Where the sun never sets
If England could name the single biggest complaint he had, he might be inclined to say his brothers, the economy, or even Francis ( not that the actual country interfered with his lands much anymore, but the man would still piss him off for old times sake.) Today, however, it was alcohol. England did not get pitifully drunk, not to the degree that America kept exaggerating. Once, it had been once, and it hadn't been the best week to begin with. The morning brought him the usual consequences: head ache, eighteen missed calls from the queen, and an over all sense of wanting to crawl into a hole and die. He had started the night in a nondescript flat in England and woke up in a lavish bedroom, a suspiciously french bedroom. Oh dear lord, what had he done? One of two things passed England's mind, the first being that Francis had gotten a hold of him in (cough) said alcoholic episode and had messed with him before dropping him off in one of his nicer hotels. He hoped the idiot hadn't managed to get him on tape this time. After a certain part of North America that will not be mentioned put a video of England talking to himself on public servers, everyone's bosses agreed that they couldn't have that sort of publicity on them, especially, when some of England's people had revealed pictures of him, old pictures, things taken before the stupid internet. With the nations having their own video service, everyone was guaranteed to see it (many subscribed to France's account Messing with England.)
The second thought that crossed his mind was that for once he had the sense to retire early and book a room at the nearest hotel that looked decent. Arthur sincerely hoped so. The door opened, and England ducked under the covers for good measure. However, he did not hear Francis's mocking tones as he expected. Instead, he heard heavy footsteps coming closer, possibly military, judging by the uniform movement and force. Oh, the queen hadn't gone to the trouble of sending someone after him did she? Reluctantly, he pulled the covers down to see . . . America? In a white military uniform, an odd surprise since he wasn't known to sport such things these days. (He'd been barred from openly participating some time ago. England believed Lincoln had set the precedent if he remembered correctly.) He lingered near the bed, neither laughing at him for his stupidity or urging him to rise and suck it up. No, America waited, lacking expression as he looked down at England. It unsettled him that America remained so still, analytical almost as he noted the unkempt man. Finally, he leaned over and shook England, startling the Brit in how pliable his body became, like a rag doll, under the grip. England knew America's strength but what worried him was how focused that strength was. It practically screamed of military conquest.
"Hey, Great Britain, you have things to do today," he urged, the tone formal and matter of fact: simply business. Why he heard such talk come from America, he had no idea. England blinked as he comprehended those words. Perhaps, he had entered some sick and twisted dream. (It wouldn't be the first time that nonsensical what ifs passed his thoughts, but it wasn't even close to America's birthday or many of the other things he'd like wished away: India's perpetual resistance, France's annoying existence, and of course Germany's persistent bombing of his homeland.) It also did not seem to be the work of a time machine or telephone box, judging from the over all normalcy of the place.
"What did you say America?" he asked for confirmation of such a tall claim. It wouldn't be the first time Alfred confused his name, but to add the word Great, he must have hit his head hard. America frowned, searching his eyes before simply sighing. He walked over to the dresser, picking out clothes of all things. Was he in his room? America put the clothes down beside England. He unfolded the shirt and unbuttoned it so the fabric hung loosely for use. England didn't know whether to attempt leaving in his boxers to avoid being so uncomfortably close while he dressed or simply divert his eyes, both of which still left him somewhat mortified in one way or another. America grabbed his hand, causing England to instantly recoil, but he could not break free of the hold.
"Funny, you normally throw me against the wall when you're this cranky, and yet you can't even break loose from my grip today. What have you been doing Britain?" This sounded a bit more like he would expect Alfred to act. He gave an obligatory scowl, appearances and all. Alfred immediately broke eye contact, seeming to drop the playful attitude instantly. England wasn't sure how to fix his sudden relapsed into silence. This did not remain Arthur's priority for long. Alfred proceeded to push Arthur's arm through the sleeve. He wouldn't have that.
"Alfred, stop that, I can dress myself," Arthur insisted which had Alfred pause, before fishing out some socks. The implications of it made England dizzy. Did he win some bet to have America so . . . so like this? England was about to freak out officially when Alfred spoke.
"You went out drinking with Russia again?" he asked, somewhat hushed and patient. The added softness of Alfred's voice surprised him, but none of this made much sense yet so he chose to tell him the truth.
"France," he corrected as Alfred walked over. A tinge of relief covered the boys features, he then attempted to wrestle England's other hand into the appropriate sleeve. England would have none of that, strange, plain strange, that America would even want to.
"What are you doing Alfred?"he snapped. America lowered his eyes and sighed again. Bloody hell? He was backing down.
"I'll get Canada," he decided, but England wouldn't have that either. What did Canada have anything to do with it?
"Don't you I'll get Canada me," he threatened, making Alfred stop and turn. Only, it wasn't to obey England's wishes.
"I think you mean: don't you threaten to bring Canada," Alfred said with a small smile. Arthur grumbled, finally understanding some of Alfred's irritation when Arthur corrected him.
"Look, I'm a little off my rocker now, but tell me what's bothering you boy," Alfred was never this quiet unless something troubled him. He rolled his eyes and let loose a small chuckle.
"Canada knows what to do when you're like this," Turning around once more, Alfred made his way to the door. Arthur did not want to be ignored, not when everything seemed so off. He didn't even recognize the flag on the wall across the room. A white rabbit, a lion, and a polar bear? He had an idea what this (let's call it a dream for now) was about.
"No, Alfred look at me. Tell me why you're so quiet?" he demanded which finally convinced America to give up on getting Canada (for whatever daft reason).
"I take it you would like some company. Very well, what do you want to talk about?" Alfred pulled up a chair to the foot of the bed, sitting obediently at his side. It wasn't a simple courtesy or even because he wanted to. He simply did it because Arthur asked and that bothered England even more.
"Well, I . . . You're up to something," England couldn't see any other reason for Alfred's strangeness. The boy had a signature mannerism, and this man before him appeared almost mechanical in his actions.
"No, I'm not," he shook his head for emphasis. The singular pitiful smile still there, growing a little wider as if wanting to break out.
"Why else would you pay any attention to me?" In this place, wherever he was, it was the wrong thing to say. Alfred raised an eyebrow at the remark. Arthur eyed him curiously. America shrugged, nonchalant but not overly relaxing his stance.
"You're my sovereign. Why wouldn't I? Would you prefer I join with Russia? Trust me the offer's still open," he laughed, but there was a hint of worry under it when England stayed quiet. For Arthur's part, he remained dumbfounded by the statement. He had assumed this to be a passing fancy before sunrise, but he never had dreams involving Russia or even dreams where he knew he was dreaming.
" I know you've talked of selling me to him before," America mumbled, and it was too much for Arthur. He began to nonsensically emit strange noises of protest which caused Alfred to shift away uncomfortably.
"What? I'm not . . ." he sputtered, frantically moving his hands around. He would never sell America. Wait. He didn't own America, but he hadn't wanted to sell him when he did.
"If you're that drunk, I'll wait for you downstairs," Alfred left, giving up on getting him ready. Now that he found himself alone, he tried to piece together what might be happening, assuming he wasn't dreaming. What was that thing Wales had given him for his birthday? Yes, a crystalline sphere, the wish orb, that quadrupled the potency of magic, by simply adding the words I wish. He had taken it from the attic sometime ago, that had to be it. He had muttered curses at America half-halfheartedly yesterday when he returned to his flat, and then, he ended up here. What had he said? Something, something America? Well, that was helpful. He tried again.
Something me America? Give me America. It wasn't a curse. Then how? Yes, Francis had been there. Arthur must have relapsed, thinking they were still fighting for the boy.
To find a way out of this place, he would have to find another stone or something similar since he'd accidentally used up his wish. Originally, Wales jokingly told him to use it next time he screwed up. Technically, he had fixed a mistake of his, squashing the rebellion had changed things considerably. He hesitated to find out how much. Today, he couldn't find himself happy to be the British Empire.
England dressed, noting that the fashions weren't all that different. Sporting a simple suit, he risked leaving the room. The throbbing hadn't stopped, and so, he was dismayed to hear obnoxious laughter downstairs. Damn, America had been playing a prank on him. No one else could mimic that loud hearty laugh. Stumbling into what seemed to be the dining room, he straightened to find, two of them? The laughing party spared him a glance, offering a nefarious grin. Arthur took a moment to discern the two as they both wore the same apparel. The eyes were different, violet, and a small curl sprung from the amused man's hair, Canada who seemed to have stolen America's usual spark of confidence.
"Finally awake, Arthur? I had no idea our trade relations meant so little to you," he said, for once not mumbling in polite deference, an underlying threat lingered behind it. This triggered some of Arthur's pride. Where did the boy get off saying things like that to him?
"What is there to talk about? Simply offer your goods and I will buy them," Arthur said, not in the mood for this. The lights shined too brightly and made him want to hide under the covers.
"Have you forgotten our recent skirmish in Louisiana? You keep undermining my borders. I have put an embargo on you, or would you like to come join us when you are actually awake?" Matthew snapped at him, but he did not zero in on the threat. Instead, he focused on the alarming news he had just heard.
"Louisiana is part of America," A fact since 1803 when . . . it never happened England finally registered. Francis would not have sold the land to America if he were under British rule, and he'd always had a fondness for Matthew. Except, he had control of Canada as well. By Matthews angry glare, he corrected himself. He used to have control of Canada. Which meant, his kids just liked to revolt.
"Is that a declaration of war Britain? This isn't the nineteen century. I can push you out very easily," Matthew abruptly stood, and England could not fathom the seriousness of it from Canada who by all means pitched in rather than waged war. Kumajiro roared in support, and Canada petted the bear until he quieted. America responded in kind by grabbing his brother's shoulder.
"He doesn't meant it. Britain's a little hung over. Don't throw a temper tantrum now," America said quickly, very much diffusing his brother's anger. Canada suddenly smiled, shifting his focus to his brother. England paled, for he had seen that smile before, the smile of conquest. Like in the days of yore, America's face scrunched up in fear and sweat drops fell from his forehead. Canada swung his arm over his brother shoulder, easily reeling him in.
"Of course America, you are welcome to become part of the republic anytime," Matthew said, rather forcefully keeping America down. England simply stared as he realized how much stronger Canada must be to push his brother around.
"We are still anxious to trade with you, and a few isolated instances do not reflect the whole of the empire," America replied, appeasing Canada who finally let him go. He crossed the table to where Arthur sat.
"I'll be visiting again soon. You can't always be with my dear brother after all. Someone has to look out for him," Canada said, and the passivity of the remark reminded England of his old pirate days. I won't take these boats away from you Spain, but I, certainly, will take some more out tomorrow. When Canada left, he turned to America who watched him with a dulled sort of concern.
"Bring me a map America," England said. America complied, bringing in a large world map. Very many things were wrong, one, most countries's landmasses were relatively intact, including Spain's, meaning America no longer had control of Florida, Texas, or California. To America's left, lay the vast Louisiana territory which Matthew had claims to. Alfred had remained small because England had reigned him in.
"What are my relations with Francis?" he asked, trying his best to gather how worried he should be at this point.
"I assumed you were looking to have France appeal to Canada on your behalf. You just came in drunk instead," he didn't seem overly surprised which annoyed England. Pirate he had been, but he had been a disciplined one. If this self, who if he thought too long, may have never existed at all, had everything he could possibly want, why would he destroy himself with such simple things? On the bright side, he was on speaking terms with France. Good, well as good as it would get as far as Francis was concerned, then again, he wasn't an empire. Spain of all people still held prominence as did Russia and Prussia who apparently had not been pulled apart as he had originally. Still, keeping contact with him might give him some leverage against Canada, he wasn't sure how long he would be staying after all.
"Sorry about that lad," He really had just wanted to celebrate after finishing his diplomatic meeting with Francis. Instead, he'd stepped into a world where Canada was the America. The idea did not sit well with him.
"Do not worry. It's my fault. They're restless again; you know how they get. I'll talk to the governors and see what I can do," he said, and it did not escape Arthur's attention that Alfred did not ever question if his people were actually wrong in their discontent. He knew himself well enough(different time line or not) to know that he would have eliminated all of America's remaining options once conquered. This would include in a certain sense America's previous free will to rule as he saw fit.
"Alright then," he said, knowing he shouldn't get too involved, not when he wasn't truly part of this strange place.
"Since you are leaving soon, here is what I owe you. I'll handle things here," Two large brief cases slid across the table and assaulted his chest with a light smack. Opening the cases, he paused as he calculated the number of notes inside. Holding a couple of bills in his hand, he stared. The sum inside was staggering, way more than he had ever asked him for, yet less than America had charged him in the end of the war.
"For what?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway. Arthur had always told himself that America was being a selfish overreacting prat. This Arthur had taken things too far, but he told himself that nothing was definite. This place was proof of that.
"Taxes," Alfred showed no hint of distaste or annoyance. He had grown to accept the status quo as this morning had so handily showed him. Did he really go so far? Was Alfred that suppressed?
"Right then," he said, unable to be glad for it. If only Alfred wasn't so empty of emotion when speaking, if only he could be a happy little colony, or he'd even settle for his boisterous old self. He didn't want this.
"Are you okay?" The concern in his tone at least hadn't changed from before, always that question.
"I'm fine," he said which to his growing acceptance Alfred understood, instead of pestering him to the point of making things worse. He nodded, instantly dropping the subject. Something else nagged at him. If Canada was independent, then, who else could the polar bear have referred to? Russia had grown a steady empire without the nations banning together to discourage it. Other cold climates generally kept to themselves, finding little niches to settle outside their main territory, even in the old days. Who had Great Britain considered worthy of aligning himself with?
"America, if the polar bear on the flag isn't Matthew's, who does it represent?" He wondered if Alfred would consider it a stupid question. Only a flicker of confusion showed, before Alfred answered.
"Greenland,"he said easily. A hunk of ice, yet, he clearly had still delved into the depths of Asia and Africa. Why mess with someone so close to the Nordic nations who weren't exactly without defense and power?
"When did I?" he couldn't think of why he'd ever do that. The wish had simply inserted him inside this space with nothing to hold onto, with the possible exception of Alfred. He didn't have the freedom to question what must be horrendous blunders on his part. Then again, no one had been surprised to find him drunk so he obviously hadn't been a well man. To be completely honest with himself, he's temper had been short when he'd been so strong, so worried, and after Alfred, so paranoid.
"We conquered a lot lands in our pirating days before you finally decided to settle down. Go rest, before you start telling me you don't remember WW1 and WW2, " Oh dear, how had that possible gone? If Canada of all people had revolted, he couldn't be sure how it would have played out.
"How did that go?" he asked which was again the wrong thing to say. Alfred's steady gaze wavered, and he gripped England's shoulders tightly, pulling him forward without much effort. England didn't struggle, learning from past experience that it would only add to the soreness later on. This also gave the colony pause.
"You're scaring me. Turn in," he said and pushing him upstairs more adamantly than before.
"Okay America," he said, knowing the strength of his supposed Empire was strangely absent. He had to find a way out quickly, and his room likely held the key to any magical reversal. Who knew what would happen if he stayed another day, he might find out he killed flying mint bunny in a drunken rage. It seemed to be shaping into that sort of reality.