Dear Journal,

Years ago today, little Alfred and I sat down at my dining room table and ate a breakfast of eggs and toast, with baked beans. Alfred had offered to cook that morning. And I let him, thinking his cooking couldn't possibly be worse than my own… Boy was I right. Despite his lazy (some say "casual") exterior, the kid can really cook and clean with gusto. It surprised me… His food was good. I wish he was here to enjoy this breakfast with me. It's been so long since we had a meal together. Perhaps I should invite him over more often. But I feel that if I do so, the others (mostly that damned frog) would tease us, even come to strange conclusions…What am I saying? Nothing like that could, or would or should ever happen. I raised the child; I think I'm very well entitled to some bondage time… Or perhaps not. Would it be smarter to go visit him? I haven't been over to the Americas in a while; it would be good to check up on some things… Why am I making excuses? I can go see him if I want… What if he doesn't want to see me? I don't think I could bear my teen aged Alfred rejecting me…

I watched the tear roll off the end of my nose and splash silently onto the ink-covered parchment next to my not-made-by-Alfred breakfast. 'I don't think I could bear my teen aged Alfred rejecting me'? Could I really not bear it? I had promised myself to be absolutely truthful to myself in this journal, in my previous journal I had lied to myself much too often… I decided to change that this go-round.

I cursed under my breath; chastising myself for crying right on my notebook. I carefully signed and dated the entry before closing the leather bound, fraying book and locking it away in the hidden compartment under one of the drawers in my office desk.

Abandoning breakfast, I peeled myself out of my favourite leather swivel chair in the world; I sit in it so often it's molded to my shape. Standing, I shook out my legs to regain circulation. Scanning the room, I located one of my favourite books; an adaptation of Peter Pan called Peter's Adventures in Never-NeverLand, the Land beyond the Second Star to the Right. Third Addition: On 'till Morning, lying on the window sill facing the north courtyard.

I walk over and pluck the book off the sill and pear down into the courtyard. I could see MacArland, the gardener, pruning a rose bush lovingly. I smiled to myself.

How lucky… To love the job that you have, and to do the job that you love.

I've found that there is a difference between the two. Surely you can love your job, but that doesn't necessarily mean you're doing the job you love.

I chose MacArland to be my gardener because I new that he loved plants.

Spontaneously, I throw open the window and lean out.

"MacArland!" I shout. He looks up at me with curious eyes.

"What be it, Your Grace?"

"Take home some roses for you wife, and your daughters! Make their day."

The gardener looks startled for a moment, then he smiles up at me, craning his neck to see me two stories up. "Thank you, Your Grace. They'll surely appreciate the gifts."

I smile back. "Those flowers are not from me, sir. You grew them; you deserve to decide how they are used."

"Th-thank you, Your Grace…" The gardener glances at the rose bush and starts cutting the bright green stalks from the large shrub.

I close the window just as he turns back around to ask another question, I figure if it's important, he'll come tell me soon enough.

I replace the book and look for something else to do. Finding nothing interesting to do in the study, I turn to open the door just as an urgent knock pounds against it. Not seconds later it swings open and Syrah MacArthur pushes her way through and shuts the door behind her.

I nearly run and hide in panic. This 17 year old woman is one of the only things that scare me in this world. Her long dark red hair falls in curls to her waist, and the colour complimented well via her sleek black dress and chestnut-coloured fur coat.

"M-Miss MacArthur," I stutter, "W-what a surprise! Whatever brings you all the way to up to Carlisle?"

The snake smiles and coils, ready to pounce.

"You of course!"

I'm smothered by reddish-brown fur and a soft neck as she tackles me to the ground. We fall onto the expensive Turkish rug, two feet scarce of the fire place. My head hits the ground with a thud. I had no way of stopping the fall, for my arms were pinned to my sides in Syrah's death grip.

"Oh, it's so good to see you! Arthur, it's been ages! You never come to visit me!" The last sentence took on almost a whine to it.

I do my best to push her off me, but with my arms bound, I was pinned underneath her. She snuggles her chin into my neck, taking deep breaths. Lord, she was a creep. And heavy!

You must be a gentleman…I reminded myself. You must never inquire about a woman's weight!

"Syrah, luv…I think I've cracked my head…" It was true, and I knew that, with a nation's healing rate, it would be fine in a day, but she didn't know that.

"Oh no! Arthur, you really must be more careful!" She unlatched from me and helped me up. Still latching onto my arm, she inquired about my head and worried over little things. She called for a maid to bring her a first-aid kit to 'bind my wounds' even though I wasn't bleeding.

I let her wrap my head sloppily anyway. Once she finished, she discarded the kit and sent the maid away; and pounced on me again. Just as we fell against the couch, the door swung wide open and a tall blonde paraded in, followed my quite a few of my (flustered) employees.

"Hey, Iggy, what's there to do around here?" Alfred's voice carried over the other noises to me and Syrah.

"Arthur!" Said girl demanded, "Who is that?!"

Alfred looked over to us still entwined in the middle of the chaos.

"Arthur!" He demanded, "Who is that?"

I was dumbfounded. Who do I respond to? I looked back and forth between them, gaping like a fish. Syrah climbs off of me to get a better look at Alfred.

"I-uh, this is… Alfred! Syrah, this is Alfred. Alfred, this is Syrah MacArthur" I spit out.

All noise ceased and I began talking, so I ended up shouting the first half of the improper introduction.

Syrah and Alfred had an epic stare down for a few seconds before simultaneously saying, "Who are you?"

Syrah looked offended. "I happen to be-"

Alfred cut her off. "I happen to be the-"

I jump up and cut the both of them off. "This is no time or place of this conversation, Alfred. Why don't we continue in a more civil matter in the Green parlor?"

Syrah looked satisfied, but Alfred looked ready to burst into tears.

"Why do you always blame me, Artie? What did I do?"

Oh, no. Lord, please no. Not this. Not the face.

There it was; the baby face. Al stuck out his lip and widened his eyes, looking like a lost puppy. His eyebrows lifted up and to the center, giving him a hurt look. Al had perfected this look when he was younger, knowing that with it I was nearly powerless to him. My heart broke as he intensified the face.

Alfred sniffled; delivering the final blow. I was crushed. I reached out and pulled him to me; enveloping him in a hug.

"Oh, Alfred. I didn't mean it like that. I meant that- that- I was just acknowledging the fact that you did start it by barging in. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings." I ramble on like this until I feel Alfred's long arms twine around me, forgiving.

Suddenly Alfred picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. My stomach collides with his shoulder hard. The wind is knocked out of me and I start to feel light headed. All the while, Syrah is yelling for 'you big oaf put him down before I call my father!' and so on. Alfred lifted me like a rag doll, up and out the door, knocking my head hard against the door frame. I saw blackness curve and shape my vision into a tunnel, making it hard to concentrate and find out where Al was taking me. My thoughts swam like runny yolk, mushy and random. All I can comprehend is Alfred carrying me out of my home, pulling me into a car, and something soft pressed against my lips.

Hallo! I want to thank anyone out there who actually takes the time to read my dumb stories... :) I know I'm supposed to be working on Heart Failure, and I am! I swear it! This story came to mind, and I needed to get it out, so I wrote this. I was inspired by the very likes of America's Independence day, which was actually yesterday, because I'm posting this at like two in the morning.

Hey! Hey! Anyone whom might be the slightest bit interested: I put up a poll on my account for deciding who Ivan should end up with in Heart Failure and I need votes! I can't decide, there are way to many parings, and I love them all! (not really, but still, I can't decide, so help me![please])

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia; Arthur Kirkland; Alfred F. Jones; Carlisle, England; or anything else I'm not supposed to own... However, I do own Syrah MacArthur, since I made her up... and MacArland... and his wife & kids...

One other thing... I really have no idea if I'm going to continue this story, so don't hope for any updates... But feel free to leave ideas/comments in the section below. Yes I stole that from =3, which, by the way, I don't own.