Finding America was one of the most important events of Arthur Kirkland's life, which was definitely saying something, because there was a long line of rulers who were not shy in claiming otherwise.

He supposed that when he had found America there, a tiny thing hiding in the grass and surrounded by strange red-skinned men whose hands held him back, protective… he supposed that at that moment, he had found the true meaning of family. Forget Scotland and Ireland and the others; this little boy here and now was looking up and reaching for him and asking, in a voice as tiny as his little hands, to call him "brother."

Arthur was young then, he supposed, though he was technically only at most two years older now than he had been at that time. No, he had to have been young to be so very captivated by America's promise. All that land, fertile and wet, and not too far from England itself. It could have happened to anyone else – it did happen to others, he realized, to France and Sweden and Finland, everyone wanting to get their hands on this spot of light Arthur had called his own.

Alfred. The boy's name was Alfred, he decided, a nice "A" name to go with the brightness of his face. It was a good English name, meant "good counselor," and the boy liked it, laughed and bounced on the balls of his feet and said that any name Arthur gave him was a good name.

Alfred idolized him… or was it the other way around? Arthur coveting the bright optimism that the boy held about bloody everything… the intelligence, the happiness, eyes bright and wanting and full of unconditional love.

Nightmares came to Arthur all too often about losing the lad, and Alfred seemed to share that unreasonable fear, because there were times when Arthur would wake up and Alfred would be in his bed, clinging to him, whispering pleas in his sleep. So young… innocent, naïve, his little boy, his treasure, his paradise.

His.

But Alfred's dreams – oh, the poor boy, the dreams got worse as he grew older (as he grew up, but no, Arthur wouldn't think of that, not ever). He was brushing the barest edges of pubescence, his voice crackling when he spoke, and Arthur knew that it was due to his expansion westward, out into the unknown territories, and… oh, Arthur worried for him, would lay awake at night listening for the sobbing and for the rustling of Alfred's hands fisting in his sheets.

Arthur crawled in Alfred's bed now, found himself holding him close to his chest (the top of Alfred's head bumped his chin now), tightly, until Alfred's shivers subsided. Or sometimes Alfred would become unconsciously violent, trashing against his blankets, absolutely terrified by the prospect of ghosts or monsters or whatever it was the child was dreaming about.

Something happened. Alfred was growing up and Arthur wasn't sure quite how to get him to calm during these seizures, didn't know how to take him in his arms and make it all okay. It wasn't enough to simply soothe him this time or kiss the nightmares away; he had to physically restrain him, because Alfred was gaining strength, was trying to hurt him by flinging out his fists in every which-way and screaming for him all at once. "Arthur, don't go," he would shriek, "don't leave me here with the ghosts."

Eventually Arthur had to resort to climbing on top of him and pin his twenty-one-year-old body to Alfred's much younger one (young, oh so young, and this was wrong, so wrong wrong wrong). They… were close, close enough for their breath to mingle and for Arthur to feel the warmth emanating from Alfred's tears.

Far too close, really, and if he had been in his right mind then, he would have known that and pulled away.

But part of him… Lord, he was a sick man, because part of him liked it. In some demented part of his mind, there was something sensual about being so close to his boy, and it made him feel like a pedophile, and no, he wasn't Spain, he didn't have feelings for someone not even out of their teens, didn't… want Alfred, not like that.

But the nights that followed, Arthur had found himself watching Alfred's bed and wanting the boy to have another one of those bloody nightmares as an excuse to hold him down again.

He found himself staring in shame at Alfred's mouth during breakfast and going bright red when Alfred asked what he was looking at. The friendly, familial, brotherly feelings he had felt toward Alfred had… changed, and not for the better. The friendly feelings had been replaced by dirty ones, sexual ones, and it was wrong, so wrong, Alfred was his boy and his treasure and his paradise and he couldn't… feel like that toward him.

Arthur began to dream about Alfred, and not the little brother he had found in the grass. No, this was a new Alfred that invaded his mind, twisted him to think filthy things, to dream things he shouldn't have even begun to consider, and Arthur would wake up with a jolt, panting, sweating in the aftershock.

The little forehead kisses and soothing words weren't enough anymore. No, he needed Alfred in ways he never thought he would. He wanted Alfred's brighter-than-life scent, wanted his… taste, God, his touch, all of the things that had Arthur convinced that he had lost his religion completely.

Perhaps the Revolution had been for the best simply because of this fact. Alfred's height shot up up up until he was taller than Arthur, and those blue eyes were alight with anger as he declared independence from England (that little boy in the weeds, independent), as he stood up tall and all but spat in the face of King George.

(That little boy in the weeds… so tall, so strong, so… independent.)

And France, that bloody bastard, had taken the opportunity to sidle himself in beside Arthur's boy and put an arm around his waist and ally with him against the British Empire. Arthur could only imagine France… kissing him, fingers smooth and elegant as they dragged through Alfred's hair, and Alfred's breath stuttering and nervous and short, and it made Arthur sick, so sick, because shouldn't it be him doing that? Shouldn't Arthur be the one to hold him and smooth back his hair and…

No. No, no, no.

And now… Lord. Alfred had grown up so tall, hadn't he? Under France's love and care, Alfred had declared himself a nation and left and…

So tall.

And still, as Arthur tore down every drawing of Alfred's, tore the blankets from the tiny bed and held them up to his face to his inhale his scent (the more he did it, the more it smelled like him instead of the boy), he was closing his eyes and sobbing and imagining Alfred's tiny hands on his shoulders.

"It's okay," he would say. "Don't cry anymore, Arthur."

But it wasn't okay.

It was so, so wrong.

A/N: This was one of my favorites to write. I love writing England, I've discovered; he's so easy to write for. And I do think he would feel major guilt about any feelings beyond parenthood that he would feel toward pre-Revolution America. Next: Soliloquy. Japan has always loved the English language... or is it the man teaching him that he's fallen for?