England's characteristic eyebrow's twitched, absorbing the amount of damage one person did to his house in one hour. The couch was ripped apart and turned over, the table broke in half with it's legs scattered, food littered the carpet, the wallpaper starting to peel off. It seemed like a party had ensued inside his house, but he knew for a fact that that wasn't the case. It was plain and simple:
America had come to visit.
"Bloody git." he hissed, shaking his head. "Why does he always have a need to destroy my house whenever he stops over…?" he sighed, pulling a chair upright and sitting on it, hearing the ancient furniture creaking slightly with his weight. "I only left him alone for an hour or more…"
Arthur jumped out of his chair with shock when the bookcase against the wall fell, the books falling all over the stained carpet. One of the books, a big binder-like one, slid towards his feet, paper sticking out of it and falling out of it. He stared at it, then carefully picked up the thick hardcover, flipping it over to look at the title. Some of the paper slid out, and he blinked with surprise.
"'Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland's Photo Album'…? This old thing is still around…" he pursed his lips, sitting back down to open it and look through the pages. His eyes seemed to light up. "This is when Alfred was still a colony of mine!" he smiled, looking through the book, laughing slightly at the photos the little child then wanted to take. Embarrassing ones of himself, and some of his 'father' country. Some of them were amusing, and made Arthur feel like an old man. But some were very sweet, like an infant America falling asleep on Arthur's lap. It brought a few tears to his eyes.
"That stupid bloody git…" he laughed. "He was so adorable as a little boy…oh?" he frowned slightly, finding a picture of a depressed Alfred staring at a bowl of cereal, but smoke wisped from it. It was the time he had accidentally burned poor Alfred's cereal. He had gotten upset, and refused to eat for the rest of the day.
Arthur chuckled slightly, remembering the time he had raised Alfred. At times when he would misbehave, he would always threaten him with Marmite, why he wasn't sure even now. Alfred was, and still is, terrified of Ghosts, and he would always cry whenever Arthur left him, for fear the ghosts would take him away. And just to prove this, the night before he knew Arthur was leaving him, he would automatically wet the bed. It was a ritual he seemed to have no control of, and he didn't understand why he couldn't control it.
He leaned back in the old chair, listening to it creak. How long had it been? So many years ago. Now Alfred was gone, off across the Atlantic Ocean. How he missed his little Alfie, he missed the times he spent teaching him all he knew, helping him get on his feet and grow strong. But the painful part is watching them go, and leave. The Revolution, he sighed as he remembered.
"I wish that he could be an infant again." he whispered, holding the closed book against his chest. Then the country's eyes snapped open, a thought coming to him. "I wonder…?" he dropped the book as he sprinted down towards the basement, where he freely practiced Black Magic. Using the lock he always had on him, he ran in and towards the second bookcase, ripping out a thick textbook. Quickly he flipped the pages, finding the recipe he needed. He smirked.
"Perfect! I'll ready have it ready in time for the World Meeting tomorrow!" he said to himself, reading it over rapidly, purposely avoiding the side effects. "Alfred won't know what hit him!"
