Translations at bottom of story.
A thumb and forefinger pushed the thin-rimmed glasses up to his eyebrow so watery eyes could be rubbed. Burning nose and blurred vision halted Alfred's attempt to, once again, try and clear his cluttered attic. But, as soon as he attempted to put an object in a trash bag, a world of emotions would come flooding back, creating a painful tightness in his chest and cause a hitch in his breath.
He moved from where he was crouching in the middle of the floor, to a small corner, where he sat and began to rummage through a small collection of wooden soldiers. The faces were worn and painted coats were chipping off. His breath became more ragged and the water that had originally just rimmed around his lids welled up, before spilling down his cheeks. The more he fought the tears, the harder they came.
The one nation that loved him.
The one nation that had really cared for him.
Now nothing more than a stranger, after the bitter separation.
Slowly he placed the figurines in their original box and curled his legs to his chest, letting his face fall to his knees. Why did he do it? Why was he so stubborn, hot headed, impulsive? He could have just waited, worked it out, but no, he went into a war. He pushed away the last person who really cared for him.
A sob ripped from his chest and he curled up tighter.
His brother on the other hand – his brother did everything right. Sure, he may not be well-known, but he certainly wasn't hated. He didn't have the 'annoying as hell' reputation Alfred had made for himself. His relationship with Francis was still just as strong as when he was a child – and even his relationship with Arthur was tight, nothing like what he and his formerly older-brother have now.
Was it inevitable, though?
Would he have rebelled, no matter the situation he had?
What if he had chosen Francis over Arthur all those years ago?
Would he have fought? Or would he have ended up like Matthew – unnoticed- but unhated?
He let out a quiet sigh, before standing up, slowly brushing the dust off of himself. This was it – he'd stop feeling sorry for himself and he'd do something. He'd man up and apologize, he'd fix their relationship and win back the heart of the man who once cared for him.
xXx
"I don't have time for you right now, America." The door was shut on his face before Alfred could open his mouth.
Blue eyes stared at the door, lips parted, mouth ajar. He felt as though a heavy weight had just been dropped on his back, slowly applying pressure. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, all he could do was stare. Stare at the door between him and the man he loved, the man who once loved him. The man he had traveled across the world to talk to, to plead to, to befriend – and just like that, he was shot down.
All he could do was stand there and let the tears fall.
Despite the hot sun that beat down from the sky, he felt a cold wave pass over and through him. It gripped at his heart and squeezed.
Slowly, numbly, he turned, making his way out of the Englishman's yard and towards the sidewalk. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care. He just wanted to be gone, be as far away from Arthur as he could, he wanted to run away and leave behind everything – all his fears and insecurities – all his would haves and should haves - all the problems that plagued him. He wanted to run away from his life and all the misery it caused him. He wanted to go back – back before he was colonized. He wanted to do it over; maybe he could make a different choice, a better choice.
It took him several minutes before he had become aware that his walk had led him to the front steps of a house.
His gaze flickered from the potted plants that hung from the porch- long ropes of vine sweeping over the rim of the pot, to the elegant drapes behind the window, before finally settling on the perfectly painted and unchipped door.
He reached out, hand feeling ten times heavier, before gently wrapping his knuckles against the door, once, twice, three times. He dropped his hand back down to his side, the limb hanging uselessly, fingers slightly curled.
The time before Alfred knocking and the door being answered was half a minute, if that – but to the American, it felt like an hour.
Finally, the door opened, revealing just who Alfred had been searching for, "Je ne peux pas le croire —Alfred, what are you doing here?"
Francis had been startled by the sudden visit from the American, but it took him only a few seconds to register something was very wrong with the young man. His eyes were bloodshot, tears stained his sun-kissed cheeks and his clothing a wrinkled mess, but the thing that stood out the most was his expression. Numb. There wasn't anything there, that usual spark in the blue eyes – completely gone.
"I choose you."
Francis blinked several times at the statement, going over it in his head, unsure of what the man was going on about, "excusez-moi? What are you sa-"
"I choose you – as-as my older brother. I choose you." France was taken aback by the way Alfred spoke to him, interrupting someone was something Mathieu would never have done, while Matty was quiet and respectful, Alfred would do and say whatever he wanted – making sure everybody who was in ear-shot would hear his opinion. It was something he hated and loved about the boy.
A bit of emotion returned to the young American's face, a flash of pain that disappeared as quickly as it came.
"Ah…" His eyes softened and a gentle sigh had left him. "...Alfred – you can't just…change your mind after all these years- you must realize, that was a very long time ago…"
Alfred stepped forward, shaking his head quickly, the tears returning to his burning eyes. "No! Don't say that! I choose you – please, France… I-I don't want-" He wasn't sure what he was saying, what he wanted to say. "…Please."
Francis continued to study the boy, lips thinning for a moment as he took in the ragged nation. Slowly, he reached out, gathering the sobbing boy into his arm and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "So be it…" He gently pulled the other into the house, closing the door behind him.
They made their way into the living room and Alfred was set on the couch, Francis standing over him with his hands gently gripping the other's shoulders. "Alfred…Look at me."
Slowly, the head lifted and their eyes met.
The world around them melted.
No longer were they in France's elegant living room, but the field where they first met. The chandelier with its' expensive crystals and golden finishing's, formed into the bright sun, lighting up the amber fields. The maroon sofa, cinched with silk-wrapped buttons, replaced itself with a modest stump of what was once a tree.
"I choose you."
That fascination, that want, that need to have this modest colony– the feeling he had when he first laid eyes on this country returned and a gentle smile graced Francis' lips, before he finally spoke.
"Je suis amoureux."
"M'apprécies-tu…?"
"Je t'apprécie vraiment."
Thin arms wrapped around Alfred's shoulders and a stubble-graced chin ran alongside his cheek. "You're my little brother…" He breathed, closing his eyes. "-And I'll protect you, no matter what."
Je ne peux pas le croire. - I don't believe it.
Excusez-moi? - Excuse me?
Je suis amoureux. – I love somebody/I am in love.
M'apprécies-tu…? – Do you love me…? (Though this is the literal translation, the way this is said means more 'strongly care' than love and is generally used for close friends and relatives. )
Je t'apprécie vraiment. – I love you. (Again, this means more "I care for you" than "I love you." )
Authors Note:
I know to a lot of people it may seem strange that America seems to fluent (or atleast somewhat) in France, but since the U.S. doesn't have a set language, I feel it's appropriate he would know different ones from around the world.