Work Text:
May, 1945
The cigarette between Abel's fingers shook like a leaf, though he tried his hardest to steady his hand. Lit, and the last of his pack, Abel savored the rolled tobacco as best as he could. But the nicotine did little to calm him. Instead causing his head to spin, and his nausea to return.
He was home now. On his own land for the first time in five years. The rubbled streets of London now replaced with his own muddy earth. Sticky from constant rainfall, and the massaging of soldiers' boots.
And yet, Abel wanted to lay in it. Sink into the dirt head first, as though he were being swallowed by ocean water. Become one with his land again, because he wasn't sure it remembered him. And he wasn't sure if he remembered either.
It was all different now. Gray from storm and smoke.
And he was different, too. Thinner. Not for a lack of food — Arthur made sure he had his share, even through the rationing and general unsavoriness. No, Abel was thinner because his people were. Because he felt their hunger deep his bones, eating away at his marrow, tearing through his skin.
And if he could have, if they'd have allowed it, Abel would've given them his marrow. Would've given them his whole soul. The skin off his back, and all of his muscles. Each lung, his whole heart. Whatever they wanted. Whatever helped.
But he was only home, now. Now that the war had ended in Europe. Now that his nation was his again. So why then, didn't he feel relief?
He took another drag, though each inhale of the smoke made him more light-headed. And as he swayed a bit, swept by the nicotine and slight chill of the air, Abel almost didn't notice the presence by his side.
"Mr. Netherlands," the voice spoke cheerily, "Welcome home!"
The presence was larger than Arthur's. It's accent different, too. And most damningly, Arthur would've never referred to him as "Mister".
So Abel turned to view the presence at his side.
Matthew.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.
Abel had repeated that name to himself over and over in London. Especially after the Americans had joined the war, when differentiating the brothers had become harder. Matthew, not Alfred. Matthew. Canada. The nation who, temporarily, relinquished part of his land as Dutch territory, so that Abel's princess may be born to the Netherlands.
Matthew. The liberator. The man who shared his land with Abel when he had none. Who gave his marrow. His soul, and skin, and muscles, and lungs, and heart.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.
Remembering him was easy.
He wasn't like the others. He didn't speak over people with the arrogance that immortality could have allotted him. Didn't whine, or angrily catastrophize in a drunken state. He was a force on the field, frightening and commanding when need be. But he stayed kind. His eyes stayed soft. He hummed himself to sleep.
Matthew bit his pink lip now, his smile faltering slightly, perhaps at Abel's lack of response. Abel cleared his throat, "It almost doesn't feel real."
And once again, Matthew's smile was back. "Well, you're not dreaming!" he replied, his grin slowly fading, "Though I get it. Five years is nothing, and yet, everything at the same time." His eyes drifted as he concluded his sentence, taking a moment to gaze around the freshly liberated city.
Abel's eyes didn't follow. They remained locked on Matthew. He was a much better view.
"War works fast," Abel intoned. He'd never noticed how perfectly Matthew's curls rested atop his cheekbones, even with his hair pulled back. Like a puzzle piece.
Matthew turned back towards Abel again. Looking up at him through thick lashes, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "I've been hearing that all my life," his shoulders rose and fell as he exhaled a laugh, "Is that something you… more experienced nations say to scare us?"
"Is it working?"
Matthew shrugged, "War's inevitable. Why fear what's known?"
Well, he was definitely Arthur's ward.
Abel nodded, and brought the cigarette up to his lips, "Fair, Williams. You certainly handled yourself well."
Matthew flushed, ever so slightly. The red of his cheeks unable to hide atop his fair, freckled skin. "Oh, yeah. Well, you know," he said quickly, "It's whatever."
Humility. Abel knew it wasn't for show. With Matthew, it was genuine.
Matthew's gaze focused on Abel's hand. He stuttered a moment, "Um, can I…?" He pointed to the cigarette, but his body moved before his mouth could. In one swift, fluid motion, Matthew plucked the cigarette out of the taller man's fingers, and brought it to his lips. He took a deep drag.
It was then that Abel noticed the sweat around Matthew's forehead. The tapping of his boot against the soil. The shaking in his fingers. The dark circles under his eyes.
As Matthew exhaled, Abel watched his whole body relax. His eyes had fluttered shut, and as they opened, they met with Abel's once more. And he could swear they were violet. Sweet and floral, like a field to tend.
Matthew smiled, apologetically. Gracious and polite — cute, even — though he looked and acted just as a soldier. Perhaps because he was. "Thanks," he said, sheepishly, holding out the cigarette for Abel to take.
Abel didn't need it anymore. "No," his eyes remained fixated on Matthew's. How was that shade even possible? How was Matthew real? "I should be thanking you."
Inviting as an angel, Matthew laughed, "No need."
He looked down at the cigarette in his grasp. "Finish it," Abel encouraged, "I'm done. I've had a whole pack."
"Of course you have," Matthew flicked ash from the rolled paper, "How else would we celebrate?" He accented his philosophy with another drag. And it made Abel almost laugh.
It didn't feel much like a celebration. It was rainy. And cold. And there was much to do come tomorrow.
So for now, Abel returned to the earth. His earth. Sitting in the mud with little regard for how he looked. Because there was much to celebrate, if it meant a reunion with his land.
And Matthew joined him. Without word or question.
Not his first time on Dutch soil. But his first in Europe.