Before Arthur knew it, it had rolled around again. He'd been so busy with work; he'd hardly glanced at the calendar for the past few days. America's – no, Alfred's birthday – the Fourth of July. The heart-wrenching pain of that date had long since faded to a dull aching, a longing for what he could never have, but Arthur knew he would still head to a pub after work, knew he would get hopelessly drunk and spill an incomprehensible slur of sobs and secrets to the knowing bartender, knew he would stumble home barely conscious and wake up with a terrible hangover the next day. It had been hundreds of years – almost three hundred? – but nations weren't human, and their memories didn't fade as easily. Even now, when Alfred was all grown up, Arthur still felt the pain, and he knew he would continue to feel it for centuries to come.
There was a G8 meeting scheduled in the afternoon of the Fourth of July. Arthur had been moody and glum the whole day, but the other nations knew better than to question him and wisely stayed out of his way. As soon as the meeting ended, he'd grabbed his briefcase and opened his mouth to excuse himself, but before he could get a word out Francis had grabbed his arm. "Everyone, how about we head to a bar to celebrate Amérique's birthday? What do you all say?" He winked at the nations present, who all voiced their assent. Alfred had bounced out of his seat, blue eyes sparkling and his laughter mingling with the chorus of voices. Arthur felt his heart sinking. There was no way he could escape this, not with Francis holding his arm in a vice-like grip. He glanced up at the standing nation and bit back a groan. Francis's eyes were telling him: you can't run away forever.
The nations' chatter overfilled the tiny bar and spilled out into the quiet street. After a few rounds of drinks, some of the lighter drinkers started to get tipsy. Among the laughter and conversations, someone suggested that they start giving Alfred the presents that they'd prepared. Alfred had leapt from his seat, pumping his fist and exclaiming, "AWESOME! Present time!"
One by one, the nations stood to present Alfred with gifts wrapped in colourful paper and adorned with bows, each one shaking his hand and speaking a few words. Gradually, as the nations returned to their seats empty-handed, Arthur, who had been desperately trying to blend into the wallpaper, felt an impending sense of doom as he saw no escape route. Downing his fifth glass of scotch, he felt a familiar fuzziness steal over his mind. Finally, all eyes fell on him as Matthew sat down, albeit with some help.
Clearing his throat, he took a slim, rectangular package from his briefcase. Every year, he always carried Alfred's presents around, waiting but failing to find suitable opportunities to give them to him personally. In the end, he always ended up mailing it to Alfred's house. He thought about how much he hated his guts as he made his way over to Alfred.
As Arthur stood before the most powerful nation in the world, his former colony, his little brother, he suddenly felt the words he'd been rehearsing get stuck in his throat and his vision seemed to flicker. The next moment, he wasn't there anymore.
The sky was overcast with dirty gray clouds and the rain was falling in sheets, drowning out any commands he could've shouted. The ground was muddy and littered with puddles. He was on his knees, his younger brother standing before him.
Alfred – no, the United States of America gazed down at him with his piercingly blue eyes (God, why were his eyes so sad), and uttered the words that even now still haunted him in his dreams, "England… You used to be so… great."
"Iggy? Hey, dude!" Suddenly, he was back; a silence as thick and still as cold coffee had descended over the room. Alfred was staring at him with the same (God don't look at me) blue eyes and it hurt it hurt it goddamn hurt. Arthur pushed his gift into Alfred's hands, muttered a barely audible "happy birthday", grabbed his briefcase and left the room before anyone could stop him.
He'd made it halfway down the street before he heard an all-too familiar voice yell, "Iggy! Wait!"
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland froze in his tracks in the middle of the street. Run, screamed his mind, but for some reason or another he found that his legs would not comply. As Alfred caught up to him, panting, he bit his lip hard and steeled himself.
"Geez, what got into your pants? You could've at least stayed for the cake!" Arthur heard Alfred complain, his voice bright and resonant. It reminded him of a field full of cornflowers on a hot summer's day. "Iggy? What's wrong? Hey, are you drunk?" He felt Alfred's hand on his shoulder, his palm warm, burning even; and bit back a sob. He'd swore never to let Alfred see this side of him, not when he was drunk and half conscious and not even sure if he could string together a proper sentence. "I'm fine, Al, leave me alone…" he slurred, making a half-hearted attempt to push Alfred away and taking a few teetering steps forward. "Dude, how could I? You can't even walk in a straight line!" He felt Alfred's arm around his shoulder, steadying him. Arthur felt a wave of annoyance rush through his veins, making his skin prickle. "You bloody arse, let go – it's the Fourth of July, GET OFF!" He gave Alfred a hard shove, stumbling forward. There was a brief stretch of silence in which Alfred gaped with his mouth open and Arthur tried to catch his breath, his heart racing. Then – "Dude, you're still harping on about that?" Alfred let out a breath which sounded a lot like a sigh, the corners of his lips quirking up. The next moment, Arthur found himself pinned against a nearby telephone box, trapped in the cage of Alfred's arms, Alfred himself gazing down at him, honey-coloured hair falling across his oh-so-blue eyes. Arthur suddenly found his breath hitching in his throat and his eyelids slipping shut as Alfred leaned down and pressed their lips together.
As Alfred slowly broke the kiss and pulled back, the both of them gasping for breath, Arthur finally realised how hard his heart was hammering in his chest. Before he could even get a word out, Alfred had leaned in again and this time he whispered in Arthur's ear, so close that he could feel Alfred's warm breath against his cheek, "Please, England, won't you stay?"
Arthur decided, as Alfred took his hand and pulled him in the direction of the bar, that giving in this once wouldn't hurt that much after all.