Everything was quiet in the house. There was no one there to comfort Alfred when he had nightmares.

No one there to prepare his meals.

No one to care for him.

So what? He could live off fast food, no problem! He didn't need stupid Arthur to care for him. He didn't need to be comforted.

There was a crack of lightning, and Alfred jumped.

As Arthur would have said, it was chucking it down outside. Alfred pulled the window shut, rolling under his bed.

Lightning was scary. If only there was someone to...

No, he thought to himself, I'm going to show England that I can do fine without him. He'll see.

BAM!

Alfred whimpered and pulled his knees up to his chest.


Arthur strode out of the house, heading down the road. He didn't want to leave Alfred on his own, but he had no choice. Francis was acting up again, and he needed to make sure Matthew was stable, before debating with Antonio about something... he couldn't remember what it was.

It began to thunder, and he winced. Alfred would be terrified, no doubt. But Arthur was already running late, and he had to hurry.

Running down the road, he cursed at the puddles that were appearing, growing larger and larger the further he ran.

Eventually, he saw the sea, and his boat. Soon, he'd be dry and safe. The seas couldn't harm him - he was England, for God's sake! He owned them!

Arthur hoped that Alfred would be okay. He didn't want anything to happen to him, but he had absolutely no spare time, he definitely wouldn't be able to visit.


KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Alfred woke up. The storm must have passed hours ago. He rubbed his eyes. Arthur would be long gone by now. Who on Earth could be at the door? It was late evening. Surely anyone with sense would be settling in for the night.

He rolled out from under his bed and ran to answer the door, flinging it open to see a man of Arthur's age, with shoulder-length blond hair and a sparkling sense of style.

"Bonjour, mon ami," the man raised his hat.

"Who are you?" Alfred tilted his head to one side.

"I am the great Francis Bonnefoy, or France, as you shall call me. I am a... friend... of England's, and have heard many a tale about you, America."

"Um-"

"I heard of you recent squabbles," Francis continued, stepping inside the house and slamming the door behind him, "Do you hate England?"

"Hate?" Alfred gasped, "Well, I-I don't, uh..."

He looked up at Francis. He felt the anger swelling inside him, the betrayal and sadness, the loneliness and fear of neglect.

"I do."

"Well then," Francis grinned from ear to ear, "You've found the right man, little America."

"I thought you said you were friends with England," Alfred crossed his arms.

"Old friends, little one," Francis flicked his hair to the side.

"B-but what are we going to do, France?"
Francis' smile suddenly seemed cold and malicious. Alfred froze.

"You're going to become independent, dear America."