Author's note: The Fourth of July is actually one of my favorite holidays. Call me an American history nerd, I love it. So here's to you Alfred, you little dork that I love and call my own.

Wednesday the Fourth

Alfred loves it when his birthday is on a Wednesday.

Saturday and Sunday mean it's the weekend.

Monday and Friday become the weekend.

Tuesday and Thursday even become the weekend too.

But Wednesday is never really the weekend.

So Alfred loves it most.

This year he's having two parties, one before and one after. Before is the official, formal birthday: White House, President and First Lady, whole shebang. It lets Alfred show off his bow tie tying skills; he's so good everyone tends to think someone else tied it.

There are a few visiting nations come out early for the second party in a week, the informal one with other nations incarnate. Matthew comes down because it's an easy trip and because Alfred couldn't go up for his birthday on the first. That's the problem with brothers having their birthdays so close together; they laugh about it over dinner. The Canadian is pleasantly surprised when on the menu turns up some of his favorites, the American winking because he'd requested the chef make them special. They might not always get along, but they're blood and Alfred doesn't forget that.

Also visiting are Arthur and Francis, the one excited while the other is miserable. Francis babbles in rapid French with Matthew that Alfred does understand though he can never get in a word quick enough in that foreign tongue. He's not as stupid as others think he is, and Francis of all people appreciates that. The French republic tells Matthew all the things they'll do after tomorrow while waiting for the party next week for Alfred, all the ways he'll remind the Canadian that he was always his favorite colony.

"Was I your favorite colony?" Alfred says loving, drawing out the words and rubbing his head on Arthur's shoulder to his other side. The Englishman just pulls a face, answer enough.

For his bicentennial Arthur had pulled Alfred aside to hold him close, hugging him like he's never hugged him. Alfred knew his older brother was slightly drunk at the time but didn't care, letting the Englishman explain that though he always acts sour when it comes to the American's birthday it's just because it's hard for him, even now, to deal with those memories. Alfred was his brother, his beloved brother, that he's loved more than anyone else in the world (with the exception of Francis). He loves to see him independent and strong but he still feels helpless every fourth of July, as if he's losing the younger nation over again. They don't speak about that day ever, but Alfred's much kinder to his brother because of it.

After the toasts finish and the dessert is sampled Francis leans in. "You intend on doing what on your actual birthday this year mon chéri?" he asks in that thick accent of his.

"One-man party," Alfred grins.

Monday he whizzes through the supermarket on a cart, almost running into someone familiar but most definitely foreign. "What the hell are you doing here already?" Ivan wasn't suppose to arrive until Friday for Saturday's party.

The Russian shrugs. "I thought I'd do some sightseeing first and perhaps surprise you, though it seems you have other plans." He points to where Alfred's cart is still pushing into his stomach.

"Dude, you're fluffy. You know that right?" Rolling his eyes Ivan simply adds his things to Alfred's half-filled cart, falling into line beside him as the American finishes getting his groceries.

"Sorry the house isn't clean," he throws back over his shoulder, "thought only Artie and maybe Mattie and Francis would be showing up during the week, and they don't really care."

"Neither do I," Ivan murmurs, following Alfred with the rest of the bags. They unpack the food before Alfred hands his companion a bottle of vodka and takes himself a bottle of beer.

"Cheers!" The clink resonates throughout the kitchen.

Ivan finds him still in the kitchen that night, several cook books out before him, a pad of paper under his hand. "For Saturday?" he asks but Alfred shakes his head.

"Nah, I figured it'd be safer to have that catered, to make Francis happy and so I could make sure there's something for everyone. Wednesday's menu, this."

"Who else will be here on your actual birthday?" Ivan murmurs, taking in the list he's so far worked up.

"Not sure. Me, at least, I'm the only definite. Maybe Artie since he's bopping about and Mattie and Francis if they get tired of the heat. You're welcome to stay here till Saturday you know, right?" Alfred bites the pen cap, taking in his companion so his opposite. He's gone out to Russia a couple of times for Ivan's birthday, but it's blue ball cold normally and there's not much to do. Alfred's pretty glad to have a summer birthday. "Mi casa es su casa."

"May take you up on that." Ivan laughs to himself, shaking his head. "You're really going all-out for a one-man party aren't you?"

"Hey dude, you only turn 236 once ok?" His comment only serves to make Ivan laugh harder.

"You're only 235? Oh God you're like a baby."

"And how old are you hot-shot?" Alfred demands, vaguely insulted. Not at being called young, because he is, but at being called a baby by a man he's definitely had sex with.

"In December I'll be 1,150."

"I'm not a baby, you're an ancient relic!" Petty arguments ensue in the Washington row house.

Tuesday they see how many Mardi Gras beads of red, white, and blue they can get around Ivan's neck before moving the furniture out back about and getting down boxes of decoration. Arthur comes by around lunch time.

"S'up dude?" The Englishman just shakes his head, offering the gift of a purchased lunch and following his younger brother out back. "Ivan and I've just finished arranging everything, you just missed it."

"Did you plan out your menu already?" Arthur asks as the three men sit at the picnic table, Alfred unwrapping the lunch of four soups and four sandwiches; he'd set the extras aside for a late-night snack. "He only cooks real food on his birthday," the man begins to explain to Ivan who seems intrigued by that.

In his thick Russian accent so different from Arthur's posh British one Ivan replies, "Da, I saw him planning the menu yesterday, I was very confused."

"Look," Alfred starts with a mouth half-full of bread and turkey. "Nothing hits the spot like a burger, and I'm the only one I know who can appreciate a fancy one with good meat, Italian cheese, and French wine in the sauce."

Ivan laughs to himself. When the two anglophones raise their eyebrows he explains, "I guess you learned cooking like that from Francis?" Arthur scowls as the American pinches his cheek.

He pulls out the ice-cream maker in the afternoon, deciding it'd be easiest to make the stuff now to have ready for the next day. Matthew calls while he's working, Alfred squeezing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he works.

"You guys coming down tomorrow?" he near-shouts over the sound of the mixer working.

"Yeah, looks like it. What are you making?"

"Ice-cream. I got you syrup and peanut butter to mix together to put with yours like the freak you are, boy."

"Thanks, love you too."

"What time should I expect you?"

"Not sure, Francis will have to do his make-up." He can almost hear his brother rolling his eyes. "I'll call when we leave."

"Awesomesauce. Artie's here and Ivan's crashing at my place, so we're gonna have a par-tay!" There's a laughing sound before the call is disconnected.

Trashy music blasts through the speakers, Alfred already grilling up freshly made burgers, by the time Ivan finishes hanging the streamers as instructed. There's the distant sound of a doorbell ringing.

"I'll get it!" Arthur calls from the kitchen as the Russian moves back to stand by the grill.

"Want the first one?" Alfred offers. "I've got hot dogs too but those I normally save for a bit later. Taste better with the booze."

"Thanks." The American pauses to watch his sometimes-friend take a bite, the man seemingly surprised at how good the burger is. "This is fantastic Alfred!"

"Yeah," he says haughtily, "I know." Arthur returns with Francis and Matthew.

At the table there's the chaotic passing of bowls and plates and drinks as everyone takes their fill, interrupted only when Alfred's cute next-neighbor comes by with an apple pie, his favorite.

"Hey girl, thought you'd be at your own party," the American nation laughs as he leads her out back.

"Yeah, well, we were running late and I thought I could hear your music going, so I wanted to stop by and give you something for your birthday. Hello," she says sheepishly to the four foreign men watching her.

"Salut," Francis replies suavely. Arthur and Matthew both slap him.

"This is Stephanie you guys, my next-door neighbor. Steph, this is my brother Matthew who I think you've met before–"

"Yes, I remember now, how are you?" The two shake hands.

"This is our older brother Arthur, the one I've told you about–" she smiles "–and his boyfriend Francis."

"A pleasure," she sighs as Francis is once more hit by Arthur.

"And my friend Ivan."

"Well you have quite the party this year!" the girl says. "I'm so used to the one-man birthdays I guess, but there was no need to worry this year." Her smile is wide and genuine.

"Burger for the road? Can't let you leave without food." Alfred drags her back to the grill before walking her to the door, wishing her a happy fourth of July as she kisses his cheek and wishes him a happy birthday. When he returns everyone is staring at him. "What?"

The response of, "Nothing," is muttered in several different languages.

With the alcohol freely flowing they let night begin to fall over them, Alfred dancing against Ivan, Arthur laying on Francis, Matthew scooping out the ice-cream. "Are we gonna go do fireworks?" the Canadian asks.

"Fuck yeah!" Alfred yells, throwing his arms around Ivan's neck. "We can see them from my balcony," he drunkenly explains.

"Wonderful," the Russian hiccups before kissing him.

Not nearly big enough to fit five grown men, they squeeze onto the balcony, Alfred on Ivan's knee, Matthew on Alfred's. Francis still won't let Arthur go, kissing up and down his neck.

"They're doing it again!" his Canadian brother complains.

"Ew, our dads are so gross!" Alfred echoes.

Hands comes out to smack both of them, stopping when there's the distant sound of a boom followed by several smaller explosions. The colors light up the sky, Alfred wide-eyed to take it all in. Fireworks are his favorite, their majesty and grandeur, how dangerous they are until they explode in the sky to become something beautiful that falls daintily.

Ivan kisses his shoulder as the fireworks move into their final hurrah.

Matthew settled in the room Ivan had been in, Arthur and Francis drunk on the couch (and probably doing it, Alfred would have to have that whole thing cleaned), he collapses onto his own bed, someone falling beside him.

"That was good," the Russian murmurs, pulling Alfred to him. "I was not expecting that."

"I love when my birthday's a Wednesday," he admits.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Then I don't have to share it with everyone!" he starts, a slight slur to his words. "I can just stay home and do what I want and feel like I'm human, with my family and my food and the fireworks."

A hand strokes the side of his face. "Do you feel human Alfred? Do you?"

Lips crash against his before the American pins the man beneath him down. "Fuck yeah I do, now kiss me like the Russian nation you're not."

In the morning he'll be sore for a variety of reasons, probably have a hangover and only desserts left to have for a quick breakfast.

The party on Saturday is in Virginia; maybe he could get Ivan to drive while he slept, it was easy to get to the place. Everything was being catered and arranged and set-up without him, Alfred only having to show up and pretend like this was the party he looked forward to the most.

He's not stupid, even if most of the other nations incarnate considered the words synonymous with American. It was just that, they had their idea of him and that picture meant they still ended up listening to him, respecting him in a way. It gets things done, that image.

Alfred, though, still sometimes feels like the little colony no one wanted to become a country. If he were to show them who he really is, be honest and true and himself–

An arm pulls him to a wide chest. Let them have their ideas; Alfred knows who he really is and that was all that mattered.