A/N: This is a gift fic for Indigo Pheonix.I had a heck of a time getting this one up, so I'm sorry it's a little late. I also apologize, both to her and to all of you, because I can't write romance. I. Just. FAIL. No...I phail. That's even worse. But here are your boys, Al and Iggy, with a candid appearance from my boy, Matty, writing in all special-like for your big day:
Memory Lane
"Remind me again why were doing this?" Arthur muttered, voice nearly drowned out by the sheer volume of photo albums separating him from his overenthusiastic partners in crime.
"Because, Iggy, even heroes need help! This project was to big to handle by myself," Alfred declared, popping up from behind a hefty stack of books and attempting to balance on his elbows atop the stack, achieving only a satisfying crash as he brought the mountain down on top of himself.
"And that answers my question how?" Arthur asked, exasperated - as usual- by America's non-sequiturs, leaning over to help clear books of the idiot's flattened form.
"What he means to say," America's less boisterous twin interjected from behind his own towering pile, " is that the authoress, Thirteen Tulips or something, asked us to dig up some nice memories for her friend's birthday celebration. Since she hasn't killed us in any of her writing yet, I said why not. And...well.. she remembers my name, eh?"
"That's nice Michael," Arthur replied absentmindedly. "I wish you boys would have said something in the first place. I don't need any silly photos to remind me of your childhoods. Like the first time I ever met Alfred, in the woods not far from here..."
"You mean when I was still wandering around in that ridiculously feminine dress?" the loud nation's head finally cleared the upper layer of books once more. "Can we please skip to a more modern memory? Like after I discovered pants?"
"Thank goodness I missed that phase for you, eh?" Matthew grinned, "My first memory of you is when you tried to take Kumajiro away from me."
"You hit me with a branch," Alfred recalled with a frown.
"It was a stick!" Matthew retorted.
"We were little, that stick seemed huge in comparison to my head! I had a goose egg for weeks."
"Now that you mention it," England mused, "That could explain a lot."
"Iggy!"
"Well, it could, eh?"
"Shut up, Matty! You started this anyway" Alfred sulked, frown swiftly morphing into a pout.
"Alright, alright. I guess I'll go start lunch then, eh?" Matthew backed out of the room, hands thrown up in a surrender.
Alfred glared at the door for a good three minutes after his twin exited, before turning back to his remaining companion. "So, anymore trips down memory lane you feel like taking?"
Silence greeted his question.
"Iggy?...Arthur? Heloooo?" He found the elder nation sitting exactly where he had been before Canada's departure, fingers tracing an ancient worn photograph. America recognized the picture instantly, but wondered if it may be better to pretend he hadn't.
More specifically, the page contained a series of pictures, all replicas of painstakingly painted portraits dating back to pre-Revolutionary War times. The fist was of himself and Canada, decked out in their childhood finest and looking beyond agitated with their situation, an exasperated England in the background. The second was commissioned later in their time together. He easily appeared as a teenager and Canada's face had matured into lanky adolescence. They sat more upright in this painting, and their hair - for once- lay flat, just as England had combed it and they wore expression schooled into perfect obedience. It was an awful portrayal of them and Alfred thought that Arthur realized this, because of all their portraits, this one alone never hung on any wall in the Briton's spacious house.
The next painting displayed them in the most accurate light, he thought, but hearing him say that would break Arthur's heart. The third and last painting represented their family just before the war. He remembered putting that awful suit on that Arthur insisted upon and sitting, straight backed beside Canada, who was dressed in a similar fashion. The picture should have been the most stunning of the lot and, in Alfred's opinion, an artist could successfully argue that none of the other portraits held a candle to this on.
Perhaps that was why Arthur hated it so.
Tension radiated from the work. His expression, Arthur's white knuckled grip on the back of his chair and the grim, miserable set of Canada's mouth beside him all told of terrible, awful, heartbreaking events to come, events no one in this painting could possibly have imagined.
"Awful, isn't it?" Alfred jumped at the unexpected question. "How stupid was I, to think that dressing you up and forcing you into another family outing could help the situation?"
"Arthur-"
"No. You were right. I should have learned my lesson the first time and left you be. But I keep coming back. Bloody hell, I'm sitting in your basement going through photo albums! For God's sake Alfred, why do you even have these?" His voice broke on the last half of his rant and Alfred stepped over the books between them to kneel at the Brit's side.
Wrapping one arm around his companion's shoulder, he used his free hand to wipe away the tears the rolled down Arthur's face. "You're here because I want you here," he replied evenly. "You'll always be a part of me Arthur and I don't ever want to forget that. I may be a big, grown up nation, but I need you more than ever. Just...in a different way. And the portraits are here, because France discovered Photoshop and gave me the originals, plus his 'edited' version. Don't ask, it wasn't pretty. And you going to ruin them if you insist on weeping all over the pages."
By this time Arthur was indeed sobbing, his entire body trembling with the force of his cries. He struggled for composure, losing time and again until he finally found something warm and soft and decidedly familiar against his lips.
Alfred broke the kiss and instant later, moving his mouth to settle a kiss on the shorter man's head. "Breathe."
They sat there for a moment, just inhaling the essence of one another's company. It wasn't until several heartbeats later that Arthur realized that a weight had lifted off of his lap. He looked down to find only his tan pant legs, no album to be found. "How did you do that?" he inquired, tilting his head up at America.
"Trade secret," the younger nation replied.
"Trade?"
"Keeping you distracted is an art form. Although, if you really want to look for it, there's a whole lot of books in here and we've got nothing but time."
Arthur looked around the room at the plethora of books piled nearly to the ceiling and decided he was fine where he was, thanks.
Just then, the door swung open and Matthew poked his head in. And stared. Arthur stared back, trapped on Alfred's lap by the other strong grip. Alfred stared at both of them, smiling into Arthur's hair. After two agonizingly long heartbeat, Matthew blinked and said, "Dinner will be in the microwave then, if you want some, eh?" and ducked back out into the hallway, retreating towards his room with every intent of calling Ivan to plot a way to spend the free time he suddenly foresaw in his near future, the sound of Arthur's indignant, embarrassed shrieking following him every step of the way.
Sorry it's not longer, but it's late and I'm tired. Happy Birthday, hon.