You've never been good at spotting the difference. Even when Alfred turned from your little boy into an independent young man. Even when he was reluctant to accept your gifts. Even when his eyes stopped shining every time he saw you, as if offended you had better things to care for than him. At least you go that impression. But as you're thinking about it now, you know it must have been a growing rebellion. Against what? You'll never understand it, will you? You did everything you could. You tried to help with the laws and bills so that he wouldn't need to worry about them. You've tightened up import and export so that he wouldn't need to consider what they're worth. You'd brought slaves for him and then he's released them anyway. You've never tried so hard with any of your colonies. But it seems to be the fate of a guardian, his underlings must rebel at some point. No matter how great conditions he has, no matter how idyllic his life would be, he'd always find something that rubs him the wrong way.

It was supposedly all about a lack of freedom, lack of choice. That it is not right to deprive the others from their perspectives. You've watched a film once, where a character had all of the evil wiped out of his body and due to the reactions of the body he acquired in the process of this cruel treatment, he wasn't even able to think of the violence. You liked the film, it was very well-made for those times. But America always cringed at the screen with "A Clockwork Orange" sign on it. He said it's immoral to deny somebody the freedom of choice between good and evil. The priest in that film said the same thing, but you always thought his expressions and American accent were funny, so you never paid him enough attention. You're no ignorant, you've never been one. But during the film's projection you were more thoughtful of the parents, having a son, who's a criminal, not growing up to their expectations. You tend to skip the part in which they turn their back on him.

You like the skipping game. Pretending nothing happened. You've learned it fairly recently – each one of you has to at some point. It's not possible to live the life you're living without this ability. If you were to dwell on every wound Francis has ever given you or every scar remaining from the Great Fire of London or the wars, you'd probably wouldn't have enough strength and time for forgiving and lasting. And this is your responsibility. Lasting. Memory is not necessary in your case, memory that tells you to bear these grudges. You know everyone who's smart enough will eventually understand that. The people could use that too. Unfortunately they don't live long enough to grasp the might and beauty of the lack of hatred and plain fierceness. But sometimes you get the impression that Alfred has never forgotten anything.

You're not stupid, nor naïve. You realize that when he says he'd rather be friends with a whale than you, it's really not that big a deal. After all it is you whom he picks up the calls from, receives the gifts, wants to see, even though completely embarrassed, on his stupid Independence Days. Words mean nothing, they can never change things. But you can see the looks. You can hear his tone changing. You know he talks to you differently than, say, to Japan. You can't quite understand this distinction. You're aware of its existence and you fear it. You know you wouldn't be able to survive him giving someone the same smile he gave you every time you'd come back after a long journey, back when he was a child.

But Alfred lost that smile a long time ago. He laughs a lot, he's cheerful, ha, silly, as you lie stressing it. But you haven't seen his innocent smile for three hundred years. Actually, no- an innocent smile is not a proper name. It was a smile full of happiness, pure joy, love, innocence, devotion and enormous relief that you're here alive and kicking, that you might want to stay for a while. You've seen that smile four times, long, long time ago, but you know you can never forget it. As long as there will be his serious face before your eyes, with an unsettled expression, but sure of what's about to happen, wet from the rain, sweat, maybe even tears – you want to believe in those, so much, but you will never know whether they were tears of fear of relief – you'll always be seeing that smile, the one you can't forget, not now, not in a million years.

Sometimes you wonder, why does your golden boy – ah, not yours, he is not to be called yours for such a long time – not smile this way anymore. Is it a matter of wars he's survived, which leave those painful scars on body and mind? Your first fights, that was centuries ago, now so far away and insignificant. But then, you've lain under a huge tree clutching to his clothes nervously, wrinkling it in your hands, face wet of tears, so terribly lost. But those were not any great battles. Those were wild, though always honorable, if any died, it'd no more than few dozens. You can still recall the smell of Europe in the morning, wet with fresh dew and blood of your people and enemies. Just like on every war, you felt sorry for both sides.

Sometimes you think your golden boy was unlucky, he meddled up so badly right on the start, got into a civil war, barely managed to get over it and two others approached, the worst ones, the most terrible wars of all times, total wars. The wars, where victims were counted not in dozens but in millions. When you think of your first fights compared to his, you wonder if it's really all right to call him "silly". But whenever on a conference you hear his ideas of saving the world with superheroes' aid, you forget entirely of the beginning of the twentieth century and say whatever you feel like saying, not that it actually has any effect. In the end Alfred always laughs and says you're not right, you're too stuck up – it's been recently one of his favorite words – or that his genius is simply beyond your reason.

Nevertheless, you'll never forget how you publicly criticized him for the first time after he got his independence. You're not sure whether it was in a paper or some world meeting. But you know how everybody was so interested in this new, young country, asking around about him, some even congratulating Francis for helping Alfred grow up so nicely and you just couldn't stand it all. You said Alfred wouldn't last more than a century, being too naïve and silly. It was a first time you've used this word. Now it's been long since you've lost your count. It's clear as a day now – brows frowned, some sort of sparkle in those terribly blue eyes of his – was it regret? Shame? Anger? – and then Alfred laughed merrily, announcing how he is planning to become a wonderfully prospering country. You hissed something then and turned away. It was unpleasant, looking at someone who used to be so lovingly close to you, even when he was thousands of miles away, as he is right now so distant and unreachable, no matter how he's standing right next to you.

This feeling seems to be following you even now. It's been two hundred years that you're unable to look at him, thinking of what you've lost. What's he lost. You're not jealous or upset about his well-being, deep down at your heart, you're actually glad your fussy prophesy did not come true. That he didn't fall, die, vanish into thin air. That despite his naivety, he's alive. After all you'd rather have him alive, existing, even if he's so terribly distant. Though it's been only worse lately. Credits, stupid regulations of his ex-boss. Even when his current chief tries so hard to fix it, there is not much to be done. Everybody knows what's happening, but they're scared of saying the 'K' word out loud.

Crisis.

Another conference. You're sitting up straight, as ever, in freshly pressed, classy suit – you pay no attention to France, who's struggling to muffle his giggles anytime he looks at you – you just listen closely to what's going on around you. Everyone joins the vivid discussion, today is no time for jokes or trifles. Serious faces and voices, brows frowned. And Alfred, sinking into his chair, letting the chance to lead the entire world go by. His eyes are fixed on the table, if you didn't know him all that well, you could have thought he was ashamed. But this is not possible, is it?

Ludwig gets up in the end and speaks out the latest ideas. Uproar, raised hands. All have the right to vote on the matter, having their own opinion. Even Feliciano isn't shouting about his specials and Roderich isn't rasping of his grand piano. Silence, perfect silence, disturbed only by the one currently speaking. It makes shivers go up your spine. You take a short glance at Alfred again. It looks like he hasn't moved an inch. Eyes on the table, stiff, his mouth clenched. He's already once apologized for the crisis which was his fault. Eighty years ago, after World War One. But now his debts are reaching eight trillions and the results of that might be catastrophic. You look at him and seeing that hollow expression of his, you want him to move, do something, anything. This sole thought seems to be banging in your head until, not even realizing how and when, you can hear your own voice.

"Why isn't America saying a word?"

You can see the surprised look he's giving you. It feels like there's the same spark in his eyes you saw those two hundred years ago. Nor surprise, nor regret. Dead silence falls on the room. As if everyone has forgotten the very source of their problems is sitting right here. Nobody says anything, but all eyes are fixed on the American and those looks say it all. Why. Explain it. We don't want another Great Crisis. Why is this all your fault again. Why are we keep trusting you.

You know how these looks must hurt. Trying not to look yourself, you know him well enough to understand that the person who likes to think of himself as a hero, able to fix and prevent anything, cannot stand the thought of something this horrible happening because of him. And for the second time on top of that. You don't look at him, because every look is like a nail to his coffin. Alfred is quiet and after a while there's a childish voice of Russia audible.

"I don't think comrade America has anything to say."

There's a quiet stir and you peek at Alfred. He looks at his palms and Ludwig soon announces the end of the meeting. Before you leave the room, Alfred gives you a look. It's the first time he's even given you that kind of look and it surprises you so, that you even stop, gazing mindlessly at his handsome figure. But he just takes the papers of his table and walks out through the second door, seeming more confident with each step. The further away from that desk, where he couldn't have done anything, the livelier. Though this briskness is fake, you believe. Never in your life have you felt the need to apologize anyone, but now you feel like you have to. After all, you're obliged by this special relationship you have, which your chief always reminded you of, whenever you'd come back from the conference, angry and annoyed. You're just about to leave, when you feel your pocket vibrating. Trying to ignore it, but the phone buzzes for long, long time, until you lose your patience and pick it up to hear your boss' voice.

"Halo?... Yes, obviously. Yes. I know, yes, I fully understand. Excuse me?"

You probably heard it wrong.

"...But of course. Goodbye."

You hang up and stand for several minutes, staring at the dark screen of your mobile. In the end you put it into your trousers and walk down the corridor, knowing it leads straight to Alfred's office. Hollow sound of your footsteps echoes around the hall. It's almost as if all everything has died out, everyone's gone and all that's left is you and that heaviness inside you, guilt of what you've said, what you've caused. You despise these moments, they remind you of all the wrong decisions you have ever made, or those that could do so much good if they were to be changed only slightly. You pass your own office's door by and stop for a moment. Then you shook your head and go on, still unsure of your steps, you walk towards the office with red and white stripes and dark blue sky on it.

You stand by those doors for over half an hour, leaning against the wall. You don't feel quite like walking in there, looking at his not-so-cheerful face. Or look into his eyes, surrounded by barely noticeable wrinkles. Small, but still there. You don't want to look at his lips, which don't smile as often as they probably should. Even if that grin annoyed you ever so often, now you'd give up everything to see it back on his face. You don't want to look at these golden, bright and beautiful strands of hair, falling on blue eyes, blue like the sky with stars on the flag, sky that should mean unbounded freedom, right? Not this great sadness.

In the end you pluck your courage and knock. Gently, and you open the door right away. You don't even try giving him a chance to speak. He didn't often get a chance to answer with you, perhaps this is why he's learned to speak so loudly. Back when he was younger, you'd always drown out all his disagreements with your soothing but firm voice. He must have hated it, having somebody like you – organized, pressed, not much older but still shorter and smaller, has such an advantage over him, to decide about his life.

First thing that comes to your mind upon entering his room is what a terrible mess is here. Briefcases scattered all over the floor, graphs pinned to the wall randomly. Baseball glove. Popcorn box. Empty cans of coke on his desk, in the corner of the room. His jacket, carelessly hanging of the leather chair. The emblem of United States, large, beautiful, in a dusty frame. Mug of coffee. As if that was not enough to make your head spin, the entire room was filled with the smell of fresh coffee and that particular, well-known smell of Alfred. It's a one of a kind mixture of freshness, this disgusting coffee, salt and air. After a couple of breaths your lungs are full of it and you start to worry about further inhaling, the smell is so strong.

You notice him on a couch. He lies facing you, sprawled, somewhat offended, blue eyes looking right at you. It's interesting how downright stupid you must look standing in the middle of the room, looking around. But Alfred isn't laughing at you – honestly, when was the last time he'd laughed? – just looking at you, not saying a word. You say nothing either. You keep smell this scent, the scent you've missed so much, which you had once been able to smell all the time, on your clothes, after little Alfred hugged you and fell asleep during his bedtime stories, or later, when older Alfred would sit next to you, reading documents you've brought. Even afterwards, during the wars, when you have spent so much time together, sitting with fear and hope, you were full of that scent.

You stare at each other silently. This silence is full of everything, you can feel it and you know he can as well. That you support him. That you're sorry. But you still say nothing, only the green eyes keep the blue ones in place, or maybe it's the other way round? You're not sure yourself. The silence is electrifying and you fear you can do something wrong any minute. The scent begins to shatter your lungs, there's too much of it, too much at a time, the blue eyes start to burn your skin and that silence causes all hair on your body to rise, you can blow up any second, disappear;

You come forward softly, no, not entirely - you trip over a can of coke. Alfred does not smile though, you still stare at each other. You walk ahead, just about a step or two away from him. You look down, unable to withstand it anymore. When you raise your gaze again, Alfred still looks at you, so you clench your eyelids and take another step forward. You don't trip anymore, you just lean over him and cover his eyes. Your golden boy flinches slightly, you feel his hand on your wrist and you know how he's capable of pulling you away, why, break your hand. But he does nothing of the sort and your grateful for not stopping you – clearly he's too curious of what's about to happen.

So you, simply as that, kiss the surprised man on the top of his head, thinking frantically 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry' and whisper something into his ear. You uncover his eyes and shake his hand away, he's too shocked to stop you. You walk out of the room, doors slamming behind you. But in the room with starry-stripy flag, full of cans of coke, mugs of coffee, mess, leather chair and couch, in which lies your shocked friend, brother, someone you're so close to and someone you don't have at all; in that room your words are still ringing.

"Great Britain is to tear all the trade relations with United States."

You hear them all the time, returning to your office, heart pounding in your chest, cheeks red from embarrassment and head, in which this sentence floats recurring with another one. And you feel warmth in your eyes and tears roll down your cheeks, uncontrolled.

And this sentence, pounding in your head, recurring with another.

"Alfred, I love you."

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