Rain poured down around them, onto them, mixing with the dirt that stained their faces, hands, clothes. Why were they fighting this war? Not because England didn't want to let America go, but because Arthur didn't want to let America go. And Alfred, not just America, needed more than anything to be let go.
And finally, Alfred had Arthur right where he wanted him. Blonde locks stuck to him, a result of the rain no doubt. In front of him, Arthur was on his knees in the mud, head down. At gunpoint, the proud country could no longer boss his little colony around. Alfred wouldn't be treated like a child anymore. He was so fed up. So sick and tired of being treated like a baby, being threatened with taxes and used for Arthur's own sick pleasures. No, no, it ended here. He couldn't let the good memories hold him back this time. No, they had already lost him too many battles. He couldn't allow the memories of drinking tea in the garden at Arthur's house stop him from doing what he needed to do, nor the ones of playing chess, or reading together. He needed this, his country needed this, his people, they all needed this. Change was necessary.
But yet again, the memories flooded his mind, taking him away from the rainy battlefield and fleeting to the sunny refines of the garden he loved so much as a child. Toy soilders littered the sienna-colored stone walkway, lined up in battle formation. Sitting on the wicker loveseat to his left, Arthur drank tea and read a book. Overhead, there was a white metal archway. It was one of many placed in the garden to hold the Wisteria vines, which bloomed violet flowers. Along the walkway, flowers of all colors bloomed, though Alfred had decided that he most liked the blue and white ones. He was younger then. Much younger, and much more naive. Alfred rolled around on the walkway, playing with the toy soilders and speaking of his plans to become a great war hero when he was older. Arthur just smiled, nodding along, reading his book.
When Alfred snapped back into reality, he saw the situation with new eyes. He dropped to his knees as well, disregarding the stains on his pants and how much more wet he had gotten. Fighting back tears and words both, he hugged the Briton. He felt him tense in his embrace, and pulled back to look into familiar emerald eyes. They reminded him of the bad times, like the first time he found Arthur drunk. The first time Arthur had (Alfred didn't like the word) molested him.
The room was dark, lit only by the fire in the fireplace. Arthur was in a big chair beside the window, holding a bottle of whiskey, although Alfred didn't know that at the time. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and insence imported from China ("This was a gift from Yao," Arthur had said when he first showed him. "He's also a powerful country."). Alfred remembered whispering, "Iggy?" into the darkness, and silently wishing he hadn't come into the room when he saw Arthur's eyes. Alfred squirmed when Arthur picked him up and put him in his lap. A cold hand slipped under his nightgown and caressed chubby legs, over his knees and thighs, and Alfred suddenly felt tears in his eyes, although he didn't know why. He couldn't stop himself from twitching and squirming, from crying lightly throughout the ordeal. But he also couldn't stop himself from holding his Iggy the next morning, not sure what to make of the upset, guilty man before him. He did this everytime.
Back in reality, a puddle was steadily forming at their knees. Dirt, blood, sweat, and tears ran down both their faces. When Alfred had finally collected himself, he stood, bringing the gun up with him, and turned his back to Arthur.
"I'm sorry..." he started, in between tears and rain, "but this is how it needs to be, Arthur."
I haven't written anything that people actually read in such a very long time, so I hope it didn't suck. (: Bad end, I think. I might write a little Treaty of Paris sequel sometime soon.