"If I take in my hands a little bird, and she grows and wishes to fly. But I will not let her out of my hands because I love her so much, is that right for me to do?"

- 'A View from the Bridge' by Arthur Miller

Alfred is like an eagle, just like his country's national emblem. He is everything America is – patriotism, independence, pride, ambition, freedom…

Freedom.

Even after all those years, the very mention of that word made Arthur's heart ache. No matter how hard he tried to bury the memories deep at the back of his mind, they always found a way to resurface – particularly at that time of year.

He still remembers the years shortly after Alfred declared his independence. He'd been so alone. He'd never had many friends, after all - unless you counted Francis, which Arthur usually didn't. It was a good two hundred years or so before he'd even had it in him to attend any of the parties his former colony held every year since that day – he always had the feeling he would either end up punching Alfred in the face, or breaking down in front of him the same as he had back then. He couldn't believe Alfred could have the nerve to actually celebrate the anniversary of the day when he'd abandoned the person who loved him more than anyone else in the world.

Arthur usually spent the fourth of July drowning his sorrows in alcohol, though it never made him feel any better – he usually ended up thinking of Alfred, which made him feel worse, which led to yet another beer and more crying, until he eventually fell asleep and dreamed of Alfred before waking up the next morning with the worst hangover he'd have all year. Afterwards, Arthur would be back to normal – at least until someone mentioned Alfred, when he would suddenly feel that familiar weight pressing down on his heart and making him feel gloomy and depressed for the next few hours.

Sometimes Matthew would join him in the pub, since he never particularly enjoyed Alfred's annual celebrations – he wasn't really the party type, and the only time anyone even noticed he was there was if someone happened to mistake him for his brother and wish him a happy Independence Day. More often than not, he ended up spending the evening awkwardly patting Arthur on the arm in an effort to console him, while Arthur reminisced about the time when Alfred had been 'like the younger brother he'd never had', with tears streaming down his face. Once, when Arthur had been particularly drunk, he'd genuinely thought Matthew was Alfred and punched him in the face, before hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe while mumbling all sorts of incoherent nonsense in his drunken state – Matthew could have sworn he heard the words flying mint bunny at one point, much to his confusion. The two of them hadn't spent much time together after that – it was only a few years before Canada himself became an independent country.

Not long after Alfred had left, Arthur had found a bird with a broken wing lying injured in his garden. He had brought it into the house, bandaged its wing and taken care of it, and before he knew it he had become rather attached to the poor creature. During the few months he took care of it while it healed, it became a much-loved pet. He'd even affectionately named it Alfred, since it had the same bright eyes and energetic personality that reminded him so much of his former colony.

However, the day came when the bird was able to fly again, and Arthur knew that soon he would have to set it free. Even so, it was with a heavy heart that he watched it soar away into the sky – it only reminded him of a certain someone who had left him alone not too long ago.

As much as Arthur wished he could have kept that bird, he knew deep down that he had to let it go. After all, it had been his own selfishness that eventually caused Alfred to leave – perhaps if he hadn't been so protective over him, made him play by his rules, tried his very best to keep the young nation close even though he knew that Alfred had grown up and needed his own space, his own freedom – maybe, just maybe, he might have stayed.

Of course, Alfred and Arthur had partially healed the rift between them over the years – particularly during World War I, as the two of them had ended up cooperating and Arthur couldn't deny that the Allies wouldn't have been nearly as victorious without the Americans' help. The two of them had become rather close friends since, though Arthur would never admit it – no matter how much he loved Alfred, he really was an insufferable git, as he often said. They sometimes went out for drinks together, though more often than not Arthur would get drunk and start babbling about how he 'just wanted to be friends', much to Alfred's confusion - being as oblivious as ever, it never occurred to him that Arthur might have been talking about the Revolutionary War. Despite the fact that they were friends again, Arthur could never quite get over the fear that one day Alfred might leave him alone like he had so many years before.

Alfred, it turned out, loved Arthur just as much as Arthur loved him. Arthur still remembers the day Alfred had confessed to him quite clearly – they'd still been sitting in the meeting room after a particularly long and tedious World Conference, and just as Arthur had been about to leave the meeting room, Alfred had caught hold of Arthur's arm in a vice grip while blushing and looking around as though he wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure how to begin.

'If there's something you want to tell me, spit it out, lad.' Arthur had said, 'I haven't got all day.'

Alfred had been silent for a moment, trying to find the words, before finally blurting it out.

'I… I love you, England.'

Arthur had been completely speechless, but the look in his eyes said it all. He stood there in shock for a split second, and before he even knew it he was practically sobbing and hugging Alfred so tightly he thought he'd never be able to let go. Alfred had simply held him while he cried, allowing Arthur to let go all the emotions he'd kept bottled up for all these years. Never had Arthur thought that the one person who had shattered his heart into a million tiny shards could pick up the pieces and put it all back together again, but here they were and it was all so wonderful.

'…America?'

'Yeah?'

'Don't ever leave me again, you arse.'

Alfred only smiled and hugged Arthur tighter.

THE END.

A/N: This could be better, I know. (The end is so cheesy it makes me want to vomit... I cannot write fluff. At all.) Oh well, it's not quite as bad as some other stuff I've tried to write, so I hope you liked it anyways. Constructive criticism is happily accepted! ~