Fake (Hetalia: FrUkUs)

.20.

"Good morning, Alfred," Arthur met me outside, and he smiled sweetly as he took my hand. Francis walked with us, not so much a third wheel as one might expect. We all talked as we walked, our voices pitched low.

I would go to the cemetery first, to pay respects to my brother. I normally did this with my mother, the one time a year we got along, but that obviously wasn't the case this year.

"Alfred, it's up ahead," Arthur's whisper pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up to see the graveyard beginning on the next block. I squeezed his hand tightly, and I felt Francis place his hand on my shoulder. We approached the large iron gates, which were propped open, and I paused for a moment before stepping in. Leaves that had fallen on the ground blew around in the wind, littering grave stones and skipping across the stone path.

"It's this way," I muttered and lead them along a path of stones. My eyes darted from gravestone to gravestone, gray to marble, engraved to empty, sharp to bald; they were all so different, but they were all the same thing. A memorial to the dead.

Matthews grave sat at the end of a long row of graves, his headstone set in the ground. It was white, and his name was raised, instead of engraved, along with his birth and death dates. The inscription however, was carved deeply.

"Young child who has returned to God's arms, let the Angels be your family, and your memories be your past"

I hated the inscription.

My mother had chosen it, not accepting anything me or my father suggested, not accepting anything that would have actually had meaning. No, she wanted to show what a good mother she was to her friends, show that she had a sweet heart for the Lord, despite knowing Matthew wouldn't have liked any of it. But, her appearance was all she had left now. Her child was gone.

I knelt down and brushed stray leaves from the head stone, letting my fingers trail over his name.

"Alfred," I stiffened up. Arthur placed a hand on my shoulder as I stood and turned to face my Father. He stood behind us in a fresh pressed suit and holding flowers. He looked sober, but I could tell he was still fighting a hangover.

As a child, this man had been my hero. I had looked up to him, I had loved him. Why did that have to change?

I met his eyes defiantly, and he stared back, but only for a moment. He quickly dropped his gaze, and then switched it to Arthur.

"It's good to see you again, Arthur," He nodded.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Jones," He said as he reached down to take my hand, squeezing it supportively. I changed the position and intertwined our fingers. My dad was quick to notice, and his eyes returned to my own, and a small smile graced his lips.

"I, uh-Congratulations," He said unsure. I didn't reply. He quickly turned his eyes, that which matched my own, to the last person of our small party. "I'm afraid I don't know you," He frowned.

"Francis Bonnefoy," The blond stepped forward and held out his hand with a welcoming smile, "I'm a friend of Alfred's."

I watched, as my father sized the Frenchman up and a smile grew on his lips. My stomach flipped and my mind raced uneasily. Before my father could take hold of francis' outstretched hand, I grabbed him by his arm and pulled him to me, catching him and holding him steady as Francis fell off balance and then dropping my hold on him as I quickly stepped forward to face my confused father. He obviously hadn't been able to follow what had just happened, just now realizing that Francis stood behind me and not where he had a few seconds earlier. His mind was too slow.

"You're drunk." He wasn't just hung over, as I had originally thought, he wasn't still a bit buzzed from an obvious night of drinking. He was completely, piss-in-a-can, passed-out-on-a-curb, inebriated.