Chapter 1: Page One
Arthur Kirkland (a.k.a. England) had never loved anyone like he did Alfred F. Jones, who we know as "America". Of course, he would always remind himself, they were brothers, even if only by the custody he had of the younger country. Alfred, who had always been so little to Arthur (and he himself was small in stature) had grown to be slightly taller than him in a short four-hundred five years. During that time, the Revolutionary War had taken place, severing their brotherly bond and replacing it with a bitter rivalry—with one always trying to be better than the other. That "one" was Arthur.
Alfred had gone off on his own after the War, and Arthur, with the exceptions of World Wars I and II, had watched him from a distance—always commenting, giving advice, but never saying a word out loud. He'd watched as his rival became a mutt-like, "chill", and very well-fed nation. Granted, Arthur himself had become more mixed than he would have liked, but he would never allow himself to become the nation that America was.
Truly, though, deep down, Arthur still felt for Alfred. In the darkness of his heart, he wanted his brother, his friend, his love, back. You can't see in darkness, though.
When Alfred had left, a sadness beyond any country's wildest dreams (even Francis's) had taken hold of Arthur. His heart broke. His willpower broke—everything broke. And everything hurt, too—like white-hot irons had been pressed to every part of him. His devastation surely must've been too much for anyone, even a country, to bear; but, somehow, he managed. Not long after the worst of his depression, a new seed was planted in the darkness of his heart. Quietly, it took root, grew leaves, and, eventually, blossomed. The rivalry lived on, but it was less for guilt than for a need to be close to Alfred. Arthur longed to be with him, but he never showed it. He couldn't ever show his true feelings—not after everything that had happened—not while in the mess of unrequited love.
Arthur continued to host the meetings for the U.N. (United Nations). Alfred, although not always timely, was always at those. Occasionally, Feliciano (Italy) would host a meeting. Arthur would look forward to these, especially, because he didn't have to worry about keeping the other countries (except for Ludwig—Germany) in line. He could pay more attention, instead, to Alfred.
It was at the end of a meeting Arthur had hosted that, as usual, he stayed after. For the first few minutes of his being alone in the room, he organized countless documents. After this, he made his way to the chalkboard and started to erase the ridiculously feminine drawing Wang (China) had made of himself. He wiped out the face, first, and then stopped. Slowly, he reached down and picked up a piece of chalk that was the same color as Alfred's eyes: ocean blue. He attempted to redraw the face in the American's image and failed miserably. Trying to capture his beauty in a picture was like trying to fit everyone from the Titanic into the few available lifeboats that had actually been on the ship. Scowling, he erased the whole of the drawing, but he couldn't help drawing a heart in the corner of the board with the word, "UsUk" written on it. That didn't turn out too badly.
Arthur was in the middle of admiring his work ("That's not too shabby of a job.") when a sweet voice reached his ear from the doorway. "Dude, the meeting's over! You can come out, now."
Totally caught off guard, Arthur dropped the chalk and spun on a dime to see Alfred F. Jones leaning against the doorframe, his usual smile stretched across his face—his eyes sparkling with curiosity and adventure.
"I—well, you see, I—why are you still here?!" Arthur stuttered in a frenzy.
Alfred, however, merely chuckled. "Well, it's not like I have to go anywhere anytime soon."
Arthur had to repress a smile at the sweet sound of Alfred's laughter. He did so by saying, "You lazy Americans. Don't you have better things to do than barge into other people's business?"
Instead of being offended by that comment, Alfred simply laughed, again, saying, "Oh, Britain."
This was the one thing that made Arthur fall even harder for Alfred: His easy-going forgiveness of words that would start a row in his country. After a moment, he asked, his gaze suddenly fixated on the blue chalk he'd dropped, "So, um, where do you plan on going, now?"
"I don't know," Alfred replied, trying for a thoughtful expression, "probably home to play video games or something. Why?"
"Oh, no reason, I—I was just wondering—"
"Oh, Briitaain!" an instantly-recognizable voice called from the hallway outside the room. "Where are you, Love?"
A surprised expression crossed Alfred's face as Francis Bonnefoy (A.K.A. France) barreled into the room, all shimmering glitter. He grabbed Arthur by the arm and said in a rushed French accent: "You have got to come to my party, tonight, Love. Germany won't allow me to invite Italy, Romano won't come without Spain, and Russia, Japan, and China will ruin everything with their inefficient party experience! S'il vous plaît*, please come!"
"Let go of me, you bloody git! You didn't even bother to ask America to your stupid party, so why are you running straight to me?!" Arthur said, struggling to release Francis's iron grip on his arm.
Francis froze at the word, "America". "Oh, oui, oui! You're invited, too, Amer—"
But Alfred had already run off, and Arthur couldn't blame him.
"Come on, Britain, please?" Francis begged, appearing about ready to cry. "You're the closest person I have to call a 'friend'!"
Arthur was disgusted. "You know that's a lie, you moron! You and I have always hated each other!"
"Okay, I'm sorry!" the other nation said, barely giving Arthur time to finish his sentence. "Won't you come? Please, please, pleeeeeeeeease?"
Again, Arthur tried to dislodge his spiteful rival from his arm. A struggle ensued, but, finally: "Alright, I'll come to your stupid party—now, let me go!"
*S'il vous plaît- French for "please".
Francis perked up and released Arthur's arm. "I knew I could count on you!" he said, just before skipping out the room like a little school girl.
Arthur was alone, again; only, this time, he was dumbfounded by his own stupidity, instead of that of others.
It was seven thirty when Arthur set out for Francis's residence. The sky was already dark, and the stars glittered brightly. The evening itself was cool and quiet, except for the sound of crickets chirping. After a half-hour walk, the ornamental mansion came into view. He quickly reached the gate that led into a garden decorated with marble fountains and red roses. Before the gates were several old-fashioned cars. Guests, both ladies and gentlemen, were accompanying each other into the manor. Arthur huffed, remembering Francis clinging to him and begging for him to come. He may have been the only country here, but he certainly wasn't the only person.
Still, it was a bit of a relief. Spending the evening alone with that whining drunk didn't sound very appealing to Arthur, either.
Upon entering the mansion, Arthur found that Francis had wasted no time in decorating. Formal, festive masks hung from the walls, which were trimmed with gold. Statues lined the hallways, the bowls they held filled with fruit. Flowery incense and the smell of Francis's cooking struck Arthur pleasantly, but the effect was ruined by the smell of alcohol, as well. From a nearby room, Arthur heard classical music playing. This was the room he entered, since its doors were wide open, and that was where all the guests were headed.
Long, white-clothed tables in the room were covered with French delicacies, ranging from Boulett d' Avensnes1 to Café Gourmand2 to Soupe do Poisson3 to Tarte Tatin4 and to every kind of French wine and beer you could think of. Amidst all of these and the guests of the party was the Host of Honor himself: Francis Bonnefoy, wearing a violet suit with a blue rose pinned to his lapel. Arthur stood awkwardly outside the crowd until Francis noticed him. In an instant, his blue eyes lit up, and he sped toward Arthur, taking his hands in both of his own. "Oh, Britain! I'm so happy you could make it! Come, sit with me and enjoy yourself. There is plenty of food and more ladies to go around!"
Francis led Arthur to the V.I.P. table at the head of the room. At first, Arthur was reluctant to touch any of the food or wine before him; but, after talking to the other guests for a while, he felt confident enough to take a few bites and sips here and there. Then, after a longer time, he was eating and drinking like he'd gone to parties every day of his life (which wasn't far off, since he tended to get drunk every time he went to a bar). The more Arthur drank, the less he comprehended what people were saying. It wasn't too long until the world was divided into reflections of itself, and he was having a hard time remembering where he was. He was vaguely aware of Francis speaking to him, and the next thing he knew, he was being lifted by his underarms and carried out of the room.
Before he was out of the room, however, Arthur could've sworn he saw a glint of gold, complimented by blue, and he knew it wasn't Francis. His eyes widened, but his mind was too nulled to make sense of what he was seeing.
Francis led Arthur to an upstairs room that looked suspiciously like a bedroom and locked the door behind them. Francis said something to Arthur that he couldn't comprehend, but the Brit didn't like the devious glint in his rival's eyes. He knew something bad was going to happen, but the world was spinning so fast, and his head was pounding so painfully, this could've all just been a dream.
"Yes, just think it was all a dream," Arthur heard Francis say. Had he been thinking out loud, again? He couldn't remember.
That was when it happened: Arthur felt a cold hand creep under the back of his shirt, while another unbuttoned his front. The instinct that something truly awful was about to happen was screaming at him to get away, but he could barely walk—let alone escape. When the second hand had finished unbuttoning his shirt, it moved downward, and Arthur swore he felt the button of his trousers pop. Wine-scented breath was on his face, then lips as cold as the hands, and the Brit was powerless to stop it.
Just as those hands were going where nobody's but Arthur's own were allowed, the door of the room busted off of its hinges. Francis spun around angrily, yelling something about knocking. Separated from his only means of support, Arthur fell in a heap onto the floor, trying desperately to make sense of all that was happening. He saw Francis wrestling with someone until he was suddenly punched across the face, his nose bending at an awkward angle. The person who threw the punch knelt down to Arthur's level, but the Brit's vision had darkened, either from closing his eyes or passing out. The last thing he remembered was being lifted from around his shoulders and under his knees by gentle, warm hands.
"Dude, dude, hey, Britain; c'mon, man, wake up."
Gradually, Arthur's eyes opened. Alfred was there, a look of worry on his face. Arthur was in his own bed, wearing a bathrobe over the clothes he'd had on last night, and something warm and soft was on his forehead.
Alfred's expression brightened when Arthur looked at him. Then, the Brit's attention turned to whatever was on his forehead. He couldn't tell what it was until Alfred took it off for him to see: A hamburger. Arthur would've given the younger country a look of disbelief it his head and stomach didn't hurt so badly.
Thinking of his aching stomach suddenly made Arthur nauseous. He leaped out of bed and raced to the bathroom, losing almost all of the French delicacies he'd had, last night. Using toilet paper to wipe his face, he unsteadily rose to his feet.
"You okay, man?" came Alfred's voice from around the corner of the bathroom door.
Arthur couldn't respond, at the moment. After his sudden dizzy spell from standing up in his current state, he examined the mess of himself in the mirror. Shiny streaks from his running tear ducts were plastered to the edges of his nose and cheekbones. His bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat. He tried to remember what had happened last night, but his open shirt and trousers and low-hanging underwear (which had all been hidden by the robe) reminded him too quickly. Another tear traced the edge of his nose as he replied, "I don't know," to Alfred's question.