Nine months after the United States of America entered the Great War, it was over.
Four years of pain, rotten feet, bodies upon bodies of young men willing to serve their king and country—finished upon his entry into the war.
America hadn't lost as many men as the rest of them, but it was quite a lot for a measly nine months.
England couldn't blame him, though, for not coming into the war at first glance. Well, he could've. He just chose not to. So what if America didn't feel like bursting through the transparent doors of his comfort zone and into the grand ballroom of European war? After everything—Lusitania, Zimmermann's note, the reckless submarine warfare—the boy had no choice but to regret and take back the neutrality, to finally get into the thick of it with the rest of them.
The Europeans playing their favorite game, once again.
The look on America's face when Ludwig's little 'plan' was exposed to him, when Mexico gave him a transcript with shaking hands, was terrifying. Furrowed brows, his lips a tight line, his sapphire daggers glaring at Mexico. The decision to enter the war was currently clouding Alfred's mind, but this was yet another straw on the camel's back. The sheer notion that Germany would even suggest that Mexico, with his aid, invade America was psychotic.
England had once recalled another face Alfred had made. It would've been amusing, had the circumstances been different.
They had been discussing the strategy that the Allies had been using for the past four years. Strange, Arthur had thought; the lad has ideas already. He never saw it coming—hell, Alfred didn't even want to enter the bloody war in the first place.
"Arthur, this isn't right." Alfred had peered down at a map in an unnamed office, absently tracing some unnamed trench. The map reminded him of cracked glass, lines of trenches going this way and that.
Arthur scowled (Alfred had interrupted him in the middle of him explaining their strategy), and glanced at the other as he sat down. As much as he hated standing by in a comfy-cozy office with the velvet of an armchair under his ass (he could feel his wrapped wounds straining tightening widening screaming whenever he moved in the wrong way)—he was, in fact, disappointed that while he has in luxury at the moment, his young men were serving in the ever decreasing army that needed them in the thick of it. Getting their boots and uniforms dirty, chucking grenades in the air, slipping on gas masks, watching their brothers die—all for him.
"All of you are going out there like children in a playpen! Don't you understand that maybe this 'strategy' is the problem?" Alfred gestured at the map, staring Arthur straight in the face. One of his brows quirked, the other furrowed greatly. His mouth was partially open, exhaling softly.
Arthur would remember this moment, this look—and label it as one of Alfred's famed (frankly, rare) moments of genius.
Because honestly he hadn't realized that the strategy might've been the problem.
"Listen, Arthur," America continued, collapsing into the chair across from Arthur and running hands all over his face. England noticed it had been looking slightly flushed this whole time. "By now, Ludwig must be exhausted. His troops are in hell while yours and Francis' are in paradise. Do you understand?"
Arthur stared blankly at the blonde in front of him, and sighed. He supposed maybe some materials on the Western front were more scarce than others, but otherwise he hadn't been keeping track. "No, Alfred. Please enlighten me." A sarcastic tone soaked his words.
Alfred leaned forward, an elbow on the table. "The recruits are coming in even younger, their weapons are becoming even more useless. Hell, even their smokes are running out. "
The Englishman's eyes widened when he thought about what the other was saying—the Allies had a good chance of beating the odds with Alfred's assistance. A small grin spread on his face but faltered when Arthur realized that it would all (the weapons, the men, the resources, god have mercy) have a fatal cost.
He wasn't particularly keen on finding out. Alfred went on.
"My men are fresh, healthy. I promise you this war will be over within, hey—why not another year? My weapons and all that jazz—"
"Alfred."
"Huh?"
Arthur's eyes were off to the side for a quick moment before he glanced downwards at his still-steaming cup of tea. Alfred had settled for some water instead.
A sip of spice fell down his throat and he put the cup down, aiding the moment of silence in which, for once, Arthur had no idea what to say to Alfred.
Well, maybe he had an idea.
"I, ah," England started, and paused. "It's very. . .gracious of you to give up your morals and finally get off your arse to help over here. " After saying that, the Englishman's eyes went wide, and he felt as if he had been punched in the gut (maybe he was hungry; maybe it was a wound screaming once more). He hadn't meant for it to come out like that.
America had laughed lightly, but his eyes had displayed something entirely different: a feeble expression of disappointment.
"I see," Alfred shrugged, and sipped his water, "I know I probably should've helped sooner, but I'm not going to say sorry for finally being able to come—because honestly I don't think I should," his words had built up from being politely mumbled to viciously spat in zero to sixty, "If you're grateful for anything I'm about to do in the next year, act like it."
Once again, the room was silent.
Arthur seethed at Alfred with evergreen intensity with Alfred glared at Arthur with ocean daggers.
Suddenly Arthur lurched forward with the clatter of his teacup spilling on the map and took Alfred's face between his hands, planting a wet kiss on the other's lips. The Briton was in an awkward position, practically lying on his belly atop the desk, propping himself up with his elbows.
When Alfred didn't kiss back, Arthur opened his eyes, only to stare back at Alfred's wide ones. They were full of shock, confusion, and a possible pinch of enjoyment, his cheeks bright red. Arthur pulled away first, only to be pulled back in by Alfred's hands on his cheeks.
Their first kiss was sloppy. They worked with it, though. England's hands worked up to spread his fingers in America's hair, that wonderful wheat hair he had always admired – his other hand went to cup the back of his neck, and he worked to deepen their kiss.
America's hands decided to go in a different direction, one that England decided wasn't too terrible.
One of his hands reached to put pressure on the small of the other's back, sliding down as much as he could to gently graze one of the other's belt loops – his left hand rubbed England's back, not exactly knowing what to do. He could hear gentle moans from the other, and he loved every single one of them.
This wasn't exactly what Alfred had meant by acting grateful, but he guessed it would work for now.
AN: Aaaaaand that's it for now. I'm not sorry. ~K And thank you to Trumpet-Geek. She pretty much beta'd the story and I am very much thankful and appreciative of her and yes! Thank you very much.