He left a few hours before dawn. Dawning his military coat and pants, and filling a backpack with supplies -namely water, for Matthew was sure to be dehydrated- Alfred left the base. It wasn't easy, with the sentries standing at attention, their night-vision goggles destroying any chance he had of escaping unseen. However, he was able to get far enough away that if anyone chanced to look in his direction, they would not be able to recognize him as a soldier. Maybe they would shoot him. Or, more likely, they would watch to see what his business was, wandering so close to the base, and when they found that he was doing no harm, simply continuing down the dusty road, they would leave him be and return their watchful eyes to the shifting sands.

The long, dusty road cracked under his boots as he slowly made his way towards the site of the attack. He planned to get there by sunrise, so that he could reach his brother before the hot sun began to beat down. He refused to think about what would happen if he did not find his brother. He would not give up hope. They had been through too much for him to simply forget, like the sergeant had suggested.

He recalled their first mission in Afghanistan, where they had been sent to investigate an abandoned town. They had gone in with the rest of their squadron, checking for soldiers or militia, looking back warily for fear of hidden snipers or assassins. Anything was possible. Alfred had spotted a figure rushing from an abandoned house, and being the eager new recruit he was, he disregarded all his training and began to run after him. He had just made it to the center of the road before the figure threw a small, metal object at his feet. He had stared at it stupidly, blinking uncomprehendingly at the metal and duct tape.

And then Matthew had come barreling out of nowhere, practically throwing Alfred into the ditch and diving in seconds later, just barely missing the rain of shrapnel that had whistled over the trench. He landed on his brother, pinning him in the dried mud and shielding him from the metal shards that flew through the air. Alfred could remember the raw terror he felt, trapped under his brother, the deafening boom from the explosion ringing in his eardrums. And then Matthew had rolled off him, and Alfred had caught a glimpse of his bloodied back.

He had been terrified, blaming himself for the death of his brother without even comprehending the extent of the damage done. It was only when he felt Matthew's hand stroking his cheek, his worried eyes boring into his own, that he was able to calm down and examine his brother's back. To his relief, there was not as much as he had originally thought, and although the jagged cuts crisscrossed his brother's back in a gruesome, bloody, pattern, he could tell they were not deep, and that he would be fine.

Nonetheless, Alfred had blamed himself for the incident, and still shivered when his brother took off his shirt, exposing the now faded white lines that dotted his back, serving as faint reminders of what had transpired on their first day in combat. From that day on, Alfred had done his best to protect his brother from the horrors that they had faced, although even he had to admit the lithe Canadian scarcely needed the protection. More often than not, it was Matthew who came running in after his brother, saving him from whatever trouble he had accidentally caused.

He continued to think of the time they had spent together in the godforsaken wasteland named Afghanistan, the memories sustaining him until he reached the site of the attack.

He could see the tire marks, still imprinted in the ground, from where the motorcycle had swerved to avoid hitting his brother's prone form. He noticed that the larger, deeper tracks –left by the trucks no doubt- did not swerve or thicken, indicating that they did not stop to capture or crush his brother. It was then that he noticed the faint copper smears in the dust. Blood; his brothers' no doubt. He felt bile begin to rise in his throat, his stomach clenching at the though of his brother, alone and dying at the side of the road.

Of course, he knew Matthew was wounded. He had seen the shot. But he never got a chance to examine the wound, to see whether it had hit an artery or broken a bone. He couldn't bear the thought of his brother bleeding to death in the desert, alone and afraid. His eyes followed the smear, noticing the faint lines in the dirt for the first time. His brother had dragged himself away from the road. He followed the bloody marks –clearly he had crawled- to a nearby sand dune. He continued up the dune, pausing at the top to survey the land around him. The desert was spread out before him, the faint tinges of yellow and pink spreading across the sky serving to illuminate the contours of the endless sand. Deciding to risk being found out, by whom, he didn't know, he shouted Matthew's name, listening to it echo over the dunes, praying for a reply.

He didn't know how long he stood for, waiting with baited breath, but eventually he realized that Matthew was not going to answer. He sighed, feeling the hope in his chest die a little more, but he refused to give up. Mattie needed him. He called again, listening eagerly, trying to reassure himself that Matthew was fine, that he just hadn't heard him. When he got no reply a second time, he called again, desperate, his cries haunting, only reinforcing the cold feeling of dread that slowly knotted in his stomach. He listened; half hoping he had heard a faint shout for help before realizing it was only his imagination. His pleas were only answered by the wind. After the tenth try he gave up, looking toward the bottom of the dune, hoping for something, anything, to quell his growing sense of unease. His eyes fell upon a small trail of indents in the sand. He followed them with his eyes, noticing that they led to a small gully. Hope flared in his chest once more. The shifting sand had mostly buried the tracks, but he continued to hope regardless, praying that they were left by something more substantial than a desert creature.

He followed the tracks down the large dune, sliding down the steep incline, his boots filling with sand and dirt. Finally he reached the edge of the ditch. He took a cautious breath, afraid of what he might find, before sliding himself down. A rattled breath caught in his ears. "Hi, Al."

Alfred couldn't look away from the pitiful body on the ground. Matthew's limp form was sprawled in the dirt, partially obscured by sand. He looked to be barely conscious, hooded eyes fluttering as a weak smile graced his features. "You came." His voice was dry, like the desert around them. He could barely hear it over the wind and the sand. He crawled closer to his brother's prone form, gently brushing the sand away from his legs to check the bullet wound. He sucked in a breath, his stomach threatening to empty itself at the sight. Matthew's pants were covered in blood. A small bandana had been sloppily tied over the wound, presumably to apply a meager amount of pressure and to keep the dirt from getting into the bloody hole.

He was about to undo the makeshift dressing and examine the wound when he realized Matthew's eyes had slipped closed. Stumbling slightly, he leaned over his brother's face, wrought with worry, slapping gently at his pale cheeks and praying for a response.

Matthew's eyes fluttered open again. "lemmie sleep. M'tired."

"No, no Mattie you're not, you're dehydrated." Upon receiving no response, Alfred opened his backpack, searching frantically before triumphantly pulling out a full canteen ad presenting it to his brother. Matthew made no move to take it. He had closed his eyes again, and Alfred realized that he would have to hurry: the idea of carrying a semi-conscious Matthew 10 kilometers to the base in the hot desert sun was not very appealing, to say the least. Fumbling to open his canteen, Alfred pressed the container to Matthew's lips, lifting his head and helping him drink. Matthew seemed to understand, or maybe he was simply too weak to care, as he allowed for a steady trickle of cool water to flow into his mouth. Once the water touched his dry palette however, his attitude changed. He greedily gulped down the life-giving water, uncaring if he spilt some over his chest. Once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. The water that he had craved so badly flowed freely down his throat, refreshing his tired body, bringing life back into what was once a living corpse. After the first few frenzied gulps, Alfred intervened, pulling the nozzle from his brother's lips and forcing him to take mid-sized sips. Soon Matthew had finished the canteen, and he turned eagerly to Alfred, silently pleading for more.

"Thanks."

Alfred smiled in return, before answering the unspoken question. "You can't have any more just yet." He continued on, ignoring Matthew's protests. "You drank that whole canteen in less than five minutes. If you try and drink another, you'll vomit, and we'll be right back where we started." Alfred frowned slightly before continuing, "And if you barf, I'm not cleaning you up. That's just gross."

Matthew let out a shaky laugh. "Thanks Al. I'm really feeling the love."

Alfred pretended to pout, "That's the thanks I get for sneaking out of the base and wandering through the desert at night to find you? You ingrate."

Matthew laughed before realizing the implications of his brother's words. "Wait. You snuck out of the base?"

"It's a long story," Alfred replied, sliding an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling him tight against his chest. "Just rest for a bit. We'll head back tonight and I'll tell you all about it."

Matthew mumbled a reply, his eyes already beginning to shut of their own accord. Soon he was asleep, wrapped safe in his brother's arms. Alfred smiled down at him, deciding to wait until he was properly asleep before checking his brother's wound. He hadn't admitted it, but Matthew looked like he had been through hell, and it scared him. Even now, with his warm weight (still a little too warm, he was going to need another drink soon) resting against his chest, he couldn't help but worry. This was the second time he hadn't been able to protect him. Stroking the sleeping blonde's hair gently and smiling slightly at the serene face pressed into his chest, he made a promise: he would protect his brother, and he would get him home.

He let Matthew rest for several hours, curled up in their corner of the desert, protected from the world. Neither brother noticed the distant echo of gunfire that drifted through the air.

A cool hand brushed Matthew's leg. Groaning in his sleep, he rolled away, attempting to burrow down into the dirt. Strong hands pulled him back, laying him on his back and pulling at his pants, gently untying the clumsy bandage around his bullet wound. His eyes fluttered open, the world slowly coming into focus before his tired eyes. He gazed around, confused and disoriented for a moment before his eyes landed on the shaking form of his brother, who was just beginning to unwrap the dirt and sweat encrusted bandanna from his leg.

"Al?" He mumbled questioningly, his voice sounding raspy and weak in his ears.

He reached for the backpack, groaning softly as Alfred stopped his ministrations for long enough to pull the heavy pack out of his reach. "I'm not going to let you have any yet."

Matthew whined in disappointment, pleading hopelessly for a sip, just a few drops, before gathering his strength and punching his brother in the arm, smirking in satisfaction as Alfred winced. "I've been stuck in the desert for two days, Al. Give me the water, and I'll try not to beat the living shit out of you, eh?"

Alfred laughed, tired and relieved, before pressing a new canteen to his brother's lips, allowing him to take a few greedy sips before replacing the cap and depositing the liquid far away from the Canadian's prying hands. "Man it's good to see some life in you. I was worried for a while there." He laughed nervously before continuing, "But I can't give you any more. I'm going to bandage your leg and I don't want you to throw it up if it gets too painful for you."

He reached for the backpack, withdrawing a small military-issue first aid kit. Snapping the tiny box open, he turned his attention back to Matthew, preparing to peel the blood-laden bandage off of the wound. His hands shook, knowing full well that whatever he found under the layer of crimson would not be pretty. He nervously rubbed his hands with an alcoholic wipe before glancing back to his brother's face; making sure he had not fallen unconscious. Feeling the calm violet eyes meet his own, he turned back to the wound, gripping the bandana firmly by the edges before pulling, wincing at the sound of sticky blood pulling at skin. The bandana seemed to be fused to his brother's thigh, each gentle tug yielding minimal results as the scarlet liquid seeped onto his hands, dying his fingers red. He could feel Matthew begin to shake, but he had yet to make a single sound, save for his faint, shaky breaths. Alfred was grateful. He knew that as soon as Matthew cried out, he wouldn't be able to continue.

Finally, he was able to pull the blood-soaked cloth away. What he saw took his breath away. He could feel his stomach heave at what lay underneath, the bile rising in his throat as thoughts of death and amputation raced through his mind. A bloody hole marred his brother's leg, and when he peered closer, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood and flesh, he could just barely see faint metallic flash of silver lodged in his reddened flesh. He slowly withdrew the canteen, panicked and nervous as he thought of the pain his brother would soon be in. If he had been stronger, more attentive, maybe he wouldn't have to do this. He cleaned the wound to the best of his ability, given the limited supplies in their position, pouring a steady stream of lukewarm water into the bloody mess. As he felt the canteen grow lighter, he stopped, reluctant to use any more of the precious liquid. He hurriedly reached for the medical supplies, fumbling hands grasping a tube of antiseptic and ripping the cap off. He poured a liberal amount onto the wound, jumping back as his brother let out a keening howl.

Alfred watched, too stunned to do anything as his brother screamed, a raw and haunting wail that echoed over the desert like the cries of the buzzards. Grabbing his knife, he cut a strip of cloth from the old tee shirt he wore under his coat. Twisting it into a neat roll, he forced it between his screaming brothers' teeth, ignoring the stabs of guilt at his brother's inability to acknowledge his presence through the pain.

Ignoring his brother's muffled sobs; Alfred turned his attention back to the bullet wound. He briefly contemplated pulling the bullet out, but decided against it, finding himself unable to cause his brother any more pain. He bound the leg in a thick layer of gauze, tying the bandage off neatly before rolling Matthew's camouflage pants back down to his ankles.

By this time his brother's agonized shrieks had been reduced to small whimpers, mixed in with the shaky breaths that escaped his parted lips. He spat the gag from his mouth, leaning back against the rough walls of the gully. "Water," he rasped, turning weakly to face Alfred. His brother dumbly complied, handing him the half-used canteen that lay in the dirt beside the first aid kit.

Matthew gulped down the rest of the canteen, teasing the last drops from the opening with the tip of his tongue before throwing the empty container in the dirt. "Thanks." He cracked a smile, motioning for Alfred to sit next to him. His brother continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly, giving no indication that he had heard him at all. Gradually, the older brother shifted his gaze to his hands, now stained a coppery red with Matthew's blood.

Matthew, finally understanding, leaned forward and pulled his brother towards him, gripping tighter when he tried to pull away. Alfred ended up positioned awkwardly on Matthew's good leg, refusing to move or even look at his brother. Matthew pulled him into a hug, reaching one hand up to stroke his hair and nuzzling his cheek gently. "It's alright Al. I'm okay." Alfred grunted out a response, still refusing to meet Matthew's worried gaze. Matthew sighed, cupping his brother's chin and forcing him to look up into his eyes. "Alfred, you know just as well as I do that I've been hurt way worse. Remember back in Montreal, when we used to play hockey? I'd come home injured every day then."

Alfred let a small smile slip across his face. "Yeah, I guess. But this is different. You got shot Mattie. Shot. I can't just let that go."

Matthew grinned, hugging his brother tightly. "You saved me Al. I should be the one feeling bad, not you. So quit your whining or I'll run back to the base this instant, and leave you here to rot."

Alfred laughed, trying to envision Arthur's reaction to Matthew leaving his brother in the desert. Then he frowned, suddenly realizing how much trouble they'd be in when they got back. "Aw man, eyebrows is going to kill me!"

"Why?" Came the puzzled response.

"Well, you know how I said I snuck out of the base to find you?"

"Yeah.."

"Well, I kind of had a but of a fight with the Sergeant before I left."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You're screwed, you know that right?"

Soon both brothers were laughing, the easy laughter echoing over the dunes. Alfred was just calming down when Matthew stilled, his eyes sharp and alert as he looked toward the horizon. Alfred stared at his brother, perplexed at the sudden change in emotion. "What's wrong Mattie?"

Matthew pointed in the direction of the base, fear beginning to creep into his eyes. "Alfred, what's that?" His voice wavered.

Alfred turned to see what was causing his brother so much distress. A large column of smoke was steadily rising into the darkening sky.

So this is a little longer than the last two, so that's good. Sorry about all the dialogue, by the way. I know I promised more action in this chapter, but I couldn't really do much if Mattie was going to die. And I really don't want to portray him as the weak little brother who's always in need of rescue.

*Also, I don't know if buzzards actually live in Afghanistan.

Anyway, comment if you see anything wrong, or if you have any ideas for what's going to happen next (I don't really plan this out...the words just sort of come. Sorry about that.)
-Meg