His gloved fingers were laced gently around the barrel of his antique gun, smiling softly as he watched the men leave, the yearly re-enactment of the revolutionary war.
But it wasn't the same...it could never be...
Those eyes, such a beautiful bright shade of green, burning in such pain, such loss, hopeless pools of jade burning into his own eyes of sapphire.
That could never be re-enacted.
He wouldn't want it to be...
The sharp red of England's outfit as he fell before him, sobbing, claiming that he could never shoot him, and he had gazed down upon him, rain trickling, cold unforgiving, as he had taken a shot at the one who had raised him.
'You used to be so big, england' he had stated, and his own eyes had fallen to a sorrowful colour of their own, from sapphire to a stormy blue.
And in the end, France and Prussia had laughed, laughed and drank to the victory as Alfred had lay in his bunk, gazing at the top of his tent, knowing the rain was seeping through the cloth, not caring because all he could see when he closed his eyes were those soft pools of jade, seeing them glaze over as the powerful nation fell to his knees, could only see his beloved enemy raise a hand to hide his tears, and for weeks he couldn't sleep without those eyes returning to him, haunting him.
And people wondered why he hated ghosts.
the breeze gave another soft whistle, listening to the citizens at their party, most still dressed as revolutionary soldiers, and redcoats, and it made his heart both warm and burn at the sight of them standing together.
What would england do, if he could see him like this now?
Would he hate him?
Fall again?
he raised a gloved hand up, fingers ghosting over his cheeks, no his glasses were gone, he hadn't had them back then either, of course he had been younger then as well, more foolhardy facing the world with a determination that he now knew really had been foolhardy and reckless, and that if Prussia and France had not come to his aid England would have not lost him.
Would have kept him.
More than likely would have forgiven him, carried him home through the mud and the rain and softly scolded him for having gone and gotten himself hurt, and that he would most likely end up with a cold, that he was a bloody git but...
That he loved him anyways...
he lowered his hand, white glove falling with a dull thud against the blue and red velvet of his uniform, he had told England such things when he had fallen.
"What's wrong America" he whispered, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he spoke to himself, "you used to be so big"