Come on, Baby, Light my Fire

/w
     Canada was nervous; America could tell. Of course, nobody else seemed to notice, but America did. Throughout the meeting, he frequently glanced at his brother, as if trying to discern what was bothering him. Several times, he caught Canada also sneaking a glance at him.
Alfred was both anxious for and dreading the end of the meeting. But whether it did or not was out of control (at least, it was if he wanted to avoid angering the rest of the world, whether it be by drawing out the meeting and angering most of his fellow Nations or by abruptly ending it and annoying Germany), and the meeting eventually came to a close. With a quick glance to his brother, America could tell that Canada didn't seem thrilled about that, which was strange. Why wouldn't Canada want the meeting to end? America didn't think any of the Nations particularly enjoyed meetings - not even Germany.
America lingered more than usual, taking longer to pack up his paperwork and other miscellaneous things because his brother seemed to be delaying something as well. It seemed as if Canada was trying to prolong the inevitable. America tapped his foot as he waited.
America finally stood when he saw Canada finally walking over to him.
"Hey, Alfred," Canada said with an attempt towards his usual soft smile. There was sadness behind his eyes.
"Hey, Mattie!" America decided to just keep his usual demeanor, at least for a little while.
"Can we... talk? Privately?" Canada asked. America toned down his expression, but still kept a smile. He knew that Canada knew it was a bit forced.
"Of course! Lead the way!"
Canada started leading his brother to a different meeting room - one where Nations weren't lingering after the meeting. The walk was completely silent and quite tense. America nervously chewed on the inside of his mouth, still not knowing what the whole ordeal could possibly be about. Canada seemed to be just as nervous.
Finally, they made it to the end of their never-ending walk. They walked into the room and America leaned on the table, placing both of his hands on the edge of it. (Somewhere in the back of his mind, his CIA training nagged at him to not do that, but he ignored it.) Canada stood in front of him, but avoided eye contact.
There were a few seconds of silence before America decided to just rip off the bandaid and get whatever it was Canada wanted to talk about started.
"So..."
"Why did you do it?" Americas eyes widened, both at the bluntness and in confusion.
"What?"
"Why did you burn York?" Canada spoke intensely, but wasn't yelling. "It's just... I know it's been two hundred years, and I know it doesn't really matter anymore, and I know the world has moved on, but... I need to know, Alfred. I need to know why you did it."
Alfred swallowed. There were a few moments of silence for both of them to process everything that was happening. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of tense breathing and avoiding eye contact for the both of them, America remembered how to form sentences.
"I... First of all, it does matter. It... it does. I don't think either of us will forget that. And, uhh... Second of all..." America struggled to find the right words, the right tone of voice. In truth, there was no right way for the conversation they had been delaying for centuries. "Matt... I wasn't there."
     Canada's breathing stuttered and his eyes widened. They finally made eye contact. For once, America's eyes showed not those of the nineteen-year-old who loved people and himself but, rather, those of the four hundred-something-year-old Nation that, since independence, had had less than twenty years of peace.
"I mean," he continued, "I was at the Battle of York, but... I wasn't one of the ones who burnt anything. The troops had orders not to destroy civilian property, but 200 men, including General Pike, were killed in that explosion... they were angry. But, Mattie, I never burnt anything, or... or anything! War is war, but..." Both brothers had tears forming in their eyes. Canada was ridden with something akin to guilt.
"I - I thought - I just assumed - I mean..." Canada was at a loss for words.
"Were..." America took a breath. "Tell me, were you there?" Canada could only look him in the eyes for a second before he had to look away at the floor, guilt that he hadn't acknowledged in years making more tears fall. That told America all he needed to know, but still, Canada wanted to say it, however difficult. His brother, despite all of his faults, deserved that much. After all, there was no Nation who was faultless.
"I was... I just - I thought - I mean..." He paused, trying to remember how to form sentences that expressed his thoughts. "I was angry."
Neither of them spoke for a minute, maybe more. Neither new. They both were hyperaware of their respective scars and how the material of their undershirts rubbed against them. America found that even after a few minutes, he had found nothing to say. So instead, he pushed himself off the table, to Canada's confusion, and closed the space in between them. He wrapped his arms around his brother, careful not to crush him but still holding him tight. Canada reciprocated quickly.
That wound would always be there between them, but, as they held each other and cried in the others arms, it didn't feel as bad. They both knew the conversation had long been overdue anyway.