My Dear America, Ch. 1

"H-hey, Arthur?" sniffed Matthew down the phone.
"Speaking. Who is this?" The voice on the other end sounded distracted, and irritated at being disturbed.
"Eh, it's Matthew." There was a blank silence, and Matthew sighed. "Canada? Alfred's brother?" he tried hopefully.

"Oh!" Recognition finally filled Arthur's voice. "Sorry, sorry, the line's not very good. Your voice is rather distorted." The lie was obvious, but Matthew was too used to being forgotten to bother objecting. "So, any particular reason for this call, or is it a social one?"
Matthew glanced again at the limp form sprawled on the floor, and tried to stop his voice from shaking. "I… I was wondering if you could come over, eh?" he said softly, twirling the phone cord anxiously between his fingers. "I... I'm staying at Alfred's place while the meeting's happening..."

Arthur sighed, his breath a rush of static over the phone. "I'm rather busy at the moment, Matthew. I've got yesterday's notes to review, my boss breathing down my neck, the presentation for tomorrow to prepare, and Scotland's being a pain in the arse… I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, anyway."
"A-arthur," said Matthew quickly, before he could hang up, "Eh, I- I really think you should…"

There must have been something in his voice that had set off alarm bells in the other nation's head because, when he spoke this time, there was quiet, serious concern in his voice. "Matthew? Has something happened? Are you okay?"
"It's- it's Alfred, h-he…" Matthew couldn't bring himself to say the word, and concentrated instead on crushing the sobs rising up in his throat.

"Alfred?!" Alarm filled Arthur's voice; Matthew could almost see him sit up straighter, eyes glittering with worry, overly-large eyebrows lowered in a nervous frown. "Is he ill again? Has there been another- another attack? Bloody hell, I warned him about stepping his security up, I told him they'd-"

"No, n-no, it's not that, i-it's… h-he… can you j-just please come over, eh?" whispered Matthew wretchedly down the phone. "Please?"
Arthur sighed again. "…Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Thank you," mumbled Matthew, clutching the phone tighter. "Thank you."
"And Matthew? Said Arthur quietly. "It's going to be okay. I promise." He hung up.

Matthew stared at the phone, swallowing a slightly hysterical giggle. It's going to be okay, eh?! How on earth is any of this going to be okay ever again? He put the phone down on a side table very slowly, staring blankly at the wall. Then he turned, walking over to his brother's body and sitting down heavily next to it, legs nearly giving out on him. He picked up one pale, lifeless hand in both of his own, trying to rub some warmth into it, as if that simple action might be enough to bring Alfred back. As if it would make his blue eyes open again, bring back that enthusiastic grin to his lips.

And then, only then – clutching his brother's hand and bending over his unmoving chest – did the tears come, burning at the corner of his eyes and spilling over, clinging in glittering droplets to his eyelashes and streaming down his cheeks in silvery trails. Hunched over his brother's dead body, Matthew sobbed into the cold air of an empty, uncaring house.