Four Times Alfred Celebrated His Birthday and One Time He Didn't
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but everyone knows that.
1.
Surrounded by seas of patriotic red, Alfred observed his flag fly jauntily under the golden sun. Thirteen gunshots echoed over the vigorous cheers of his people, saluting America's pride, glamour, and independence. The entire country has come together as one, commemorating the fruit of their sacrifices, celebrating the anniversary of the newfound nation.
He should be enjoying this, really. He should at least be smiling and waving. Or breaking down in delight. Or grabbing the nearest flag waver and enthusing over the festive decoration exultantly.
But he wasn't.
Francis found him hunched in the corner of his private room, having retreated from the nationalistic reveling, and the look the older nation bore into his bank exhibited so many years worth of wisdom and reading expressions that Alfred immediately felt exposed.
"Francis," he said, more on impulse than anything. "Do you think this is right?"
It was a display of mastery in cognition that Francis had no problem identifying the roots of the young nation's troubles. He scrutinized the somewhat-distraught Alfred noiselessly, save for a soft, pitiful sigh. "This…had he not shown you sentiment or enlarged your ego through decades of blind praises and encouragement, he would not be as he is now."
"Don't – " Alfred protested hoarsely, because Arthur does not deserve this, not when he had dropped the gun, allowed him to walk away – not when has lost so much already.
But Francis ignored him. "What I mean is, mon cher, that there is nothing incorrect in wanting to enjoy yourself in this animated extravaganza. Do not forget the Boston Massacre, Alfred, or how your people have endured the iniquitous taxation without representation. You have done no wrong but free your people from their previous torture, and pray, how is that a sin?"
Francis shut his eyes for a moment, bowing his head, and Alfred saw for the first time something in the older nation's bearing that suggested his relationship built over the many centuries with Arthur went beyond enmity and rancor. "Oui, he has loved you, and in his eyes you have betrayed him. However, as a true nation, you can fully develop your economy and military forces." Francis grasped both the boy's shoulders and the corners of his mouth twitched into a heartening grin. "You'll be able to repay the kindness he has shown you."
With that Alfred's eyes shone in renewed vitality. The previous gloom in his demeanor was lifted, and he stood tall and confident once more. A hero. A protector. A way to show that he cared as much as Arthur did him.
"Thanks, Francis," he breathed.
And Alfred, under Francis's ushering, proceeded to head to the cake room where the others were waiting with a considerably lighter step.
2.
"Congratulations."
Matthew blinked. "For what?"
"Your independence."
"But I'm not independent!"
Alfred leaned back on the grass, taking in the scent of dew and green as he gazed fondly above at one of the more dazzling night skies over America. "No, but you will soon be."
Matthew did not deny it.
There was a pause, but unlike the Paris Peace Conference the silence was neither chilly nor suffocating with suppressed tension. Both brothers found comfort in the natural stillness, swaying slightly to the breeze, indulging themselves in the remembrance of their young days spent doing nothing but letting nature embrace them.
"Mattie," Alfred blurted out, unexpectedly, and his brother jumped. "I'm glad."
He felt their bond, their spiritual connection, simmering to life. And Mathew knew.
I'm glad that you're gaining independence peacefully. I'm glad you're not trying to break away by violence.
The underlying regret in Alfred's voice must have been to alien to Matthew, because he found that his voice was suddenly lost in his own ambiguity. A shiver snaking up his arm made him realize that the sense of tranquility they had formerly felt had disappeared along with his voice.
"And…" Alfred's voice had dropped to almost an inaudible degree. Mathew shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling an inexplicable sense of unease.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. You know, for not hurting Arthur." He flopped on his back in a careless manner, almost, almost passing it as a casual statement, like it mattered little.
"Alfred," Mathew whispered, miserably, because things weren't going how it should at all. He took hold of his brother's hands, fixing on Alfred's dull eyes with his pleading own. "I didn't come here to talk about this. I came here because it's your birthday, and because you're my brother."
Alfred hesitated, swallowed, and nodded. "Okay," he whispered, but then he regained his strength and volume. "I'm just happy you're here for my party."
"Party? What party?"
Matthew squeaked as he was pulled down to the grass, facing his brother. "This party. Just me and my sweet little bro, lying under the splendors of what the galaxy has to offer."
He mirrored Alfred's smile. "Just you and me?"
"Just us."
3.
Alfred sneezed; the cold was getting annoying.
It was the one birthday he had without a companion by his side. There were no fancy presents, no colourful, sparkly decorations, no laughing voices singing "Happy Birthday" as he squeezed his eyes shut and wished for democracy all over the world.
The blame was hardly on them, in all honesty. He undoubtedly knew that the world held him responsible for the global crisis. No one would celebrate his anniversary of all things when they had so much on their hands.
He stared at the small flickering flame atop the plain cupcake, reminiscing the more edible results of Arthur's baking and how he and Mathew used to stick candles all over them.
He was alone now, with all the nations being only too keen to point and hate him. Despite it all, Alfred was certain he could make through it, and perhaps rescue the rest of the world as well.
Because I'm the hero.
"Happy birthday to me," Alfred sang, and blew out the single candle without making a wish.
4.
He had taken his economy out of consideration the moment he started choreographing his imposing birthday party that year. Or, rather, he had given his word to cut on celebration costs for the next decade on the condition that they made it particularly impressive for "one last time". It had admittedly taken much to persuade Alfred's boss, but no one, not even the superior, could resist Alfred's charisma, and in the end he succumbed.
To make the event more memorable, Alfred had declared a costume competition in which the winner would be determined by America's boss himself (who had, with a resigned gesture, agreed to take up the job) and judged based on the "overall impression" the costume gives off.
On the day of the anniversary, the White House had undergone a complete makeover. Balloons, shiny streamers and sparkly lights swathed the entire ceiling. The American flag was draped across an entire wall, alluring and grand. A million silvery stars scattered across the floor gave the inkling of having the sky under your feet.
It was perfect; the countries were pleasantly enchanted by the glow of the adornments. Feliks, donned in a majestic robe and rode in on a golden pony, instantly found the gleam on the five layers of vanilla icing of the cake very much appealing and would not budge from the spot until Toris finally dragged him away.
On the whole, Alfred was extremely pleased with the smooth proceedings of the event. The nations were enjoying themselves, and even his boss seemed to have abandoned his stiff mien and was losing himself to the merry music. While admittedly he was somewhat disappointed that a certain nation had failed to show up yet again, but years of letdown had taught him not to take it too hard.
All was perfect. That was, until Ivan showed up in a tattered, British military uniform.
With blood on it.
(Or dark, red paint. But with Ivan, one couldn't be sure.)
Alfred could not help it; he stared. Ivan caught him gaping and beamed widely.
No words were exchanged, but none was needed. Alfred's stiffened, his eyes flaring in hostility, but Ivan was hardly intimidated. He held Alfred's glower with an unruffled gaze and a slight tilt of his head.
Alfred clenched his fists, turned, and stalked away.
He did not know whether Ivan had won the costume competition. He had long left the party when the results were announced.
1.
It wasn't his tercentenary; Alfred was only two hundred and ninety-nine years old.
He could be back in his capital, enjoying cake, sipping coffee, making the best of his day off. Instead, he was on Arthur's doorstep, freezing despite of the forecasted temperature, soaked to the knee, and downright miserable.
Alfred would be lying if he said he hadn't seen such heavy rain before, but being literally in one as opposed to observing under dry shelter was another matter entirely. He was starting to doubt as to whether the trip across the North Atlantic merited his efforts; there was no guarantee that Arthur would accept his invitation, and he would have trudged in the mud under two hours worth of downpour in vain.
Not to mention the return trip, which would unquestionably just as wet.
Though, in all likelihood, Arthur would agree to show up next year, just as he did on his centenary and bicentenary. But Alfred wanted make certain, and what better than to show his sincerity than to personally request Arthur's presence the birthday before?
Brushing water off his hair, as well as every reachable part of his body, Alfred knocked, waited, knocked again, waited, knocked once more.
Nobody answered.
Impatience, and perhaps a touch of unfathomable anxiety, drove more strength into Alfred's twisting the doorknob. In an unpleasant burst of passion, the door came right off its hinge. Alfred glared exasperatedly at the broken structure in his hand, shuddering at Arthur's would-be fury when the man found out.
That didn't stop him from abandoning the abused door and striding through the house in search of Arthur (of course he had the decency of removing his mud-wrecked boots first). Passing the stairs, he noticed that the calendar had not been updated – The first and second of July had been crossed out, and yet the third remained untouched, despite the forth being a two-thirds over.
He called Arthur's name once, twice, before finding his brother asleep and apparently unconscious to the massive noise he had just made, regardless of the opened bedroom door. Alarmed, and in fit of paranoia, he had almost leaped forward in taking Arthur's wrist under his fingers, just to make sure – make sure it wasn't –
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and set Arthur's arm back down, but new bemusement engulfed him, if the huge amount of paperwork upon the desk indicated anything. What was his brother doing on a working day, sleeping at five in the afternoon?
Then he saw the blue packet, half-opened, sitting indifferently on the bedside table. He reached towards it in automatic motion, hardly thinking, running his finger across the word white words on the front packaging…
He'd seen this before. He'd used this before, back in the Second World War when Japan posed an attack on his Pearl Harbor and all hell broke loose…
Alfred remembered all the previous years when he had tried to call Arthur on his birthday, only to be redirected to the voicemail box. He recalled all the times he had been drowning in fun and cheer, unaware of the lonely house dead to the world across the ocean.
Alfred dropped the packet, took the limp, oblivious Arthur in his arms, and wept into his brother's chest.
End