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"Children don't remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are."

-Jim Henson, It's Not Easy Being Green: And Other Things to Consider

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Chapter I
Adoration

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1580

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The shadows were long and looming, following him wherever he dared to set foot in the great mansion, their grotesque, talon-like fingers curling along the walls and reaching towards the hem of his night gown. Rain pounded harshly against the glass of every window, an unwanted stranger in the darkness. The absence of silence would've been comforting if it weren't for the explosive thunder and flashes of forked lightning raking the sky, illuminating every corner, cranny and nook of the corridor where the little boy stumbled. The only thing he clasped was the soft fabric of his frock, his knuckles bleached white from his frightfully tight grip.

The moon was veiled in a cocoon of storm clouds and the wind howled against the windows, bringing trees and branches to life. The boy stared, his eyes wide with pure terror, and he shrunk back into a crevice, gulps and sobs escaping from his mouth. He hated thunder storms, he really did, and they were possibly the only thing that could chase him from his bedroom in search of reprieve and solace. A cry slid through his parted lips, choked and pathetic amongst the ominously creaking floorboards and immediately drowned out by the screeching gales.

This continued for a while, the small boy huddled in the corner of the corridor as white fire seared through the hallways, screaming fitfully every time the silhouetted claws of a tree outside threatened to snatch him. He was completely and utterly terrified, unwilling to move from his spot despite the obvious distress that the tempest outside was bringing him. Caught up in his own nightmare, huddled in the tear-stained material of his sleeping garments, he barely noticed the rapid footsteps clunking across the floorboards to his position.

It was only when something gently touched his hair and called out his name, just loud enough for him to hear over the crash of the thunder outside, did he become conscious of the presence of some other being in the room. In spite of his panic, his sanity was not so far gone that he couldn't distinguish the man in front of him, kneeling down with both hands outstretched, one stroking his hair in a consoling gesture whilst the other invited him to move closer, perhaps into a hug.

"It's alright, Alfred," a pacifying voice murmured. "I'm here now."

Alfred could not resist burying himself in his guardian's chest, the wretched hiccups that jolted through his body gradually growing in volume and ferocity until the sounds he were emitting were akin to the external windstorm. He struggled to take deep breaths and instead shuddered, a sharpness erupting throughout his whole form and he reached his short arms out, searching for anything to grasp. The sobs that reverberated down the hall, ricocheting off the walls, were vehement and emotionally draining for both of the nations.

Arthur found that the position he'd managed to settle himself in was rather awkward; he crouched, rather uncomfortably, resting on one knee as the other jutted out slightly, acting as a balancing component for the crying child whom he was trying to mollify. He'd been drawn from reading one of his favourite medieval tales by the sounds of wailing in between the crashes of thunder, and immediately left his bed to discover Alfred – cheerful, loving, boisterous Alfred – cowering in the passageway by his chambers.

He had to admit that he'd felt an undeniably strong urge to rush to the boy and hold him close, which was exactly what he was doing now, massaging small circles into his back. As he rocked the child back and forth, attempting to placate him with soft words and caresses, he wondered vaguely if this happened every time a thunderstorm struck America's eastern coast. The very thought caused a frown to forge itself on his face. He was supposed to be leaving for Britain tomorrow, yet he doubted his own actions, wondering if it would be better for him to stay instead.

Don't be stupid, Arthur chided himself. Your work is more important than this. More important than the wellbeing of his colonies? He didn't particularly want to admit that to himself as he found it easier to confess that he wanted to protect Alfred, to nurture and cherish him rather than rush back to his homeland. Then again, there were always going to be more pressing matters at hand, such as the tensions arising between Spain and Portugal, and the continuation of the Dutch Republic's revolt, hence why Arthur couldn't afford to spend too much time visiting and strengthening colonies anymore.

His thought track trundled to a halt after he realized that Alfred's wails had started to die down, fading to low, lengthened whimpers, and that the child's grip on his underclothes was no longer ravenous, searching desperately for both human contact and succour, but instead reduced to a meek hug that sought just general warmth and attention. Arthur slowly unwound the boy's arms from his abdomen, unsettling the position that his head had found nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and leaned over to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

He'd never really been able to offer support to anyone before, but just the sight of Alfred's dampened face and stupefied gaze was enough to soften his heart as well as his eyes. There must've been something that the boy saw in his expression, for he noticeably calmed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he started to sniffle, in spite of the storm still raging outside.

Arthur needn't express any words, since he couldn't find any, and instead just bundled the boy into his arms, held him up to his shoulders and hummed the same tunes that his brothers used to sing to him when he was young and afraid as he walked back to his bedroom. Fear wasn't something too difficult for him to comprehend. He'd been frightened when he'd been younger, and it seemed that nothing had changed, for the child seated in his arms was just as scared as he'd been all those hundreds of years ago.

Though the lightning still flickered like a snake's flaming tongue and the thunder still bellowed in the night outside, Alfred found that he wasn't so terrified anymore, and instead focused all of his attention on the young man who'd chased all of the demons away. Arthur seemed completely oblivious to all of the power he held as he walked across the bannister towards his own room. The talons that had earlier reached across the floorboards to drag Alfred away to a distant, hellish realm were gone, scuttling back into the darkest crevices where they wouldn't be found until the next time a thunderstorm rolled in.

By the time they'd made it back to the room where Arthur slept, all of the satanic manifestations had disappeared, fading away just as the noises and flashes had. Thick curtains drawn across the windows blocked the view of the outside world and a flickering candle on the desk bathed the chamber in a warmer, friendlier light. Here, Alfred felt completely protected and at peace, especially as he was still cradled in Arthur's arms. The older threw off the covers of his duvet and flopped down on his back, allowing the boy the luxury of lying, sprawled across his chest instead of sinking into the softness of the mattress, of which Arthur was sure he would get lost in.

His book lay forgotten on the bedside table as he just lay there, staring at the intricately decorated canvas above, a neutral expression plastered on his face. He allowed his mind to wander slightly, roaming back across the ocean to Europe's pressures, whilst his younger brother listened intently to both the subtlety of his heartbeat beneath his cotton night clothes and his deepened breathing techniques, signalling that he was close to dropping off to sleep.

"Arthur?" His voice was surprisingly quiet due to his loud and generally positive personality, probably thanks to how raw his throat was from crying so hard.

"Hm?"

"…I love you…"

Arthur could barely supress the grin that spread across his maw, thick and sleep-induced. Although he was tired and prepared to drop into slumber any moment, he somehow managed to open his mouth wide enough to utter a reply that didn't sound as though he was mumbling. "I love you too, Alfred."

The boy paused for a moment, battling internally with himself whether he should continue with his intentions or not. Eventually, he succumbed to his target and shuffled up Arthur chest slightly before planting a quick kiss on his brother's face. To his dismay, Arthur wouldn't have felt or been able to react to it anyway, since his eyes were already closed and he was sleeping peacefully. Typical…Alfred always knew that he dropped off far too swiftly. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel some odd sense of satisfaction in his chest and submerged his face in Arthur's chest again, prepared to fall asleep although the remnants of the squall were still rumbling somewhere in the distant sky.

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A/N:

Written in the early hours of the morning. I apologise for how short and sappy this is, but I was tired. And as Saul Bellow says: "You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write." Somehow, I feel that his judgement must be slightly clouded.

This is set just before the Portuguese Succession, hence the "tensions arising between Spain and Portugal" and in the middle of the Eighty Years' War a.k.a the Dutch War of Independence.

Once again, I know this is short, and I'm sorry. I'm guessing that the next one-shot/drabble will be about the same length, but the one after that should be around 3,000 words, if not more.

Special thank you to PurpleLuna98 who reviewed the first chapter. Thank you very much! I swear, you must be Prussian, if you know what I mean ;)

A kiss on the face means adoration.

Thank you for reading.

NekoMushi