curled in his room, wondering what was wrong with him that he couldn't die. Canada wasn't that important of a nation, it could probably easily have some human be born with the strange genetic coding that let them all age strangely, and live forever, and be affected by the things that affected the nation...

He returned to the house, late, and wandered into the kitchen. Arthur was sitting there having a cup of tea, and barely even looked up when Matthew returned the knife.

Matthew returned to bed a few moments later, and didn't see Arthur stand to go pull the knife free, or the way the Brit looked worriedly up the stairs after him.

Why? -Day 24

When Matthew again broke the Dare in the middle of the night on the twenty fifth, his voice wouldn't even rise to a whisper. He had cried, for a total of five minutes, before slipping out of the bathroom and into Arthur's room. He found his folded suicide note, exactly where he had left it. It didn't look like the seal had been broken. He pulled it off the dresser, glancing at the sleeping Arthur with tears still in his eyes, and left the room to put the note with the others he had written to himself.

He couldn't remember what happened the last five days of the Dare. All he could remember was watching silently as the arguments between Arthur and Alfred escalated almost to blows. He brought Arthur his tea like he had for every evening since his ceding, and received no acknowledgment. The Brit was still incensed over Alfred.

Please. -Day 26

Please God. -Day 28

He recalled that on day 29, when he had brought Arthur his tea, the Brit had raged at him and at Alfred, though Alfred wasn't in the room. He had silently taken a blow to the cheek from the enraged Brit.

Five seconds later, Arthur had regained his composure and apologized profusely, tending to the bruising skin on his cheek with such tenderness and care that Matthew couldn't help but cry.

It felt too fake. Too forced.

Just let me disappear. -Day 30

Day 31, April 19th, 1775, Alfred declared war.

And Matt found himself, somewhat, wanted and needed again. A sad pittance that he had traded his voice, his confidence, and most of his identity away for.

AN: Well... that was depressing. I might write an omake for this, or maybe several possible omakes, where someone finds the letters and then it turns into fluff between Mattie and that person. Just to make this stop being so effing depressing. Submit a review with the Canada pairing of your choice if you want that to happen.