He wants to stay out of this war.
He does, he really does!
America is tired of fighting. It's funny, really, how everyone seems to think he loves jumping into a fight, when he actually tries to keep away from it.
Maybe they're confusing him with Prussia.
America doesn't like war. It kills too many people, and hurts too many others.
Yes, he really wants to stay out of this war.
He tries to stay neutral.
It's not easy. He's already been at war with Germany once, and obviously England and America are allies, always, but he can't choose a side because then he'll have to fight.
So he justifies it by saying they were to harsh on Germany, and England is a tough nation, and his people accept his excuses because they don't want war either.
America really does try.
He feels bad, though, for the others.
He tries to pretend he can't see the problems, but it's hard.
Canada enters the war right at the start, and America tries to ignore the fact that Mattie, his brother, is sending out his people and getting slaughtered; that Mattie is the one getting more thin and worn out every time he sees him. He turns a blind eye to the usually silent nation's reproachful look, and feels sick when he does so. He avoids the news, but of course he can hardly ignore it, so he tries to pretend that it's exaggerated. It's either their people or his, he thinks, trying to reassure himself, but it only makes it worse, and Matthew's gaze is following him, saying: Some hero that is.
It makes him feel like a coward.
They all fell quickly, too quickly, making America scared, because they were supposed to be strong.
First Poland, taken, stunned, and America wondered, is that really the invincible Poland? Because Poland got taken over and over but he never fell, and here he was, not even having the time to defend himself. Prussia had done a good job of training his bruder, and Hitler, it seemed, was making good use of that.
He can't say he's surprised when France and England go to war, nor even when South Africa, New Zealand, Australia and Canada follow suit, because they're all strong, in different ways, and they're all brave, too. Russia joins next, on the other side, and America grits his teeth because he's never liked or trusted him.
Everything happens fast, and he sees the Baltics fall, and Japan turn on China, and the USSR expelled from the League, and Poland is still fighting. Then there's the Sitzkrieg, as Germany calls it, and America is hopeful, because maybe it won't actually be that bad? Maybe they won't fight too much?
Then Denmark and Norway fall, too, and his heart sinks. With Norway, he falters, because Hitler seems unstoppable. Then Netherlands and Belgium fall, and that causes an even bigger pang because New York, and he can see them both in his mind, clearly. America wishes there was some way to meet up with them, the nations of Europe, because he hasn't seen them since the start of the war, but he also doesn't, for the same reasons. If Canada looks like he does, then how do they look?
France falls, and America is worried, really worried, because after France there's England and then nothing. He can't sleep for weeks.
Of course he's been twisting rules for years now, and his neutrality rule's been tampered with to allow him trade with the Allies, but he can't enter, because no more war. By nineteen forty, Britain has no money left. America comes to a halt. England cannot fall, he thinks feverishly, and there might definitely be more than politics to it, namely Canada's eyes just looking at him and England from so long ago and France in chains and someone crying, so he rushes out of the hotel room he's been staying in and into the White House, and nearly cries in relief when no one objects. So the Lend-Lease is signed, and Britain gets weapons, and his phone rings urgently the following morning. "Thank you,"the cracked voice whispers, "Thank you, Alfred." Then the phone whirs, cut off, because England's always been a whirlwind of emotions and pride is one of them.
And England did not fall then.
In nineteen forty-one there's the Mediterranean Wars and Hitler marching on Russia. It's Hitler now, for him, not Germany, because when he says Germany he thinks of blazing red eyes telling him of Old Fritz and the great yet noble nation he would build, and he can't add that to this monster nation marching and raping and pillaging as he goes. There's still hope, though, because Moscow and Stalingrad are still Allied powers, and the Russian resistance has not been broken. America has to admit that he's impressed with the snowy country.
Something about Japan irks him. His attack plan is too blood-thirsty, and he's too shifty, too...
He hates catching a glimpse of him because it reminds him that the war can reach him too, and the creepy brown eyes scanning him make him feel targeted. The strain in their relations is only worsening by the second, and the sanctions keep upgrading. As Japan sets his eyes on more and more neighbouring countries, America feels more and more ill. It's coming, he knows it.
Pearl Harbour. He won't talk about Pearl Harbour. It's sly, and efficient, and it hurts like nothing he had ever felt before. And so his rage is awoken, and he screams out, and knowing the time has come he flies to Europe.
He can't think straight for the entire trip, his thoughts jumbling and scrambling and Japan war bombs boats deaths revenge pain soldiers army Allies Axis stop yes no and he couldn't tell you a single thing about it until the point where he reached the meting room.
He knocks, steps in, hesitating suddenly, mind sharp and cleared of all thoughts, and as he opens the door time freezes and his gaze sweeps across the room. China, the newest ally, sitting betrayed and battle-weary in his chair, gaze filled with too many memories. He was there when Rome was great, America thinks, and blanches. France's chair is empty yet clean, an unsaid hope of return. Poland has managed to get here, for once slipping through the iron grasp of his enemies, and his hair is matted with blood, his body bruised and his eyes burning, and America thinks, oh God. There are several others, over which his glance sweeps, because he is looking for someone, and several empty chairs, which he can't help but notice. He stops at Australia, who is oh so very tired, and whose grim traits show that he is too used to this. New Zealand, clutching the brunet's hand, looks much the same, but even more worn, because he is such a small nation. Canada meets his gaze, and looks like he wants to walk out of the window and get it over with, so America passes on to South Africa, whose dulled green eyes are fixing the Netherlands' empty chair. She's even younger than he is, America thinks, and feeling even sicker than he did before, his eyes skip to the end of the table, where the last nations sit.
Wales, brown hair a mess, is gripping the table as if to stop himself from falling over, and even now he manages to smile tiredly at the blonde nation. Ireland is staring into space, red hair spilling over her skinny arms, and her body seems to be twitching by itself. Her brother is doodling all over a paper, equally shut off, and from where he's standing, America's pretty sure it's bombs and dead bodies. Scotland matches his siblings, thinner and more fragile than America's ever seen him; gripping his forehead with his jaw clenched.
Then there's England.
Hair messy, hands trembling, clothes over-large, face grimy, bloodied England.
England with the green eyes looking straight at him, so raw that he feels like ripping them off just to stop them from looking at him.
England who, even as he tries with all his might to stand alone, screams help me I'm dying by just sitting there.
Alfred feels like sobbing.
Instead he opens his mouth as the room turns to him and says: "We're going to win this war."
He believes it, too. Because there is no way in hell that he is ever seeing those eyes again.