Author's Notes: Where Arthur transitions into loving Alfred smoothly and naturally, Alfred falls hard, deeply, and all at once for Arthur. In the last chapter, where Arthur quietly comes to accept that he's in love with Alfred as simply as he might accept that it is raining outside, Alfred has a lot harder time coming to terms with strong emotions he doesn't quite understand. Arthur is much older after all… ;)

Soundtrack: Clarity by Zedd ft. Foxes

History Point: Post Victory in Europe day, but Alfred is still fighting Kiku

Arthur did not see Alfred again until the fallout of the Second World War. They sat across from each other at the discussion table, Arthur watching Alfred carefully as their world leaders determined the boons of victory. Alfred slouched awkwardly in his seat, his face half bandaged, picking at the sleeves of his bomber jacket and in complete contrast to the over aggressive, forward attitude of his President.

When his President elbowed him in the side, Alfred flinched and sat up to met Arthur's regal gaze, but immediately turned his head to the side and shied away. Arthur watched as Alfred shifted and held his head in his hands, his gloved fingers knotting in his golden hair. The American President leaned over and whispered something in Alfred's ear. Alfred promptly bolted from the room, his chair clattering to the floor behind him and the doors left swinging wide.

He ran into the cool night and unfamiliar street until he reached a park, tearing off his gloves and digging his fingernails into the rough bark of a tree. Tears welled in his eyes as he strained against uncontrollable emotions and physical pain, his heart pounding and his breathing desperate.

"Fuck," Alfred cried to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

His body was still tearing itself apart in the aftermath of Pearl Harbour and he shook with pain. But his mind was swimming with thoughts of something else, or rather, someone else. It was filled entirely with the thought of Arthur and the way he had looked at Alfred across the discussion table, his eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt. And Alfred had been washed over with the frantic and unexplainable desire to kiss him.

He crashed to his knees in front of the tree and fished in his pockets with shaky hands for a bottle of medication. Cracking it open, he downed five or six of the pills he knew would do nothing to help the pain or anxiety, but took them simply for reassurance. His eyes welled over with tears as he banged weakly with his fists at the tree trunk, echoing sobs escaping his lips.

As he closed his eyes, he was haunted by an image of Arthur, a few years previous, lying limp and unconscious with his chest struck through with spears of shrapnel from where he had been caught in a bombing raid. The ground pooled in crimson and Alfred had screamed uncontrollably until his brother pulled him away and slapped him to his senses.

Alfred's eyes shot open and he clawed at his chest as he cried, as if he could tear away the heartache with his bare hands. Those hands had longed to reach out across the table to Arthur only moments before and remember once again what it had felt like to hold Arthur's long and careful fingers in his own, to know his touch, his warmth, his smell. But Alfred had failed to protect Arthur. He had been broken, beaten and shown his naïve ways. He had crashed from impossible heights yet again. And Arthur could not possibly love a broken, foolish man.

Alfred had failed to protect the one thing he loved more deeply than he could begin to comprehend, and was forced to watch as Arthur shared in the agony that followed in the repercussions of war. Alfred's tears were shed for all the hope of things that could have been, of relationships that could have been mended, of heroes standing tall on their pedestals and not broken and bleeding under the weight of anarchy.

Alfred rested his head against the tree and slowed his sobs as he cried himself empty. Looking at his hands with bloodshot eyes, Alfred resolved to resurface a darker and stranger part of his self and prepared to do unspeakably terrible things in the name of ones he loved. He curled his hands into fists. He would not be broken. As the hero, he would bring justice to those who had brought this pain into his life and the lives of the ones he loved.

A friend asked if I was suggesting Alfred was contemplating Hiroshima at the end of this chapter. Which, now that I look over it, is not a completely wrong assumption. It works. But I was also trying to lead up to Cold War connotations for the next chapter.

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