Author's note: Tears Thursday request (cnutsweynsson): « It didn't seem to want to send on the post, but I wanted to request "AmeCan during WW2 (addressing isolationism)" »

Not like that

"And all I'm saying is as men, as men," Matthew emphasizes, "we should go do this."

"We can't!" Alfred exclaims for what must have been the 100th time. "We're not men! It doesn't work like that!"

"So what?" the Canadian demands, exacerbated. "We should just let them fend for themselves? Let this all just roll along? I'm not going to do that! Not to them." Who « them » refers to never needs to be said.

His brother, barely older but still someone he very much looked up to, glares at him with hate and despise and something else in those blue eyes, something Matthew learned to see in Arthur and in Francis long ago: the unspoken of pain that builds up over centuries of no one noticing, no one caring.

"Alfie?"

"Fuck you," the man breathes.

"Alfie, I don't–"

"Fuck you," Alfred repeats but his voice breaks and now he looks on the verge of tears. "You always got their love! Arthur spoiled you because you were quiet and did what he said, and Francis loves you more than anyone else!"

Matthew shakes his head, desperate at the site of his brother breaking down, desperate to make it stop.

"They never loved me, not like that, don't you see‽" The Canadian doesn't, not yet at least. "I'm the little rebel that Arthur still has trouble respecting, and Francis– God, that man doesn't know how much he means to me and he never will. Not when all I ever do is remind him, remind the both of them, of you."

Before another word can be said Alfred marches to the door, wrenches it open, and says with his back to his brother,

"You join this war if you want; I don't need anyone. Not like that."