Alfred sat in his apartment, looking at the dusty New York City sky. He was remembering all too clearly the events that had taken place nine years ago on this very day.
September 11, 2001. Alfred F. Jones sat in his office, working on a report. The office was on Liberty Street, right next to the Ciao Bella Gelato place. Alfred was looking forward to getting some gelato as soon as the report was done when he looked out his window, and was provided with a perfect view of a plane crashing into the Twin Towers. Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes and opened them again. He pinched himself.
"No, no, no, this can't be happening," he thought to himself.
He turned on the television in his office, and changed the channel to CNN. A breaking news story was being told.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, a plane has just crashed into the Twin Towers at the World Trade Center. Help is being sent, and we urge you not to panic-"
Alfred turned off the TV, grabbed his bomber jacket and the fire extinguisher in his office, and rushed out of the building, where he was met by a crowd of coworkers standing just outside the building, gazing at the spectacle with equal expressions of horror. Some people were crying, some were screaming, some were yelling, some were silent, some were paralyzed where they stood. Alfred pushed past them all, not caring who he pushed out of the way, to help those poor people in the burning building.
Five minutes later, he arrived out of breath, and ran inside the open door of one of the Towers. A screaming woman was trapped behind a burning desk. Alfred had ran over there, extinguished the fire on the desk, and told the woman to run. Panicked, Alfred looked around for any more people.
There were hundreds in the building, and most were on the higher floors. There was no way he could get to them in time. Alfred raced out of the building as the ceiling began to crumble. Once he was outside, he inhaled deeply- a mistake. The air was thick with ash and soot and heavy smoke- and the burning plane was visible in all its glory. A firefighter came up behind Alfred.
"Son, you need to MOVE!" the man yelled, pushing Alfred out of the way. Without further ado, he and multiple others rushed inside the burning building. Alfred marveled at their bravery, and wondered whether they'd make it out.
Probably not, a small voice inside his head told him. Alfred shook his head. He couldn't think pessimistic thoughts NOW. Not when they needed him to be the hero. Alfred raced after the firefighters, but was stopped by a policeman. "Stop, son. You're not prepared."
"Not prepared?" Alfred laughed derisively. "I'm a HERO, okay? This building is BURNING. There are PEOPLE inside. They need a HERO. ME."
The policeman shook his head. "I admire your bravery, son, but there are men in there BEING heroes. You aren't properly trained. And you need to get out of here, because this is Police Lines now. Go on, get."
With a blazing look in his eye, Alfred tore away from the policeman and ran- ran until he reached the mass of growing people. He stood in front of them all, and watched the towers fall. A sob escaped him, and the man behind him laid a hand on his shoulder. Alfred turned to face him. Arthur.
"What the hell- what are you doing here?"
Arthur looked surprised. "We had a meeting today. Don't tell me you bloody forgot?"
"Oh, right. But you're early."
Arthur nodded. "My plane was the one before THAT one-" he gestured towards the heap of broken machinery lying with the remains of the buildings.
Alfred's eyes widened. "You mean- you could have been on-" he gasped.
Arthur nodded solemnly. Then he was engulfed in a bone-crushing embrace from his friend.
"Iggy… I swear… If I ever lost you…" Alfred sobbed into Arthur's chest.
England stiffened at the hug, about to protest, but the complaint died in his throat. He relaxed, wrapping his arms around the shaking American. "You didn't, Alfred, you didn't. I'm still here," England said, holding Alfred tightly. "It's okay. It'll be okay. Shhhh."
The commotion continued, and policemen and firefighters and all sorts of cars and trucks and flashing lights raced to the scene. Alfred felt like a hole had been ripped from his chest- the Towers had stood for years, he couldn't count how many times he'd looked at them, he even had a bunch of friends who worked there. He wondered whether they were dead.
Hours later, the news was given that 2,819 people had died. Alfred couldn't stop shaking. Thousands of people.
Thousands.
It was too much. Especially on one day. Alfred quavered, and England held him tighter.
"I know, Alfred, I know."
"You know what's really scary, Iggy?"
"What, Alfred?"
"You could have been the 2,820th…"
Alfred sat up sharply at the knock on the door.
"Come in, I guess."
The door opened. England walked in with a cup of tea and a mug of coffee.
"I know what this day means for you. I thought you could, er… use a friend."
Alfred let out a shaky sigh. "Th-thank you, Arthur. I just… nine years ago, and I still remember it in perfect detail. It still scares me… you could have…"
"I didn't, Alfred. I'm right here. So shut up and drink your coffee, you melancholy git."
"Who are YOU calling melancholy?" A small grin tugged at the corner of Alfred's lips.
"You. And I'm surprised you even know what melancholy means."
America rolled his eyes. "I'm a part-time journalist, England. For the New York Times."
England coughed awkwardly. "Right… Sorry, I'm just so surprised you grew up and actually got a career, a literary one at that. I thought you'd go into cooking or some reality show shit."
Alfred laughed. "I was a TV host, once, but I got too bored interviewing all those other people. It was like I couldn't talk about me once, you know?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "But you're still you."
Alfred grinned. "Always will be. And um… Iggy… thanks."
Arthur smiled, and pulled Alfred towards him. Alfred laid his head on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur's head rested on Alfred's.
"You're welcome."
"I just wish it never happened."
"I know."
Alfred sighed and the two just sat there, looking out at the skyline. And Alfred finally began to heal.