A/N: The first chapter of the sequel to HMMH has been uploaded! Huzzah!
First of all, I would like to apologize if this sequel is lacking. To be honest, though I've written little stories since I was a mere five years old, I don't believe I have ever made a sequel, let alone completed one. Clearly, I am an amateur, at best, so correct me on any mistakes, and feel free to make suggestions!
Second of all, for those of you coming into this FF without any knowledge of the first, I would recommend that you go back and read "Happily Merry, Merrily Happy" before continuing with this story. While it is not necessary, it may assist your understanding of certain events or mentionables.
Without further ado, I present to you "A Pound for a Pound". Enjoy and Review.
January 1st
New Year's Day
11:03 p.m.
Mistake #1: Alfred F. Jones had accused him of being predictable.
This alone unnerved Arthur Kirkland to no end. Another pointless, unproductive World Conference had been held just hours previous, and within that miniscule amount of time, the American had managed to top his "to torment" list. As mentioned earlier, Alfred had blatantly stated, "I expected you to say something like that". Alright, so most beings wouldn't bother wasting their thoughts on such a controversial, seemingly-harmless topic. Well... Arthur most certainly was not "most beings", regarding the many obvious facts about his personality, his eyebrows, and his lack of patience with others such as America. The details of the conversation remained a haze in his memories, though he could distinctly recall them talking about an incredibly… touchy subject. As he had predicted, Alfred had brought up the incident that had occurred a mere four days ago, taking advantage of the hectic, noisy room. Arthur had stated plainly that nothing had happened between them, and nothing ever would again. Then Alfred had let it slip; that he had expected such a reply from the bushy-browed Briton. Arthur had stormed off, appalled, and stood where he did currently.
He positioned himself in a crevice between two bookshelves in his cellar, various magic books scattered throughout the room in a messy array. His emerald eyes appeared almost crazed, and his short blonde hair was disheveled and sticking out on one side. Indeed, he had been at this plotting for hours, ever since his arrival back home from the meeting. However, one slight detail still had him puzzled and indecisive; how should he get back at Alfred? There were many possible ways; he could prank him, curse him, perform voodoo on him… the possibilities were vast, the only conflict coming from within the Englishman himself. While all of these forms of torture seemed plenty severe, they just weren't enough for Arthur. First, the younger nation had invited himself over to the Brit's house, and then the oven had deep-fried his house (well done like a steak). Following those events, Alfred had made his Christmas a living Hell, from knocking a Christmas tree over on top of him to feeding him alcohol-induced eggnog. I mean, really, who drinks something if the seal is broken… especially from Francis? The daft fool… Lastly, Alfred had given him reason to… erm, feel rather possessed and do something unmentionable to him. Now, he had been accused of predictability, and Alfred was sure to pay greatly.
But how? Admittedly, all of my little mishaps have occurred over special occasions or means of celebrating. He clutched his forehead in his hand, gritting his teeth. I mean, it's as if he's out to get me or something. Does the idiot have it in for me, perhaps? I doubt he's capable of actually disliking somebody. Each and every holiday is the same; a gift or a card is sent, and at times he even comes for a visit, but it usually just ends in disaster…
A little gasp sounded beside him, and the Briton lowered his head to find a little fairy-like creature sitting upon his shoulder. Her wings folded over casually as she leaned forward, cautious not to fall off of him, and whispered something in his ear. Arthur's green eyes regained their old, lively shimmer as his face twisted into a smirk. "That's it!" He thanked his diminutive companion and rushed up the stairs into the kitchen, grabbing a few miscellaneous books from the cabinet above the stove. Each little detail played like a broken record in his mind as he revisited each possibility and assured himself of their foolproof value. At last, things were beginning to turn up for the Briton. Maybe this would turn out to be a better year after all.
However, can things ever really go as planned when referring to him?
This was Alfred F. Jones he was plotting against, after all. Inexplicable to any, he always managed to pull through to victory in the end. Was it dumb luck, or perhaps a knowledge bound by secrecy? None will ever know.
None of these negative thoughts crossed his mind as he flung open one final book, the picture of a banana on the front.
********
"A-Alfred?" A small, quiet voice penetrated the barrier of the wooden door, separating the inside of the estate to the outside world. In the doorway stood Matthew Williams, dressed in a casual uniform with his blond hair slightly frizzed from the chilly January atmosphere. "Are you home?"
"Comin', Matthew, jus' a sec!" came the muffled reply. The Canadian lad released a stifled yawn, rubbing his slumberous violet eyes. Truth be told, he and Alfred were all but identical outwardly, differing mostly in hair length and the slightly slimmer build of Canada. Personalities prove to triumph over all, however, and this proves the distinction between the two; Matthew was a quiet, mild-speaking nation, often forgotten or ignored in the various controversial international conversations, while Alfred was… well, Alfred.
The door swung open with such a force that poor Matthew stumbled backwards, arms flying up defensively. "W-Whoa, Alfred, please!"
"Sorry," he said, grinning. "Well, come on in, then."
The Canadian nodded slowly, making his way lethargically into the living room and collapsing over the armrest of the sofa. A soft snoring erupted from his direction, and Alfred couldn't help but raise a questioning eyebrow. "Um… make yourself comfortable, I guess…"
A few hours passed before the guest awoke, and found himself sitting beside his brother on the couch. A cup of coffee snuggled in his gloved hands; Matthew took a sip, gulping it all down in a single swig. Alfred allowed his widening gaze to drift downward, resting upon his guest's trembling hands. Indeed, the man was shaking from head to toe in a full-out tremor, clearly unnerved about something. Of course, this was Matthew; no one really knew much about him to begin with, even Alfred… even Francis, who raised him, for crying out loud! "Um, Mathew, is something bothering you?"
The Canadian flinched at the voice, tearing his blank stare away from the wall. "Er…" A soft sigh escaped his lips. "I… I was given a resolution by Francis… he wants me to become more outgoing, if even by a little!" He spoke swiftly and barely audibly. "But, I mean, I haven't the slightest idea about such things! I mean… I just…" He clutched a pillow to his chest. "Listen to me, I can't even get to the point with you! I guess… what I'm trying to say… er…"
"Just quit trying, Mattie," he interrupted. "You expected me to help you become more sociable, correct?"
"Y-Yes…" His amethyst gaze flared. "I swear, Alfred, if you can manage to get me social enough by the end of the year, I will pay you back! You can have- virtually- whatever you want…" Another yawn slipped past his drying lips. "I got so worried and worked up about it that… well, you know."
"You… couldn't sleep?"
"No, not really."
Alfred let out an echoing chuckle, patting Matthew roughly on the shoulder. "Of course I'll assist you! After all, a hero must save a damsel in distress every once in a while, it's good for the soul!" He shot him a thumbs up, grinning brightly.
Matthew, as much as he disproved of the damsel in distress role, smiled softly in return. "Thank you." His face fell instantly. "Oh, that reminds me, Francis told me to warn you about something… now, what was it again? Something about England…"
The phone began to resonate on the end table, and Alfred reached over his brother to answer it. "Hello?"
A low, unfamiliar voice sounded. "Hello. Do not ask who I am. You are to meet me at-"
"What do you want, Arthur?"
A brief silence on the other end. "Damn, how'd you-"
"Caller ID."
"Oh… right… whatever. Meet me at my estate on the fifth. Don't be late, and don't come too early, like last time." The phone on the other end hung up, and Alfred did the same with his.
The American turned to his guest. "It seems as though Iggy wants to meet up. What was it you were saying again?"
"I don't even remember… something about Arthur, so just… erm, be careful? I guess?" Matthew leaned the back of his head against the soft couch fabric and instantaneously fell back into a deep slumber. Alfred blinked once, twice, before prying the hot coffee mug from his brother's hands. The last thing he needed was for the quiet boy to burn his hands while sleeping.
All the same, he couldn't help but anticipate the whatever-it-was that Arthur had in store for him this time.
*********
Arthur smirked a devilish smirk, adjusting his magic cloak around his shoulders. Come and get it, you bloody idiot. Your luck ends on the Twelfth Day.
A/N: For those of you who didn't know, the Twelfth Day is a "holiday" in the UK in which the Christmas decorations are removed, and it was once thought (and still is a bit) to bring bad luck if they were kept up past this date. It seemed appropriate for the events going on.
I know this was short, but I rewrote this chapter at least four times before I was even remotely satisfied. This story will not update quite as often as the other, but I hope you will continue regardless.