Walking in the breezy night, in the middle of tall, wild brush, which was in the middle of nowhere, had not been the well-thought out part of Alfred's plan. Luckily, Alfred had found a storage area of shirts and pants (and miraculously, his washed bomber jacket) back in the hospital, and although Arthur's was too big on him and Alfred's too small, it was better than hospital nightgowns.

Arthur leaned heavily against Alfred, and Alfred leaned just as heavily back on Arthur. In a sense, they supported each other. In another sense, Alfred was feeling sick to his stomach, and Arthur was doing most of the supporting.

Arthur could sense something was wrong. "Alfred? Shall we rest for awhile?"

Of course, he still had a copious amount of pride. And a lot of testosterone. "I'm fine. Are you ok?"

Arthur's hand tightened around his waist. "As long as you are."

Suddenly aware that Arthur had called him "Alfred" for the first time since his amnesia, Alfred tried to suppress a smile despite the nauseous feeling in his stomach. "I'll answer your questions now."

"Am I the biggest Empire, or am I just one among many?"

Laughing, Alfred shook his head. "Of course you'd ask that. For a century, yes. You've been dominant."

"I infer now... that I am not." Shadows accented Arthur's face as he stared back at Alfred, unreadable. "I am no longer an Empire."

"Not the one you once were. You let go of many colonies after World War II. Including this place."

Arthur didn't reply. They walked in silence for a long while, and as the sun started to rise behind them, Alfred murmured, "Let's stop here for a moment."

Arthur complied, sitting on the sandy dirt, hidden by the wild overgrowth that rose around the particular clearing. Alfred huffed as he sat beside him, trying to relieve the nauseous feeling as he sighed, "Have you remembered anything?"

Taking Alfred off-guard, Arthur leaned his head on Alfred's shoulder. "You just suddenly got so tall. When I left, you were just a child. Coming back..." He shook his head, diverting from his memories and focusing on the present. "I sensed you were lying in the hospital. When you said that the reason I forgot was just because of my abduction."

"I know."

"Tell me. Tell me why I forgot."

Alfred wanted to choose his words carefully. "You were a great Empire before this recent war... World War II. But, you took a drastic hit during it, and you've been on the decline ever since. When an Empire falls, the personification endures some weird recession of the memory. So... you were going to loose your memory sooner or later, even if you hadn't been abducted. That just made things worse."

Arthur looked small, and he shivered, a hand coming around Alfred's waist to secure himself. Still, he gave a shaky smile up at the American. "In that case, why did we leave the hospital?"

"I swear, I'll never go to a hospital again. They were trying..." He trailed off. Arthur waited patiently, eyes closing, as Alfred continued, "Trying to conduct an experiment with some type of smuggled drug. A drug that can make people forget permanently."

"Why would they choose me?" Arthur asked, and as innocent as he looked, Alfred knew when he remembered just what he had done during his Empire, he would understand why some humans were bitter toward him. There were some questions he could answer, and some that Arthur would eventually figure out for himself.

Shuffling his jacket off, Alfred wrapped it around Arthur's shoulders. "You're tough as nails, you know that?"

"So are you," Arthur yawned, looking pleased as he nodded off. Alfred stroked his cheek, but just as he himself was starting to fall asleep, a small voice asked, "Why did you kiss me, Al?"

"You'll see, eventually," was the only thing Alfred could think of. You'll have to remember this time we've spent together. Then you'll understand.

He wasn't sure what time it was when he was jostled out of his sleep. Groggily running a hand down his face, Alfred realized the warm body that had fallen asleep beside him was no longer pressed against him, and even though the sun should have started to rise, rain clouds cast their certain gloomy darkness. Alfred could barely make out Arthur, staring at him, eyes wide and horrified.

It was enough to snap Alfred out of his sleep-induced daze. Scrambling onto his knees and cursing the absence of those glasses he loathed, Alfred tried to search Arthur's face, but what he found scared him. Tears had risen in Arthur's eyes, his posture was ragged, defensive, and everything screamed at Alfred betrayal.

He'd remembered, Alfred realized. The Revolutionary War was over, and Arthur was reliving a nightmare all over again.

What do I do? How do I comfort him? Will he run, just like he used to?

Arthur suddenly bolted, into the brush, and Alfred raced after him, easily overtaking him. He grabbed Arthur around the waist and brought him backwards, turning the Brit around to face him. Arthur was sobbing, hitting Alfred's chest as he struggled to free himself, screaming, "Let me go! I hate you! I hate you!"

He didn't mean it. He never did, Alfred reminded himself. Deja vu smacked him in the face as Arthur collapsed against Alfred's chest, wailing his agony, hands gripping the American's arms, and Alfred held him, rocked him back and forth, pressed his face into Arthur's hair. Tears and saliva wetted Alfred's neck, an uncomfortable sensation as Arthur mouthed at his shoulder, trying to find purchase in something, anything.

Rain started to fall. Words from Milton's letter struck Alfred: Irony is a bitch. Of course rain would fall now. Arthur's breath was still ragged, but he could form words, and a simple, miserable, "I'm sorry," left his lips.

Alfred wondered how long he had wanted to hear that. He'd sat in his bed, hundreds of years after leaving Arthur in the rain, formulating ideas of how Arthur would approach him, apologize for constricting Alfred's freedom, for making Alfred's life a living hell, and then Alfred would forgive him, because Alfred was good at playing the victim.

He had been wrong. So, terribly wrong. He didn't deserve an apology from Arthur. He didn't deserve anything. Arthur had been hurting, and all Alfred had cared about was himself. Alfred was not the victim anymore than Arthur was. He was not a hero. He thought he'd saved Arthur, but he never had. To save Arthur was to free him from the misery of Alfred's betrayal.

Rough, large fingers gently found their way under Arthur's chin, tilting his face up. Tears mixed with rain ran down his cheeks- eyes, both of which were now suddenly, distinctly green, searched Alfred's, lower lip and jaw trembling, petite fingers twisting in his shirt. Alfred was tired of hurting him. Alfred wanted to save him, truly this time.

"I'm sorry, too, sweetheart," he whispered, fingers carding through his soaked blonde hair. He wanted to say more. He wanted to take Arthur home and never let him go. He wanted Arthur.

Arthur lifted a hand to his mouth, a choked sob resounding from his lips, and suddenly, he was throwing his arms around Alfred's neck, crying, "I love you. I love you."

Alfred wasn't sure if anything could define bittersweet more than this, as his heart broke into millions of shards and was suddenly placed back together by one person. His voice shook as he pressed his lips against Arthur's ear, whispering, "I love you, too."

—

It wouldn't be the same, Alfred had reminded himself, as they reached Tel Aviv. It would all change.

He was right.

Neither were allowed back in the Israeli Air Force: Arthur was, quote, "ruined," and Alfred, on top of having a sight impairment, had almost led 9 pilots to their deaths. It was the most painful thing, Alfred decided, to sacrifice one love for another. But he didn't regret it. He never would regret it.

They decided to stay, because Arthur was determined to help when he finally remembered, and told Alfred that he didn't want to abandon the people he had grown to love. Alfred couldn't and wouldn't deny him anything, so he agreed, casting his bitterness aside.

The truce was broke. Lou Lenart led a mission that turned into a disaster. Before they could reach their destined attack point, Lou and his other pilots were low on fuel, and decided to abort their mission. That was when Lou saw ships unloading goods to Egypt, and directed his pilots to attack.

Bob Vickman was killed, shot down by Egyptian gunners, and his body was never found. Stan Andrews was distraught- if his plane hadn't malfunctioned on take off, he would have been on the same mission. He screamed at Lou, screamed that he would have landed and saved his friend, screamed that Lou was a coward for leaving. On return, Lou broke down into Gideon's shoulder, because he knew what would happen.

Quickly, Lou was forcibly transferred out of the 101 Squadron. He didn't have a chance to say goodbye, and he'd never fly for the 101 Squadron again. Modi resumed full command over the squadron. Coleman Goldstein transferred out. Gideon didn't speak about it. He never spoke about Lou again.

Sefi and Alfred started to fight. Alfred lashed out at him for what his people had tried to do to Arthur. Sefi vehemently denied it, and one day, their argument grew so out of hand that Alfred slapped him across the face. Sefi punched him back, blessing Alfred with a black eye, and then left, and he didn't come back. Alfred moved back into his room, and Arthur slept in his own, alone.

Israel started to win. The Air Force grew large, holding dominance in the sky. But inside the 101 Squadron was cracking.

The month of August was when Arthur finally gained his memory back, and woke up in the middle of the night, screaming in terror. Alfred grabbed his gun instinctively and jumped out of his bed, almost breaking down Arthur's door, but the sight only made Arthur shriek louder and fall off the bed, curling up onto the floor. Alfred dropped the gun and tried to hold him, but he thrashed and yelled out and kicked like he was mad, and Alfred had never been more frightened in his life. The sun started to rise, light from the window casting a yellow glow onto the floor, and Alfred cried, "Look, Arthur. The sun's up. Look at the sun. It's going to be ok. The sun's up."

Arthur went limp, eyes shut. Alfred sobbed, something he hadn't done in a very, very long time, and his tears splashed on Arthur's cheek. He wasn't sure why he was still rocking Arthur back and forth. But he did remember whispering, "I can't do this anymore. I can't take it."

Alfred wasn't sure what he meant by that. But things started to change. Alfred didn't return to his room at night: he slept with Arthur, who could now remember everything. Sometimes, they didn't sleep, because Arthur was afraid to. He would curl into Alfred's chest and softly sing, just to keep them both awake, and Alfred would stroke his cheek or his hair or his arm. One night, Arthur ran petite fingers over Alfred's dog tags, a thing he hadn't thought about in ever, and Arthur whispered the Hebrew word. He told Alfred it meant "America."

October rolled around. Alfred and Arthur had met with Modi and Ezer in the old cafe, right before a mission. Modi had laughed, standing with Arthur in line for drinks, and Alfred had watched as the two joked about something, unknowing it would be his last time seeing Modi.

Modi was killed on return. His plane malfunctioned, and he crashed into the runway. He left behind a pregnant wife, and the title of commander.

Maury Mann was next in line for the position, but was skipped over because of his fiery aggression in the air. Furious, Maury left the Squadron, and Arthur would often ask Alfred about the British pilot's loyalty during his rescue mission. Arthur often asked about everything concerning his rescue mission, and then would promptly burst into tears about how he didn't deserve such loyalty. Alfred always told him he did.

There was a night that Arthur hadn't wanted to fall asleep but did so anyway. Alfred ran idle fingers up and down his bare arm, eyes watching the stars through the window. He still wasn't an astronomer, but whispered, "I see your star, Modi."

Shortly after, Stan Andrews, who had sworn he wouldn't leave Israel until he found the body of Bob Vickman, remained true to his word. He was shot down from the sky, and survived the crash, only to be shot and mutilated by Egyptian soldiers once he and his fellow pilots were grounded. It was a bittersweet ending to a friendship, Arthur murmured to Alfred, clutching his hand tightly. Arthur had never met Stan nor Bob, but had heard of their courage from Alfred.

October was a month Alfred had never been so happy to see leave. He remembered dancing giddily around Arthur the first day of November, kissing his face everywhere he could reach, and he remembered Arthur's laugh, his touch. He'd never looked more beautiful to Alfred. They'd fallen into bed shortly after that.

December came, and the war was slowly coming to an end. Israel was the obvious victor, and Alfred couldn't help but feel pride for Sefi, that he had endured through the odds. Sometimes, he would spend hours wondering where he was, what he was doing, how he was doing, and Arthur would wonder, too.

That brought attention to another problem on the horizon. With the war ending, Alfred and Arthur would have to return to the countries they had each betrayed. Of course, they wouldn't be denied access back into their countries: after all, they were the countries. But as much as Alfred anticipated returning to his country, to his farm house in the middle of nowhere, he realized he'd be splitting from someone that he had no intention from leaving.

Arthur was afraid. He still had nightmares. What would he do if Alfred weren't there in the morning? Alfred tried to calm him about the problem, promising they would figure out a solution. He still didn't have one.

On the 6th of January, 1949, the Arab-Israeli war came to an official end. For the first time in a year, Alfred picked up the phone and called his boss.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"This is Alfred F. Jones. May I talk to President Truman?"

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Truman's asleep. May I take a message?"

There was rustling over the phone, an irritated voice, and then, the sound of his president's voice came. "I was waiting for a call."

"I missed you too," Alfred retorted, a grin spreading over his face. It'd been too long.

"The war has ended, I hear?"

"Yeah."

Truman paused. "You're coming home, I presume?"

"I... needed to talk to you about that."

He chuckled. "This is about England, isn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"Prime Minister Attlee. We both assumed you two met up and joined together."

Alfred spluttered non-sensical excuses over the phone. Truman laughed.

"I'm glad, America," He interrupted. "Hold true to that Special Relationship."

Glancing over at Arthur, who was busy dancing in the kitchen while making some type of breakfast, Alfred smiled, murmuring, "Yes, sir."

"Now, about England?"

"I...he...it's been hard," he tried, keeping his voice low so Arthur wouldn't overhear. "I need him."

"Ah. So you want to stay together."

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't I tell you to call me Harry?"

Alfred chuckled. "Didn't I say no?"

"I suppose you did. Alfred, my boy, it sounds like you've grown up quite a lot, haven't you?"

"I'm not sure about that." Alfred glanced over into the kitchen again. This time, Arthur was trying to put out a fire in a pan frantically. Covering his mouth to suppress laughter, he turned around and waited for Truman's advice.

"Let me talk to Attlee. Call me back tomorrow."

"Even if the secretary tells me you're away?"

"Protocol, Alfred. You know that."

"Thank you. Harry," Alfred added for good measure. He hung up just as slim, petite arms snuck around his waist, and Arthur murmured from behind him, "Was that Mr. Truman?"

Turning, Alfred lifted the shorter into his arms, and Arthur wrapped his legs around his waist, arms over Alfred's shoulders. "Yeah."

"Are you... going home?" He asked uncertainly, eyes flitting to the side. Alfred smiled up at him.

"Yeah. And you'll come with me."

Arthur brightened, and then his face fell with reality. "Alfred... I belong in England. I... have to talk to the royal family, I have to talk to Attlee, I have to attend my regular tea visits with Winston..."

"But you didn't let me finish." Alfred was walking, walking into their bedroom, and laid Arthur down on the bed, crawling on top of him and leaning down close. "I'll go to England, too. We'll switch off, whenever you want."

Green eyes brimmed with happy tears, and Arthur laughed, very, very softly. "That sounds wonderful."

Later that night, naked and pressed against the only person he'd ever truly loved, Alfred whispered, "You know, the first weeks here, I would dream about you."

Arthur, equally bare and relaxed on top of Alfred's chest, legs twining together, drawing aimless circles on his shoulder, murmured, "Really? About what?"

"When you helped me with the Airacobra."

Arthur smiled. "I can't believe you lost that stupid bugger. It took me hours to paint..."

"Iggs, please. It took you a total of 5 minutes."

"Details, details," Arthur retorted, grinning. As they grew quiet, Alfred rubbing Arthur's back, reveling in the fact that he was able to touch him, feel him so intimately, he realized he'd never been happier in his life.

A/N: It's coming to an end in the next chapter. I actually started crying in my bedroom like the angsty, hormonal person I am when I realized it was almost over. My first completed fic ever, so of course I feel attached! There was supposed to be sex in this chapter, actually, but I decided the mood wouldn't fit with that scene, so I edited it out.