I remember waking up the next morning warm and comfortable. My eyes snapped open and all I could see was an expanse of lavender. It was Daddy's nightshirt, crinkled and damp from the long night of sleeping with another – albeit small – body next to his side. I breathed deeply, catching his scent; it was musky, but strangely sweet.

I remembered he smelled like the tea he brewed every morning. "Mmm. Lad, you're finally awake?"

I jumped, tearing my eyes from my hands and catching his emerald iris'. I stared. What was I doing here again? I wasn't bothering him was I? I don't remember coming here in the middle of the night, and either way, he normally takes my visiting as a sign that something's wrong with Alfred and leaves me to my own devises.

He must have seen the fear on my face, because his hand deftly threaded through my hair, pulling it lightly before curling in the ends. Silently, he started to braid and unbraid small strands

"I really am sorry, Love. I know what I did was wrong, and I really do hope you forgive me." I blinked, suddenly recalling the past nights events. He sat up, tucking me gently to his chest and pulled my hands from his shirt. He turned the one over and, breathing in quickly, rushed us to the water closet.

I remember the terror in his face as he unwound the bandages, seeing the sickly yellow color that was left on them. The red mixed with it as soon as the pressure was gone and turned the yellow a disgusting shade of orange. He tisked and started to wipe away the discharge with a wet rag before pouring a good amount of peroxide over the wound.

I remember his eyes widening as he saw the pain that swam through mine. He lightly pulled me closer to his chest. I glanced up at his face, it was taunt, stressed. His eyes were closed. I squirmed a bit. He let me go and started re-cleaning my hands, his eyes never leaving the small gash.
With the bandages in place, he lifted me up and we went down stairs to the kitchen. I remember his eyes flickering around the room, searching for his other charge before he set me gently in a chair and wandered upstairs to bring Alfred down.

I remember the stained look in his eyes as he heaved and struggled to wrestle the (slightly) older blond into clothing. Alfred had, more than once, tried to run around the house in nothing but his undergarments, which, while fine when we were toddlers, was awkward now that we were as old as we were. Five year olds need to show some kind of maturity, you know. We're not all crayons and bubble baths. Most of the time at least.

Breakfast that morning had been (slightly) burnt pancakes. Alfred had added a small amount of syrup to the food. I, however; covered the things with nearly half the bottle before Daddy appeared and took the container with an angry 'You don't need to drown them, Lad.'

Actually, I did. Alfred could enjoy this food all he wanted to. I had grown up with Papa. Papa could cook. Daddy, despite how hard he tried, could not. At all.

He screwed up Kraft Dinner.
I was five. I couldn't even screw up Kraft Dinner.

But, I digress.

I remember Daddy's eyes flickering to me every few seconds as he went about his meal. He watched me struggling with cutting my pancakes (because of my hand) and, for the first time since I had ever lived under his rule, came around the table to cut them into bite-sized pieces for me. "Merci, Da- ehh...th...thank you, Daddy?" He smiled down at me, returning my fork to my uninjured hand.

I remember Alfred's face turning red with anger at the attention I was getting. I watched as he purposefully- sorry, accidentally- knocked his glass of milk all over himself.

I remember Daddy's eyes flashing me an apology, the first I'd ever gotten from his eyes, before rushing over to stop the mess as Alfred cried. I turned my attention back to my syrup (for there was way too much of the topping to actually call what I was eating for breakfast, pancakes) and started eating again. "No need to cry over spilt milk, Alfred." Daddy mumbled lightly, patting the (slightly) older child on the head. "Why don't you go to the bathroom and clean yourself up a bit? Be a big boy? I'll be in in a moment."

Alfred puffed his chest up, glowering at me out of the corner of his eyes as he stalked towards the bathroom, leaving a dripping trail of milk behind him. However, he didn't realize something I already knew.

When Daddy talked to Alfred, he called him 'Alfred'.

When Daddy talked to me, it was 'Lad' or 'Love' or 'Bird'.

Very rarely did Daddy refer to me by my actual name. Mostly whenever he was angry or not thinking straight. Or incredibly sleepy or, well—okay, so most of the time he called me Matthew or Canada, but at least he never called Alfred 'Lad', 'Love', or 'Bird.' I had it set in my mind that that was how it would always be.

And, I also knew that Alfred was in store for, not only a bath tonight, but one as soon as Daddy finished cleaning the table of the milk. I would only need one bath today.


I remember the worry that Daddy's eyes held the first time I came home with hockey wounds. I had been playing rough, but had given away double the body checks that had been dealt to me. I was (physically) around thirteenish at the time, and even though I'd been playing hockey for centuries, this was the first time I had ever came home with blood on my body.

Daddy freaked.

His eyes had widened to an impossible size; small green fields becoming large forests expanding over the hills of his lands. He was scared. For what, I've never been quite sure. It could have been one of a plethora of things. My injuries. The blood. The blood that may or may not have found itself to everything I'd touched on my journey from the front door to the kitchen. The limp I had acquired. The fire that was burning on the stove.
I rushed to put the last one out, knowing I'd saved the kitchen once again. (The last time, the room hadn't been so lucky. The walls had needed repainting and most of the items and appliances ended up getting replaced. The fire department was really mad. Understandably, of course.)

"Bird? Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. I just finished up a hockey match. Nothing too serious to worry abo…" The front door slammed angrily, calling Daddy's attention away from me.

"Al? Alfred? Do not slam my doors please."

"You can't tell me what to do, Old Man." More door slamming.

I remember Daddy's eyes narrowing, becoming little more than a sliver of emerald surround by a slowly reddening sea of flesh.

I remember knowing that I'd lost him.

I remember seeing Papa's eyes for the first time in centuries. The blue was even more crystalline than they had been back then. I didn't realize it was because I was crying.

I remember not knowing what he was doing; sneaking around behind England's house in the dead of night. I remember how I felt seeing him meet Alfred at the bottom of my brother's balcony as opposed to trying to visit me. I remember the anger, the jealousy, the hurt, the pain, the betrayal. Why, after all these years, did he go to Alfred? Why hadn't he come back for me? Did he not care for me as he used to? Did he not remember the days we spent, playing and learning, or the nights we spent huddled up on the couch with him protecting me from the storms?

Did I not matter anymore?

I remember the day Alfred left. It was rainy and not particularly warm (just...not cold, per say), like always in London, when England showed up. He was soaked and bloody; whether it was his or not, I didn't know (or want to know). Either way, it would have been bad.

I remember the dead look in his eyes as I undressed him and washed his body for him in the tub before gently dressing his wounds as he did mine when I was young. I held him close to my chest and ran my fingers through his wet hair, burying his face into my neck.

I remember the cloudy colour that seemed to leave his eyes as he pulled back and looked at me for the first time in hours, voicing the one thing I'd come to terms with long before he'd left for my brothers lands. "He's gone, Lad."

"Daddy; he's been gone for years." I'm not sure if he understood what I meant by that.

I remember how wide Daddy's eyes became the first day I was late coming home. It had been fifty-three years since America had left and I was an hour late getting home from the hockey game I had been playing. The game had run long and, by the time I'd stumbled in the door sore and bruised (in the best way possible), Daddy was already four bottles into his avid depression.

"Daddy? Daddy, don't cry. I'm home, Daddy. I'm here."

I remember the feeling I got when Daddy looked at me. His eyes, which had started as half-lidded slivers of green, widened to giant emeralds, sparkling in the firelight. I remember the look of surprise he wore as he took my appearance in and finally, after what seemed like decades of time, he opened his mouth with "...America? Is that you? Why have you come back! I hate you. I hate you. I HATE YOU! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU BLOODY TOSSER!"

I backed away. Daddy had never been this angry. Ever. He may hate America, but so far, he'd yet to confuse me for him. Well, until now that is.
I remember watching him stand up as though on the battlefield; looking around warily, eyes darting here and there trying to find more enemies. "Daddy. Daddy, it's me, Matthew. Canada. America's not here."

"Don't try to trick me, boy. I know a traitor when I see one. And I believe I'm staring right at one." He advanced towards me, swaying back and forth; whether from the alcohol or in a tactical way to keep me guessing, I'll never know. Anyway, he blocked me against a wall, eyes narrowed deadly small and, before I realized what he was doing, I was on the ground gasping for breath with blood and heat forming on my face from where his fist had landed blow after blow.

I remember the apologetic look on his face the next morning when I woke up and went to the kitchen to find him plating breakfast. It looked and tasted terrible, but I ate it anyway (after drowning it with syrup) to let him know I didn't blame him for what happened.

It took eighty-seven more misshapes before I started blaming him instead of the alcohol and his 'illness'. I mean, I'm very peaceful, but there's only so much I can take and eighty-eight cases of mistaken identity that lead to bruised checks, broken bones, and bloody lips is pretty much it.
I remember looking at violet eyes that stared back from the mirror on the morning I decided to do it. I remember feeling all the courage that I needed well up in my chest as I walked towards the man I needed to see.

"Arthur. Sit down and listen to what I have to say." The man blinked slowly, his eyes clouded with sleep and drunkenness, before he slumped down onto the chesterfield. "I want, no, I need independence, but I will not fight for it. I refuse to hurt you as Alfred did. I am, and don't deny it, a very selfish person. It may not seem like it, but I can't have you hate me. I need your acceptance—I crave it—which is why I'm asking for your blessing on becoming independent. Please, if you do anything for me, do this. But, I don't want it now. You're drunk. I won't accept your answer now. You can tell me later." With that, I heaved Arthur to his feet and went through the motions of putting the man to bed.

I remember seeing his eyes clear for a moment and his hands reach up to grab my shoulders. "When did you grow up, Lad?" His hands dropped and he fell asleep.

Seven months later Arthur got sober and the Dominion of Canada came to be.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. If I did, it would delve more into the histories of countries and not on random moments in time. Not that that's not cool, but still. I'd delve more into countries origins n'stuff.

Yeah. So, as far as this is concerned…I think it's fairly OK, even though it wasn't supposed to exist, so…ehh…

This is just an extra, it can't stand alone, but the first chapter can. This is as far as the story goes though. Sorry the ending sucks. But, then again, it wasn't going to actually be written in the first place, so…

Hope you enjoyed it though. Review? Honestly, I live off of them, and I replay back to all of them! :D