Title: Scar Material

Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia

Author: Me, or it was last I looked.

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Historical

Character/Pairing: USUK, Scotland, Wales, Germany(/Italy), France

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst. Torture, slash, language, some more angst, a little fluff. Butchered history. Human AND country names.

Summary: A playful tug jerks a repressed memory to the fore, and America learns how not to tear a frog's legs off. USUK

A/N: I had a brainwave a few minutes ago, so I thought I'd get this down. Enjoy, my lovelies~?

Scar Material

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."
Khalil Gibran

It is 18th June 1639, in Berwick-upon-Tweed, the northernmost town in England, a quaint little place in Northumbria. On a good day, you can see the sea, hear the gulls across the bay, smell the salt and feel the breeze and taste the spray. This is not a good day. The Covenanters have forced a treaty on Charles, a temporary truce, and nothing more. It was never anything more, England and Scotland have been at odds for centuries, why should they break their habits now?

In the next room, King Charles I had put his name to the line whilst his men and his country looked on, glaring at the Scots the other side of the room. Arthur Kirkland bore witness to it, and he had seen the dangerous glint in his brother's eye, had steeled himself for their treaty.

"No," he begs, trying to fight his way free of his sister's arms, but she's always been stronger than he has and she manages to manhandle him into the chair. It is the only piece of furniture in the room, and he feels the chill of the stone walls, floor, ceiling on his skin even through the still heat of summer, feels his heart try to break his ribs as it jack-hammers in his chest.

He kicks out, but Ireland's got his legs, and he can writhe all he likes, he's not breaking free.

The other side of the room, Scotland smiles.

England knows that smile, he knows it too well. It's the smile that lashed his back, that allowed France entry to his borders, the smile that raped and pillaged and rent him asunder when he was nought but a child. He is eighteen now, on the very cusp of adulthood, and he has learnt much.

He knows what that smile means, and he takes one of Ireland's teeth out with his boot as he tries vainly to free himself from his siblings' grip.

"Hold him tighter. Don't want to cut that pretty little face of his more than necessary now, do we?"

England can feel Wales' thumbs pressing against the pulse in his wrists, rubbing as though reassuring. That she's part of this damns her. Ireland holds his legs tight enough to cut the circulation, laughing bloodily all the while.

"Please, oh God, please," he begs helplessly, biting back tears, because he knows what's coming, but he's scared all the same, aware, all too aware of what Scotland's about to do. "Please, don't, please!"

Scotland pushes himself away from the wall, green eyes dark and his face in shadow as he crosses the room. His spurs click against the stone as he paces evenly, the sound ringing in England's ears over his helpless pleas for mercy. They are falling on deaf ears, but he can do little else.

A shuddering breath tears from England's chest as Scotland slips onto his lap, feet still flat on the floor, his weight heavy on England's skinny thighs - he was always the smallest of the four, even now he's fully grown, he's tiny in comparison, Scotland's a barbarian, a full head over him – and leans in close. He traces his baby brother's lower lip with the tip of a finger, delighting in its tremble, laughing at the breath that skitters across his skin. The finger goes to the corner of his mouth, the nail flicks a line across his cheek.

"Please," England whispers, one last time. "Please, don't do this."

"Ah, but hen, I have to. Blood must be spilt." England's body runs cold at the endearment that has always been anything but, and Scotland's hand tangles in messy hair, wrenching the younger man's head back, tearing a few strands free, and England winces.

If this was the way it was to be, then he would not make a noise and give the bastard the satisfaction.

"Now," Scotland smiles, leaning in close and smiling, his face a mockery of England's. Their noses brush, and England bites his tongue. "Hold still, we don't want to make a mess of this, do we?"

"I hate you," England can't help but spit, the cold steel of Scotland's favourite hunting knife digging into the corner of his mouth. "I hate you all."

"Oh, now that isn't very nice, is it?" Scotland's eyes flick up, to Wales stood at England's back, and her grip on Arthur's wrists tightens again, unwilling to stay, but unable to leave. "You don't mean that, surely."

England says nothing, trembling even as Ireland laughs and the knife breaks skin. He does not give Scotland the satisfaction of screaming, does not give him the satisfaction of any noise. He holds Scotland's gaze levelly, even as the tears well and mingle with the blood, even as the sting of salt in open wounds makes yet more tears well. He hates his brothers, and despises his sister, and he wishes them dead.

When his face is sufficiently ruined (life, it seems, is not done with it yet, though, for Whitechapel will leave a scar on his temple that itches every time he's in London) Scotland heaves himself from his brother's legs, and pats a bloodied and tattered cheek, the sweat on his palm stinging the wound. He ushers Wales – there are tears in her eyes, but she's better at holding it in than England is – out of the room, and grins at Ireland, who grins back in response, and England, through a haze of blood and sweat and tears, through the mists of pain and hate, braces himself.

As one, they clench their fists and swing, knuckles fitting perfectly against England's ribs and knocking the breath straight from his lungs. He collapses off the chair in a heap on the floor at their feet. Arms over each other's shoulders, they laugh over England as he thinks to cough his lungs out and saunter from the room, leaving him alone to bleed out on the floor.

"Britain! Come on, babe, focus, it's me, come on, Artie!"

But Britain is gone, lost to a memory they aren't privy to, and the force of his flailing limbs is enough to snap America's head to the side as he tries to force his arms down, knock Texas from his face to bounce across the carpet of the UN building. He's panting as though dying, eyes wild and unfocused.

America manages, after a long moment, to overpower Arthur's wild swings, use his superpower strength to hold the former empire's arms still. Britain fights, but fails to break free, and eventually goes limp. He sits there, seemingly only supported by Alfred's grip on his wrists, and pants. His pulse is racing under Alfred's fingers, barely finishing one double-step of a beat before starting on the next. It throbs under the American nation's fingers, threatening to break through the fragile, pale skin of England's limbs.

"Are you okay?" Alfred asks, dropping to a couch in front of Arthur, between his knees, and cups the Englishman's face as those lime-forest-Kryptonite-green eyes focus with a shaky blink.

His face crumples, he tries to jerk free of the hands on his cheeks, but falls forwards, face buried in the taller man's neck, and he sobs helplessly, hands fisting in the rumpled shoulders of a fitted dress shirt. One of Alfred's hands goes to the back of Arthur's neck, hovering for a moment over his hair before settling over the jut of his spinal column. The other rubs pathetically at his back for a moment, tracing the lines of lash scars and burns before patting the carpet to his side, hooking the arm of Texas and shoving them, fingerprints and all, back onto his face.

When he can focus, America's cobalt eyes are steel as they turn to where the blond-haired French nation sits, mouth open and eyes horrified.

"What the fuck," he demands, "Did you do?"

It is barely audible over England's helpless sobs in his ear, but Alfred hears a, "I just… I tugged his hair," come from Francis' mouth.

"You know you shouldn't touch his hair," Alfred tells him, at a loss for how stupid France really is. "You've known that for years."

Germany is clearly agitated; he doesn't know how to mediate this fight, because he doesn't know who's in the wrong, or, even, what's been done. "Why?" he asks, hands spreading awkwardly. He vaguely feels Feliciano at his side, hunched into his seat, and fingers itching across the table. He drops one hand down the side of the table, and the Italian grabs it, fingers squeezing tight.

Arthur's voice rumbles against Alfred's throat, the vibration of his throat travelling the length of Alfred's body. He sounds like a wreck; his accent, clogged with tears, has slipped from his usual Received Pronunciation, and fallen into something that sounded vaguely like it belonged in the Newcastle high street.

"Scotland," he says, "Gave me my Glasgow Smile. In 1639, during the Civil War. My siblings pinned me to a chair and held me despite my pleas for mercy, laughing as Scotland grabbed my hair and sliced his knife through my cheeks, giving me a reminder of what I had no control over. I was eighteen at the time, just turned."

When Alfred backs away enough to get a decent look at the smaller nation, Britain doubles over, hands on the back of his neck even as he buries his head between his knees. He makes a vague noise that sounds like he wants to vomit, but he doesn't move, so Alfred puts his hand over the hands laced over the back of Arthur's neck and rubs his thumb across scarred fingers.

"Jesus Christ, France," he says for lack of anything better to say. "You shack up with Scotland and you didn't think about that?"

France shrugs helplessly. "I thought… Alright, I didn't think. I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was still so bad."

"Tell you what France," Alfred gripes, his shoulders tensing and every nerve on fire, even as Feliciano huddles closer into Germany's arm and the rest of the UN goes utterly still. "How about I cut your hair off and get a hot poker and let's see how bad it is."

France looks like he's about to vomit himself, his hand going to the puckered burn on the back of his neck; now, it's the only reason he keeps his hair long, it's not even a question of style any more.

"America!" Germany snapped from the other side of the table, barely stopping Alfred from lunging at the Frenchman a few seats away. "Drop it!"

"But!"

"No buts!" When Alfred opened his mouth, Germany held up an accusing finger, and pointed at the door. "Take Britain somewhere to calm down. I will email you with the results of the meeting. France, for fuck sake, don't do something that stupid again."

Alfred took a step back from Arthur, allowing the Briton to haul himself to his feet. There, in the middle of the meeting, not giving a damn who was looking, Alfred put his hands on Arthur's beautiful, scarred face, long fingers cupping a sharp jawline, thumbs resting in the dents of the scars on his cheeks. Arthur flinched, but met his eyes, defiant and expectant and even a little bit worried.

"You've been so hurt," Alfred whispered against the smaller man's forehead, eyes closed to the world. "People that are supposed to love you hurt you so bad, me and Scotland and France and Wales and Germany, we all hurt you so badly, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there to keep you safe and I'm sorry that I hurt you as badly as I did. But I'm here now, and I'll spike France's drink later and it'll be okay, right? We'll be okay, all of us, 'cause a hero protects the people he loves, and there's no one I love more than you."

If Arthur thought anything of it, he said nothing, leaning tentatively into Alfred's hands. It was clear he was aware Alfred couldn't do a thing, but it seemed the sentiment was placating enough, for his fingers came up to lace into the American's, and allowed himself to be tugged, too exuberantly, from the room and into a wide blue yonder.

++End++

NOTES::

Dude, I totally went on a wiki-wander for this. I wasn't going to put a specific date in at first, and just leave it vague, but then I got really curious as to when exactly Scotland would have decided that yes, enough was enough, and given England a reminded of why you don't fuck him off. I like to think it started with William Wallace and Robert the Bruce and Edward Longshanks and not Mel Gibson and Patrick McGoohan and Angus Macfadyen.

Alright, lemme say this before you start slagging me off; I've got nothing against the Scottish.

I see Wales as female, deal with it.

England is actually canonly called Britain.

I had to look up some Scottish endearments, but rather than screw with Scottish Gaelic, I went for the modern and totally not-too-early 'hen', which, best I gather, come from a shortened version of 'hinny', pronounced 'henny', which is the Scottish version of 'honey'. God knows.

Dude, I totally stole a Titanic soundtrack piece with the unable to stay but unwilling to leave business. Whoops.

Alfred's hot poker comment is a reference to Vichy France in WW2.

When Alfred says that Germany is meant to love England, it refers to the fact that my royal family is actually German. Oh yes, the Windsors are German. I bet there are some people out there that DIDN'T KNOW.

I'M SUCH A DERPY NERD, EH? I apologise for the shitty sappiness of that ending, I lost track of what I was angling for there after I broght Vichy France up /fail