Not America; I'm Alfred Jones

August 18th, 1791

"America!" England shouted, opening the door to the old, familiar house.

It'd been a little over 17 years since he had last set food in this house; he'd been gone ever since he had won the war America had started. What was it... the "American Revolution"? No matter; England had won, and now America was his forever—that was the agreement between the two.

"America!...Are you here?" England cautiously hung his trench coat on the coat rack. "America?"

England looked to the left as he heard quick footsteps echo off the stairs. He smiled brightly, anxious to see his little brother's face. The smile quickly faded, however, when two feet stopped in front of him. England stared into lively blue eyes, hidden behind spectacles. He stared and stared, as if searching for the young boy somewhere behind the azure orbs.

"..A...merica?" he spluttered out, taking a step back in surprise. In front of him, a man clear into his thirties. The man had square glasses, but the same eyes. He had a short blonde mustache, but the same nose above it, and the same lips below it. His hair was slicked back—quite fashionably, England admits—but it was the same color.

The same smile presented itself, wrinkling the skin on the man's cheeks. "...England. You came back!" The same voice... It can't be...

"Wh-why, A-America," England started, regaining his senses. "You... you still grow up fast... d-don't you?"

The man—who was indeed 'America'—shuffled on his feet nervously, a habit he got whenever England brought up his growth rate.

"I suppose," he shrugged. "...How long as it been? England? Fifteen years? Twenty?"

"...Somewhere between then, yes..."

The two men—one of them thirty-five, the other twenty—stared at each other. The thirty-five year old's smile slowly faded, and he opened his wide arms to the younger.

"...Well? Don't I get a hug, England?"

England hesitated, but walked into the other man's embrace, his chin resting comfortably on the man's shoulder.

"...You've gotten taller." They pulled away.

"And fatter," 'America' joked. "...Why are you back?"

England coughed into his fist. "Right... The king would wish to talk to you, America. Something about th—"

"Whoa, whoa," he stopped England, holding up a hand. "You'll have to go talk to go talk to someone else about that. I haven't kept up on who's in charge anymore, but I'm sure you can find them in New York somewhere."

Thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "...What? What are you talking about? I've always come to you for things like this. Why shouldn't I? You're basically in charge of land over there; you're ...well, you're America."

The other man averted his eyes to the floor. His face flushed, and a look of raw sadness appeared on his lips.

"...I was America, England..." Those quiet words escaped tight lips.

"What are you talking about?"

"...When I lost independence," 'America' started, his eyes flashing to meet his big brother's eyes for a second. "...I... When my country lost, I was merely a colony again... but under difference circumstances. The agreement we signed, instead of being taxed greatly... was to remain with you forever."

England still looked bewildered, so 'America' continued. But first, the American led him to sit on the couch that England had bought for the house, so many years ago.

"...England... Unless we break the treaty—which is very unlikely, considering the country's still weak...Unless we break the treaty, America will never be a country. Just colonies..." He paused. "I know some colonies can usually be the same as regular countries, but... not all of them."

"What...are you getting at?" England could very much guess what the man was getting at, but needed to ask, just to make sure. Still, his heart was loud in his ears and tight in his chest.

Sad eyes greeted worried ones.

"...I'm not America anymore," the man sighed, his voice soft and threatening to break. "...I'm Alfred Jones..."

England let the information sink in. England had custody and rule over the land. He thought... He had thought for sure that meant America would stay forever. But... he's human now?

"...England?"

England looked at Amer—Alfred. He swallowed the rock in his throat before speaking. "I... I'm sorry..."

Alfred smiled a little, shrugging it off as if it were nothing. "...It's okay... I mean... it happens?"

England and Alfred sat in silence, and it took two minutes for the Brit to get up and go sit by the ex-colony. Limber arms wrapped themselves tightly around strong shoulders.

"...I'm sorry," he whispered again. Everything slowly started to sink in, so coldly it made them both shudder.

"...England?"

"...yeah?"

"...Is it okay if you stay here? Or visit often?... It's not like last time. You can stay away for twenty years and expect me to only grow a little..."

"..I know..."

"...Come back every two? At most?"

"...yeah..."

"...England?"

"...hm?"

"...I promise... I promise to stay with you forever... Okay?"

England couldn't speak. He hugged his little brother tightly, getting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"...I'm sorry, England..."

March 2, 1848

A young man wept bitterly beside the deathbed of an old friend. A very, very old friend—he had just turned seventy-two, and suffered a heart attack. The two had known each other since nearly 1607. They had loved each other as brothers, both of them unaging for two hundred years. However, the older friend had lost his immortality while his friend kept his. The Brit had to watch his good friend, his little brother, decline and fall deeper into the pits of immortality. It had all happened too fast for him—now the little boy he had found over two hundred years ago was now taking his last breaths.

"...Alfred... Please, Alfred... Don't go... I... I'll make America a country again! I'll break the treaty, I'll talk to the King... Please..."

"England," the old voice quivered. "...It's okay..Even if you did it right now... the chances of the country being born as someone different... they're too high." Alfred's thing lips slowly curved into a smile. "...I'll be alright."

A shaky hand reached up to dry round cheeks.

"...If it'll make you feel better, I won't fight with your King up in heaven."

England smiled at Alfred's dry, badly-timed humor.

"...I... I'll go get the others," he said quickly, standing up. He squeezed Alfred's wrinkled hands before letting go. "Just stay there. France and Prussia and Canada all of them are waiting just outside..."

Alfred nodded and let the country leave. As soon as he stepped outside, England stood still. France, Prussia, Canada, and a few more (Finland, Sweden, and Spain) where indeed there, and let England calm down before one of them spoke up.

"...Is it time?" the small Canada asked. It had been just as bad for him, considering the two were actually related, not as the type of "brothers" countries called themselves when they formed allies.

"...Yeah..."

France patted England on the back before he went into the room, and as did the rest of them. Spain stopped in front of his rival, pulling him into a friendly hug.

"I'm sorry, mi amigo..." Spain whispered, patting the other man's back. Pulling back, he walked into the room as well.

England stood there for a little while more, bracing himself for what was sure to come next. However, when he walked back in, everyone else was already ready to leave. Alfred still laid there, eyes closed and chest still. England had missed it. But in a way, he was glad that he wasn't there. He didn't like that he let Alfred die without him there... but seeing the light leave his friend's eyes would have been too much.

Nonetheless, England walked to stand behind Canada, whose head was on Alfred's chest, sobbing quietly. Tears escaped England's own eyes, but he managed to keep his sense. All but France and Canada left the colonies (the actual land), keeping England company as he spoke to the doctor and undertaker. They helped drag a drunken England to the funeral, and helped drag him out again. Canada returned home, and left France to take care of his neighbor.

"...France?" England asked, speech slurred, on the boat home. "...Am I a horrible big brother?"

"...Non... You are a good big brother... You stayed with him, forever, like you said you would," France told him calmly. "...You were there for him. You are a good big brother... ...You know what he told me?"

"Hm?"

"...He told me that if anyone could have his land, his old body... He was glad it was you."

March 2, 2013

England kissed the small bouquet of flowers before setting it down on the grass. He stood erect, staring at the name time slowly eroded away. All that was legible on the granite tombstone was "Jones", "Soldier", and "—1848".

"...I'm sorry... Alfred... I still blame myself to this day..." His tears were long dried out, and the pain had dulled. Nonetheless, the guilt was still heavy on his heart.

"...I'm still looking after you, though. Don't worry... You're as great today as you were yesterday. You're treated well and you're the 'hero' you always talked of being... I'm sorry you're not here to see it.."

He recited one of the boy's favorite quotes from one of his favorite stories, sharing a new story of his own. Before he left, he saluted the dead man in respect. He pinned a note to the stone, and turned to leave.

"He was once a great colony, but is not anymore. But he was also once a great little brother, and that he will always be."