Nostalgia

Alfred's birthday was creeping closer. When England asked him to come over, he didn't question it. Probably, an early present, Arthur liked to keep the exchange private most of the time. Although sometimes, Arthur will direct attention away from it some other way. He remembered the sucker punch quite well, and the picture underneath or rather a miniaturized painting. Of course, he's five then. It's the ideal age Arthur remembered him by, back when he was a good boy. The two were together and smiling. America wondered if England simply ignored the reason for the birthday in the first place. No matter if Arthur said he felt like shit during Alfred's birthday week.

Frankly, Alfred does not care. He won't tear up, but he's up thinking about those times and the one's that followed the rest of the night, long after the others gifts were played with, put away, or disregarded as the case may be. So, he came over and sat down. For a minute, he remembered the cursed chair. There's no tape so it's probably cool. The thing's rickety anyway, fell apart every time Russia sat on it.

England asked if he wanted tea.

No.

England sighed. Coffee?

You actually have some?

Do you want it or not you twat?

Yup.

He left with the usual thinly veiled frustration on his face. The eyebrows make it hard to hide, the way they tilt down like a sinking ship. And he's always frowning, it's taken America years to figure out when to honestly be concerned by it. A few minutes pass, he gets bored. Alfred tilted his chair back. Normally, he tried not to do such things out of his house, but it's only England's house anyway. England's broken plenty of his stuff in the past. Alfred finally took a good look at the floor. It's glaringly obvious now. There's a hexagram. He should get up. Not that he believed any of England's rubbish about magic . . . he doesn't really.

England came back with a cup of coffee. Alfred sat back down and took the coffee when England handed it over. For all he knew, Arthur was only summoning a unicorn or some other nonsense. Or, Alfred's favorite rationalization, it's decorative.

"Is there something wrong?" England sat across from him, and the clock ticking was more apparent with him staring. He tried not to look down.

"Nah, just stretching," he said with a farm boy's smile. It's been a long time since he was one, but some of his people were still farm boys so he pulled it off alright. England seemed to buy it from how Alfred twitched afterwards.

"All right," England said. They drank their respective drinks in silence. Alfred ate the accompanying scone today. England stood first. Oh good, Arthur's getting to the point.

"I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come," Britain said, taking out a book from a nearby shelf. It had a hexagram on it too. If this were a horror film, this would be the point where he hung on to Japan for dear life. (Japan wasn't really up for much these days though.)

"Y-yea- yeah," he said, without much of his usual bravado. England smirked and looked down.

"And why there's a hexagram on the floor," he acknowledged briefly. It's official. England's gone mad from lack of sleep and torturous day dreams.

Yet, he wouldn't put a curse on America. If anything, as a kid, Arthur had taught Alfred how to defend himself against magic. Never had he been a victim of it, and he'd certainly tried England's patience more than once. Why not then if he really wanted? That and America's birthday's coming up. He would have to be a heartless demon to trick him on his birthday. So, he stayed in the chair against his better judgement.

"A little," he admitted, clinging to the arms rest tighter than he should.

"I've thought a lot of when exactly things went wrong for me," he's looking away from him. He could escape. However, England admitted something went wrong. Arthur does not admit things are/were going wrong.

"At first I blamed France but I survived that," he said with a shake of his head. There's a silent agreement that it's confidential information. Alfred's stomach knotted. He knew what came next. It's not really guilt, but it not a happy feeling. England's gaze was hard as he circled him. He's heard this speech many times before, but never when he's clear headed, and he doesn't take it seriously when he's drunk.

" I realized that it was you. You were the first step in my downfall," He pointed to him. Alfred kind of wished that he would have just punched him in the face again this year.

"Everything's okay with us now. Isn't it?" He thought they were. His history with Japan proved that he can't always know. His skull was too thick sometimes to realize. It's only after the fact that he sees the signs. He can never back down. It's this instinct that made him who he was, and he had dealt with the consequences of it. In the end, America stood alone (while occasionally pestering Canada.)

"Yes, but your birthday always forces me to look back," the face wasn't hostile, far from it. It mirrored what he'd seen before. What still sometimes bothered Alfred through his impenetrable field of awesome was the longing he would sometimes see in Arthur's eyes. It would remind him that he hasn't forgotten when he did used to call him Engwand.

Arthur began to chant. He had somehow changed into his black robe and has a semi-murderous look on his face. The one that darkened his face and the whole room as a consequence. The hexagram glowed underneath him, and Alfred can't ignore it anymore. The time to make snide remarks about it all being special effects was over, better safe than sorry. A tiny part of him thought he sort of felt something, like he's getting lighter and more unfocused, he loosened his grip on the chair. The feeling bubbled up in his chest, like he was on morphine again, or (cough) something else in the sixties, The sky outside was real pretty. No, freaky ancient ritual, he must run.

"That's it. I'm splitting," he said, bolting up. England continued to read the text without bothering to restrain him. Alfred ran smack into a green light, a solid- sci fi esque- barrier.

"Ow, magic force field," he said and rubbed his head. He's shrinking, but his country fine which was both a relief and truly frightening because then, this wasn't even natural. Meaning, he should have paid more attention when England explained how to counteract curses. His calculations for how to escape were getting simpler as well, from using fists to smash past the force field to cry until England let him out.

"Engwand, why'd you'd lock me up" Alfred cried. Arthur shushed him, and he listened. There was a brief flutter of joy that rose from him. He's missed that. He closed the book and put it away. Arthur took off his robe. There was a marginal increase in his speed as he went to pick the child up. He's romanticized the moment far too much. America's heavy even at this age, albeit mostly by muscle at this point. Arthur had to struggle to lift him, but when he does, the touch was restrained to simply holding him aloft, mostly for the sake of feeling the familiar weight of years past.

His eyes were watering, but really, it's from making America's blasted coffee. The tiny hands clutched Arthur's shirt. He can feel Alfred shake a little from the last few minutes, but by all appearances, he was exactly as he was before at this age. Arthur drew a blank. What exactly did he expect to accomplish now that he has gotten this far? The idea, the very dangerous idea had come to him on a whim,(fevered dream, actually), and he'd found the spell easily enough. Truthfully, he hadn't expected America to hold still long enough for him to cast it. He supposed the added force field hadn't exactly been tactically fair on his part.

Oh and the bloody other countries were bound to find fault with it or take advantage of it. No nation had been this small in years, and Sealand didn't count. America's upcoming birthday wouldn't help matters as all eyes would be on him. Alfred had sent invitations well in advance with obnoxious pop up art with lady liberty on it. He kind of hated the thing. Stupid France.

"Arthur, I came to cheer you up during your revolutionary period," Frenchmen waltzed in and immediately ground to a halt.

"You ass, I'm fine. Go away," Damn. The blond git saw him. Stupid France.

France was probably thinking the same of him. Francis's mouth hung open. He dropped the pastries that he brought, one was shaped like America's land mass, another was Americas flag, and the others equally as patriotic. Stupid France.

"What. . . Did . . . You . . . Do?" he said in that overly dramatic way of his. America had dosed off since being picked up. Arthur absently stroked his hair.

"Well, I drank some tea this morning and," England sputtered off. France slapped him. England took it, mostly because he didn't want to let go of the boy just yet.

"No, to America. How is this even possible?" France gestured to the boy. Arthur looked down. France followed his gaze to the painted hexagram on the floor. France slapped his forehead.

"Sacre Bleu! Magique? Idiot fini, Angleterre," France muttered.

England put the boy down on a nearby chair. Arthur turned back to Francis. It didn't matter if Arthur thought he might have acted rashly, but he would not allow Francis to call him out on it.

"Hey, I know what I'm doing. I've raised him once. I can do it again." For each nation's mysterious origin, all of which seemed to follow the delivered by a stork theory, they all weren't technically needed for the land to function. Prussia had also proven that they didn't need the land to function either although they were prone to . . . disappearing after. The countries were simply interlinked to their land. The land reacted to their sorrow, and the nations' reacted to their peoples' pain. Really, he wasn't hurting anyone.

"You already raised him just fine England," France said still unbelieving.

"Yeah well, I . . ." There was a crash in the kitchen.

"At least remember, he's stronger now than he was then, and you've made him a five year old," France said with a fair bit of amusement. Stupid France.

Arthur checked. Alfred broke his old tea set.

"Bloody perfect," England muttered.