A/N: most information came out the history, 1776, by David Mccullough. Good read, yo!

In One Ear, Out the Other

—

1775, Bunker Hill.

The two of them were dashing in their way.

On one side, the ancient yet fresh-faced upstart of the Old World: dressed in a continental jacket though he was a sea power, a pirate at heart, one who had come to the west for plunder, one haunted by ghosts and superstition, one who has seen the most complicated of languages unravel in the hands of its genius-writers and thinkers. Arthur Kirkland, England, he had challenged the continent for superiority only a few years before, and won. He knew the price of being on top, and it suited him.

"You are mine," he reminded the other man. His voice hinged between arrogance and sincerity. He narrowed his eyes methodically, waited for the reply.

"I'm independent of you," came the answer. It rumbled out of a chest newly broader than Arthur's. He was still a boy really, but he dared to challenge the hand that had carried him.

Alfred F. Jones: he had been a laughing child, throwing himself in Arthur's arms before he could even come ashore in Virginia. Even then, he had seemed to offer himself up entirely to the older nation, as a younger sibling to a brother, a lover to a lover, or a son seeking approval from his father.

Now, he stood with his chin up and his shoulders squared. If Arthur had not been angry (and indeed, yes, hurt) he would have been proud of the man that Alfred had become. Now, he called himself America. The United States.

—

1776, Boston.

Boston: industrious, loud, angry, vigilant, overbearingly religious. The hotbed of the dissent, Arthur called it. He disliked it, yet it respected it.

No matter, he scoffed, his generals would take it and the colonists have nothing to say of it. Indeed, January 1776, the English have settled in for a winter in Boston, while Alfred's forces cower outside, biting their nails and thinking.

Thinking—what is there to do? They must know, they cannot be ignorant: England is in charge. England is the west's most powerful, most republican, most affluent empire in the world. And England would only grow greater, as the map shrinks and English ships reach every nook and cranny of the world—bringing language, Christ, and tea with them. And manners! Of Heavens, yes. Manners indeed.

Yet still, despite his seat in his Bostonian manor, Arthur felt a little uneasy, watchful.

—

He awoke with a gun pointed at his throat.

Dorchester Heights—he knew they should have taken this stronghold! Well, now the rebels had it. The rebels, with their guns from Ticonderoga, guns that had traveled many, many miles over ice in the dead of winter. And even more astounding—the rebels had gathered their supplies and made a silent march to settle in the Heights in one night!

Now, General Washington's guns were turned to Boston, and the English. Arthur could almost see Alfred standing, surveying the scene in his ragtag blue coat, a mere cry of the splendor of the British army. Yet Arthur could hear form his window Alfred laughing and talking easily, and see the white grin on his strong face.

They would have to retreat, with heads bowed and their pride a little ruffled. Arthur would not forget.

—

"You should really stop this now," Arthur told him, standing straight before him, one eye cocked, one leg turned out in the gentlemanly fashion.

Alfred looked at him, at once serious and casual—that strange mix that arrested everyone who caught his glance. He shrugged, but his voice was low. "Then your king must address my people's grievances."

"Your grievances are naught," Arthur ground out.

They were standing on a hill, alone, a good way from New York City. Now the tables were turned: the colonists were busy preparing to defend the city against the inevitable British fleet—a fleet growing in number and arriving everyday, everyday more ships, more guns, more men, when the Americans were only decreasing in number and strength.

Alfred would not show his distress; he knew his general, a man after his own heart, and though the man surely could laugh a bit more, he trusted him. He turned to the older nation before him. His relaxed pose tensed at once, as if he had become another person.

"Bunker Hill," he said. "Lexington, Concord. The Acts, arriving day after day after day, telling them that they have nothing to do with anything anymore." He blinked. "My friend, your king has erred. A tide is coming that will sweep the whole world away in its power, and even your ships will not be able to stand it."

Arthur was quiet a moment, struck by the words of a man he remembered eating bugs and playing in the mud. But, gosh, that seemed so long ago now.

"Do you think you will come back?" he asked now, his voice just above a whisper. He realized now, all too soon, how badly he wanted Alfred back. He wanted him back, but he also wanted to be right. The two were incompatible.

Alfred knew this. But this was no longer about just the two of them as friends, but about the countries that were developing—so different, vastly different. Apart. Already they were speaking a different dialect, developing different traditions, thinking and acting and loving in completely different ways.

"I don't think we can come back."

—

July 4, 1776.

The day was hot, hotter than hell, with the sun and the news.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

Alfred wept a little at the words, reading them that night by candlelight—caught between absolute joy, righteousness, and grief. Nothing would ever be the same, just as he had said.

—

July 4, 1776.

…these United Colonies are, and of Right out to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved…

Arthur felt a burn in his veins, and took another twig of his drink. Nothing would ever be the same, just as Alfred had said.

—

Alfred watched them die.

One by one, little flames of indignation, of truth, of idealism, out. Youths, old men, children, the veterans of the French and Indian War, the new recruits. As the year dragged on, he felt first their cold feet, the way the ice screwed itself between the skin cells, causing frostbite. He felt the hunger, the raw emptiness that made them long for home. He felt their severed limbs, their limp legs, their sleep-deprived brains.

He felt their loneliness.

Men from diverse backgrounds, all of them, but with one thing in common: a love for home and hearth. Scores of wives stood with their babes, staring out windows, waiting. Tense. Pensive. Smiling but not meaning it.

They were all terribly, horribly, irrevocably lonely, and they died.

Alfred watched the British traipse all over his beautiful green country, settling themselves in for the winter, ready to wait until the next warring season, in the spring. The British were not hasty, but silent and watchful and patient. As such, they have crawled on all fours through the annals of history, and made themselves great.

So too would Washington with the United States.

—

1781, Yorktown.

It was pissing rain, and freezing, to boot.

"You are being a fool," Arthur raged, shivering his jacket, wrapping the wool around his face.

"You are being a fool doubly-so," Alfred cheerfully told him, his cheeks and nose pink with cold.

"How do you see that?"

"I am at least in my own country, Art. You could be home to your tea-cozy and socks."

Arthur growled, furious at being bated about his very English habits. "If your rebel would just admit that you guys are being petty thieves, then we could all go home."

"Thieves?"

"Yes!" Arthur wailed. "You really expect your sovereign not to tax you? When the war for which we are paying was fought for your protection?"

"Not our sovereign," Alfred smiled.

"George was enough of your sovereign to defend you from the French and the Indians," Arthur cried.

"Yes, but not enough to keep us off of our rightful land, or to pretend that those pampered fools in London really know us here in the colonies," Alfred said, his voice now dreadfully silent. "And you are even more the fool if you really think at this point surrender is in our vocabulary."

Arthur was silent a moment, then he muttered, "No, I did not really think. But I hoped."

—

1783, the Treaty of Paris.

It was finally true. The words Alfred had said, long ago on the grass on Bunker Hill.

"What will become of you?" Arthur asked quietly, standing with the treaty in his hand, It was shaking.

"What will become of us?" Alfred asked instead, eyeing him again with his strange mock-serious eyes.

"I don't know," Arthur burst suddenly, in a passion, with emotion. "Why did you have to do this? We were together, that was all that mattered, right?" He felt the betrayal fully now that it was complete. "I gave you everything. Was your 'freedom' worth that?"

Alfred blinked, and was quiet a moment. "Do you remember, when I was small, the stories you used to tell me? Great stories of your greatest kings, and indeed, your queen, Elizabeth? I thrived on those stories, and I learned something from them too, I think.

"I learned from you, Arthur, to love my people. To love them first and foremost, above even you, my mentor and friend, and yes, my family in many ways. But you have done your job too well, I think," and his smile gathered at the corners of his mouth. "For where the tide of my people go, I go too."

Alfred paused, waited for the other man to speak, but he did not. After a moment, he added in a small but firm voice, "I hope that you can see here that we're trying to create, not merely destroy."

Arthur stared, but said nothing. Then he walked away, boarded a ship, and sailed back to his island country. Alfred watched him go, knowing what this meant, even as he had watched the Continental Congress argue, and Washington march, and the Bostonians spill tea. This meant years of rage, of misunderstanding, of petty little things. He sighed.

Was there hope? He briefly wondered. How do I reconcile hurting a dear friend with following the needs of my country? He had thought long and hard, for years, indeed, long before Arthur ever heard of Patrick Henry, Benjamin Franklin, or any other ranklers for "freedom."

Perhaps—perhaps, this was a way to honor Arthur too, Alfred prayed. By taking the ideals of freedom, individualism, the dignity of man to the nth degree, in some way, the new country was inheriting England's glory, and perfecting it. This was their goal, their dream. In this way, perhaps, there could still be love between the two.

(Oh, even though, even though it was the most painful thing Arthur had had to bear, and it was terrifying for Alfred, even though this was the worst thing that's ever happened to them—it was still healing. After the screams, and the tears, and the fire, then comes the birth.)

FIN.

A/N: love? reviewreviewreview

A/N: did i need to add historical notes? i don't know :/ i tried to use typical dates/battles/etc.