Hey all! so like sirena updated! thats literallly so crazy i can't even describe the sound i made when i saw! also sorry for the delay in chapters i was a little overwhelmed with the end of the semster but its over now so i can focus on posting supreme cringe now! i also wanna say that like...i dont think i got englands characterization right in this one. hes super complicated and i have my own headcanons about how he see alfred that probably diverge from Apple's and their timeline so sorry if this seems a little ooc for kith n kin. but i wanted to get a chapter out with england in it cause i put him as a main character in the tags... anyway! please let me know if u liked this one, im gonna go for a bit more light hearted in the next chapter maybe mess aroundwith tony or something! oh if u have any characters u wanna see let me know im open to anything tbh

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Arthur Kirkland was a Nation unto himself.

He was the British Empire, a modern day Rome, that had reached out, grasped the entire globe in his hands and squeezed. His influence spread across every nation and people group, his rivals had learned to fear his name and his children wanted for nothing. All his riches, all his affluence were dedicated to cultivating his colonies into proper adults who would grow into sophisticated and strong Nations themselves. They were educated, well-spoken, polite and filled to the brim with burgeoning talents in all manner of the arts.

Well, most of them.

His first born son, the child that should have been his heir and legacy, was nothing but a nattering, unfashionable, uneducated, farmer of a Nation. Every meeting he attended only solidified that notion in the rest of the World's minds and it reflected terribly on England and his remaining children. He'd named the boy after a king for God's sake! And yet he refused to even try to live up to it. Refused to try and prove them wrong, to show the world how smart and perceptive he could be, how sweet and wonde–Arthur shook away that train of thought.

Either way, Alfred was a disgrace to the Kirkland name and Arthur was glad that the boy had taken up a new one. Of course, it didn't carry the same weight or elegance as Kirkland, but neither did Alfred. The insolent boy would never live up to his siblings in charm or grace, and so it was perfectly fine for him to carve out a new identity for himself. It was even the proper way of going about it, no matter what Antonio or Francis' snide remarks may have said.

And so, when Arthur found himself on a commercial ship to the USA, he was perfectly content with treating the little boy he'd so painstakingly raised as nothing more than a colleague. For that's what he was, an ally who was not so affected by the ongoing War in Europe, one who could provide more than ammunition and rations, one who, should this meeting go well, could turn the tide of the war. No matter how much the thought set England's teeth on edge.

The idea of him, The British Empire, running to his farmer boy son for help was utterly ridiculous!

And yet, that was what was happening. The ship was set to dock in about an hour's time, and the smog in the air, marginally better than in London, coiled around his lungs. The taste of it was bitter and filthy on his tongue, reminding him of the 1890s when America began to outpace him in production and technological advancements. The child's impudent smirk when he'd told England about how well his European import production was going, how it almost seemed as if Europe favoured his goods over England's, had made Arthur want to wring his skinny neck. Honestly, where had the boy gotten that rotten attitude from? Certainly not from him! Perhaps France's influence, or maybe it came from all that time spent with Antonio's little brat. Well, wherever it came from, it had better not rear its ugly head. This was going to be a professional meeting, and, though Alfred was a child in over his head, he could still act like a gentleman when it came to business. At least that aspect of his upbringing hadn't mysteriously disappeared along with his last name.

As Arthur walked down the gangplank, in a crowd of wealthy tourists and dirty immigrants, he felt something shift. The land was reacting to him, its barely there magic pulsing angrily under his feet, and, though it was dulled under the brick streets and the intense buzz of electrical wiring, it set him on edge. Not only was it unnerving for a country's inherent magic to be so faint, even if the Nation itself was unable to properly tend to it, but it was also…incredibly vast. Far larger, far more familiar than it had been the last time he'd landed in this God forsaken city, it was wild and yet muffled at the same time, as if screaming through a gag.

England grimaced, and, waving off the officials that had joined him on the journey, began to stalk off to an out of the way alley. As he was about to conduct a rudimentary spell, just a simple once over of the city, a newsboy rammed into him. The boy, dirty and ink-stained, sneered at him before continuing on, yelling out attention grabbing words without a second glance backwards. Arthur felt a bubble of rage well up in his chest, this was why he hated the US. The people were just as uncouth and rude as their personification, never seeming to care about anything other than themselves and what everyone else can do for them. It was terrible form.

England let out a soft hiss, as he took stock of himself. Of course, the child hadn't taken him to the ground, in fact the brief contact probably hurt him more than Arthur, but his suit was rumpled and the sleeve of his undershirt had the words 'FRI ND IN BR T SH E BAS Y' smeared in black ink. Well, as annoying as it was, Arthur was not one to look away from a good omen. After all, he was a friend in the British Embassy, at least that was what he hoped Alfred saw him as. Lord knows that boy was stubborn enough to turn his nose up at the entirety of Europe, and make a profit off them too.

Muttering to himself, Arthur stalked off to one of the towering buildings, skyscrapers, that America was oh, so proud of. The throng of people swelled and moved around him, and, for once, the citizens of the US didn't seem to go out of their way to jostle into him, as he departed from this entourage. The rest of the men in his party were to make their way to Virginia and present the telegram to President Wilson, but England had insisted that he himself would be the one to tell his former colony. After all, it was only right that he should receive this news from a reputable source, not some random English busybody that would no doubt somehow offend the boy and ruin their only chance of enticing him to war.

Honestly the only one who should ever conduct business with the boy was Arthur himself! He knew that child in and out, even after all these years of cold receptions and, sometimes frankly embarrassing, moments of foot in mouth syndrome resulting in heated glares and barbed remarks. Alas, the boy was as hard to catch alone as a fox in the forest it was born to. This time though, America had agreed to meet him for as long as necessary, to discuss trade negotiations and another piece of information that was vital to American neutrality, the Zimmerman Telegram.

England scoffed, American neutrality! What a lark, the boy was fleecing an entire continent. Selling both sides of the war ammunitions, rations, and all other manner of goods at an increasingly exorbitant rate. Really, that child could smell blood in the water when it came to business, and England might have been, privately, proud at the boy's newfound flourishing economy, but Alfred had done it at the price of this family. The seemingly quick shift from distant but gold-hearted boy to whatever he was now was incredibly jarring and England could barely reconcile the coldblooded Nation he and the rest of the Entente had made trade agreements with to the smiling little boy who would spend hours talk to the birds about his day and wait for them chirp in return.

A bitter gust of wind pulled at Arthur's jacket prompting him to quicken his pace. The winters in the US were always so temperamental, most seasons in America were, but the colder months always seemed to worsen when he visited. It almost seemed purposeful, as if trying to push him to leave before he and Alfred could meet. Of course that was ridiculous, seeing as Alfred had no magic to speak of (and didn't that sting). Even when he did, the level of control it would take to move blizzards to his whims was not in his something Alfred had ever seemed keen to learn. The boy was much more taken with the earth itself, and the tangible world around him, always drawing simple runes in the dirt and breathing the tiniest sparks of life into dying wild flowers.

Alfred had wandered off. Again.

Honestly Arthur could kick himself for losing the boy so often! It was like the little thing could turn to smoke once his father's back was turned. The first time it happened Arthur had panicked like never before. The people in the village must've thought him mad for all the wailing and carrying on he'd done. By the twelfth they just thought him a poor excuse for a caretaker, muttering how a child needs both parents to properly grow. That comment had almost caused Arthur to swing, but he really couldn't deal with another devilry rumour. The last time took one too many favours to his brothers to risk another.

England jogged into another field in an endless sea of fields, hoping that this time he'd see a golden head of hair, and not his poor baby cowering away from a badger or, God forbid, a bear! He slowly turned in a circle, straining his senses for any sign of Alfred, when he felt a spark of magic flicker to the east. Arthur let out the breath he'd been holding for the past twenty minutes and ran towards it. As he drew near though, he noticed those little sparks of magic were spread out across the entire meadow. The residual magic pulsating softly on the petals of what had to be over thirty tiny wildflowers. Weeds, really.

Luckily Alfred had finally come into view, and, after a frantic once over, a lecture began to build on his tongue, "Alfred Faer Kirkland! What on earth do you think you're doing!?" He shouted. The boy flinched and turned his big, guilty, blue eyes on his father, "Oh, no! Don't try to weasel you're way out of this one. Now explain to me why you decided to wander off this time?"

The child's lip wobbled, tears threatening to spill over, "I'm sorry, Daddy…" He whispered. Alfred stood up from his crouch over another set of tiny, white flowers. He moved in for a hug, but Arthur stopped him. He'd played this game before, would try to smother his father with affections and sweet words to make Arthur forget about the punishment he should have doled out hours before.

"Now, Alfred, I want to know why you're sorry. And then, you will get a hug from Daddy." He said sternly, even as his heart broke from the sniffle Alfred let out. Honestly, the child could pick him up and throw him for metres, had, once, in the middle of a tantrum, but the sight of his baby crying is what broke him. O, if only his rivals could see him now, weakened at a toddler's false tears. Alfred wrapped his arms around himself, and muttered out something Arthur couldn't make out, "Alfred. What did I say about muttering?"

"It is un-bee-coming of a gentleman."

"Unbecoming, dearheart. But yes, now I would like you to repeat yourself, and this time, look me in the eye."

Alfred nodded, rubbing his dirt covered hand across his face, "I said that thewy'we sad."

Arthur's brows furrowed, "Who's sad, love?"

"The flowers. They know they'we going away and didn't want to say goodbye, so I kept them fwom being sweepy."

Arthur's heart felt like it was going to burst. His boy was so sweet and attuned to his land. Caring for dying flowers, even as winter encroached and the end of their natural life cycles drew near, was the mark of a truly gentle soul. His boy was going to be such a wonderful addition to the World stage, and to the British Empire. It was such a pity he couldn't spend every waking moment with the child, but moments like these kept him warm when he was back in England.

Arthur moved closer and scoped the child up, "Sweetling, you are so amazing. I hope one day, I can have half the heart you have." He nuzzled their noses together, and when he pulled away he saw Alfred's tears had dried.

The boy smiled at him, his little teeth filling up his face as a rosy blush bloomed across his cheeks, "You can have half my heart, Daddy!" He said, his tiny hand brushing against Arthur's breast, "That way you can take me wiff you when you leave."

Arthur let out a bittersweet smile, "I would if I could, dear one. If I could, I would carry you across the ocean and back." He laid a kiss on his son's cheek, "For now though, I'll just have to settle for keeping you near me while I can. Which reminds me," He said, and didn't miss the way a scowl briefly painted Alfred's face, "you and I are going to have a very long talk about when you can leave Daddy's side and when you can use your magic."

The dirty cobblestone steps leading up to a rather nondescript skyscraper jolted England out of his daydreaming. The building was a dull grey, and the people around it were dressed in a similar fashion, sharp edges and brimmed hats that blended into the shadows of the otherwise colourful street. His heart fluttered unwillingly, and Arthu quickly pushed away the growing apprehension in his stomach. There was no reason to be nervous about meeting America, especially since he was the one that called them both here! With a defiant scowl on his face Arthur bustled his way up the stairs and into the building.

The interior was a bit more grand than the outside, with a double set of wide curving steps leading to the second story. The decorative black and white tiling was patterned after an atlas or perhaps a star, Arthur was never the most artistic, and the rather imposing front desk held an equally grim looking woman in yet another grey suit coat and dress. England quietly made his way to the secretary, and, when her typewriting only seemed to increase in pace the longer he waited, cleared his throat.

The woman flicked her dark eyes up at him, and he was surprised to see a shock of red on her lips and cheeks, "Do you have an appointment, sir?" She asked.

Arthur felt his shoulder's bristle at her tone, did this woman think he was some loiterer coming to waste her time? He huffed, "In fact I do. An 11:30 with Alfred F. Jones." If he happened to spit out the word Jones with a particular venom, well it was only because this woman was souring his already poor mood.

The woman raised an eyebrow, "Last name?"

"Kirkland."

She leaned over to grab what must have been the ledger for the day, her thin finger trailed down the paper, almost purposefully slow, before she let out a little puff of air, "Ah. There you are. Arthur Kirkland, here to see Mr. Jones, hm?" She said, turning her dark eyes towards him, "He's going to be in room three of the fourth floor, just go up the staircase and turn left. First door will lead to the rest of the stairwell, and once you're on the fourth level, it's going to be the third room on the right." With that she turned back to her typewriter.

England didn't bother thanking her before stalking up the stairs. American's were always so unnecessarily curt, it was dreadfully disrespectful. As he opened the first doorway to the stairwell, he tried to take deep breaths and calm himself. It would do him no good to enter this very important meeting with Alfred worked up and ready for a fight. Of course, Arthur wasn't able to completely calm himself since he'd forgotten Americans counted the entry level of building's as the first floor. By the time he found the right room, he was red-faced from anger and huffing about how idiotic American architecture is.

The room looked like any of the other twenty he had passed, the defining feature, of course, was that he could hear the tin of Alfred's voice from the outside. Now, Arthur was never one to be caught unaware by his fellow Nations, unlike their human counterparts. A lot of green officials liked to think of Nations as one-dimensional or inhuman simply because they embodied how their citizens and the rest of the world viewed them. The greater cast of Nations, however, knew that they were as human and changeable as their own borders, and that, for most, it was a bit of character they embodied in front of humanity. The quiet murmur of Alfred's voice, and the rather serious expression on his face disappeared the moment Arthur entered the room, replaced by that fool's grin he wore like a badge, but England saw the mask slide over him like a veil, just like it always did the moment he saw his former coloniser.

And, just like always, it never failed to make Arthur's heart throb in his chest. It just wasn't right that his boy should try to hide himself from his own father. Arthur had changed the boy's diapers and seen every wall-shattering tantrum, was it too much to ask for some transparency? For Alfred to treat him like a friend, like family, and not as a stranger?

Alfred stood up from his seat at the long table, his sharp suit and shining shoes cutting quite a figure, "Oh, welcome England. I assume your voyage went well?" He said, holding out his hand to shake.

Good gracious, the boy still had a demon's grip, "Yes, luckily a German U-boat didn't decide to sink us all." Arthur couldn't quite keep the venom out of his voice, after all, most of the Entente had been certain the US would declare war, but America was nothing, if not stubborn.

A tight smile pulled across Alfred's face, "Yes, that would be quite a loss."

He sat back down and gestured to the chair across from him. England made his way to the chair, taking in the subtle shine of the mahogany table, and plushness of the seat, and sat down. They began the typical negotiations and pleasantries usual to this type of meeting. Arthur, polite as the gentleman he had always aimed to be, inquired about Alfred's newly minted film industry was coming along, and if he felt it was going to be bigger than a passing fancy for his people. To his surprise, Alfred flashed him one of the biggest smiles he'd gotten from the boy since he was child and started chattering about Sunset Boulevard and a little town called Hollywood.

A smile bloomed on Arthur's face, a real one, at the sight of the little boy he'd raised. Alfred had been such an excitable child, one with a flare for the dramatics, and it would make sense for him to be interested in this new leap in entertainment. He wondered if the boy films would reach the heights of Russian filmmakers or if they would ever find a place across the pond. American entertainment was always such a crass thing, juvenile he supposed, and when it did manage to find a foothold in the rest of the civilised world, it always fizzled out after a decade or so of spectacle.

They talked for a while more, ignoring the fact that they had finished. They had both made their points and come to an agreement long before Hollywood came up. Eventually, though, Alfred looked at his wristwatch and let out a heavy sigh, before that cold mask slipped back on his face. Arthur wanted to shout at the sight of it; why did his boy always dance just out of his reach? It seemed no matter how comfortable Alfred was with him at the moment, it never stayed.

Alfred leaned back in his chair, far too casual for this type of setting. A younger Arthur would have scolded the boy for it, but he had quickly learned that exercising any type of authority over America would shut down any progress he had made. America looked off to the side, somewhere between uncomfortable and resigned, "I assume you're not only here to negotiate trade agreements?" He muttered out.

"You always were quite perceptive. When you want to be, of course."

Alfred's smile, which had been waning for the past few minutes, dropped entirely, a startlingly exhausted look overtaking his features, "Alright, Iggy, gimme your pitch." He sighed out, resting his face on his hand.

A sharp wave of indignation rolled through Arthur, "I beg your pardon?" There it was, that ugly attitude, and it only seems to have grown with the boy's recent economical boost.

"You want me to join your war. You all do, and no matter how many times I tell the Triple Entente that I don't want anything to do with European issues, you keep coming back."

The boy's arrogant tone nearly sent England into a fit himself. Honestly, he'd been such a sweet child where had he gone? "Well, it seems you've got me all figured out, don't you?" He sneered, hands clenched into fists.

Alfred glanced down at his hands, before his bonny blues darted back up to look him in the eyes, "You know. I almost didn't take this meeting. Was going to say that I was busy with an Indian uprising or a matter out West; but then they said England himself was coming, and I knew there was no getting out of it." The boy fixed a sharp glare at him, his chin jutted out like it always did when Alfred was a child and about to break something, "I know how you Europeans work, and I'm going to tell you once and for all that nothing it going to change my mind about fighting in a war that does not involve me."

"Doesn't involve you!?" England hissed, "The Triple Alliance is trying to take over the world! They've wrought havoc across entire continents! Men, women, children, all killed by that poisonous gas and you sit here across the ocean, making millions off of their suffering!" He was standing now, leaning over the table and into Alfred's indifferent face. "Do you honestly think that, should Germany succeed in destroying Europe, he won't come for you?"

Alfred's frigid expression shuttered down to sub-zero temperatures, "I think," he whispered, leaning until he was almost nose-to-nose with England, "that Germany knows better than to stretch his reach too far." The boy smiled then, and it was an ugly, angry sight, "After all, the Old World should stay in the Old World, and leave the New World to our own devices."

Arthur pushed himself away from the boy, disgusted at the level of detachment the boy was capable off. He sat down with a heavy sigh, sweeping his hair back into place with one hand while the other slid into his breast pocket. Casually, he laid the paper within the boy's reach, "You might want to rethink your views on Germany's ambitions."

He watched with a particularly vindictive satisfaction as the cold expression on Alfred's face slowly heated up. His cheeks flushing in anger, his mouth set in the beginnings of a growl, teeth clenched and paper crinkling between shaking hands. The boy slammed the telegram down, the force of it sent a hairline crack down the centre of the table, and shot to his feet. A quickly muttered, "I'll be right back." was all Arthur got before he was left alone in the room.

The door slammed shut behind him, and England didn't flinch at the force of it but a lesser man would have. It was all he needed to know that America was going to join the war, and he was going to be the powerhouse they needed to turn the tide. Germany had made a very grave mistake, and if England used it as an opportunity to be near his wayward son, to bring him back into the fold of their family and sew him back into the seams of his life, then that was simply how it happened to be.

Outside the conference room, he could hear America's heavy footfalls as he paced while a candlestick telephone rang. England wondered who he was calling, perhaps the president or some equally important official in America's ever revolving cabaret of officials, and if the declaration of war would be signed within the week or later. After all, though Arthur hated to admit it, his son had considered Spain's whelp a friend, even a brother if the boys' whispered conversations were to be believed, and now that the child had gone off and died Alfred was bound to be upset that another country offered the territory as a spoil of war. Though America had always seemed a bit indifferent when asked about the boy's fading, maybe they weren't as close as Arthur thought. Still, Texas was a part of the United States, and as such a call for another Nation, especially one that Alfred had so recently defeated, was of the utmost insult.

England remembered that anger well, the type that swirled in his chest and turned him into a raging beast at the thought of a rival taking what was his. Truthfully, he felt that when he looked at America, sometimes. A spark of never ending hatred at the thought of his child stealing from him, spitting in his face and spreading his grubby little fingers over what rightfully belongs to Arthur. He'd fought and bled for these lands! Good men sent to a far away land to tame it, defend it, and bring English supremacy to the New World. Neither France nor Spain could keep up with his global expansion, and now their stars had dimmed. France with his ill-advised revolution, and Spain at the hands of Arthur's first born. And wasn't that a wonderful thought? America had punctured the Spanish Empire, lassoed his star, once too bright it threatened Arthur's own, and pulled that boor of a man crashing to the ground.

Some Nations whispered that England himself was next. That America had led two World Powers to their own destruction, and seized every crumbling piece of their failing empires within reach. Arthur did not fear though, one did not gain his station by operating out of something as human as fear, for he knew his child. Alfred was many things, but the bringer of his own father's destruction he was not.

The doors opened with an ominous creak, and Arthur quickly schooled his features. It wouldn't be appropriate for his son to see him in such a vindictive mood, especially when America was bound to be ready for a fight, more now than ever. His son sat down heavily, hands fisted together in front of him, and took in a deep breath, "This is going to change things, England."

Arthur smiled privately, "Is it?" He asked, voice light.

"England." His son said, voice deep with warning, "Don't."

Arthur looked up at that, and finally Alfred met his gaze. A shock of…something ran through England at that moment. His son's eyes were cold, that wasn't particularly unusual, this time though, they burned as well. His mouth was drawn tight, jaw clenched and features as severe as someone with a face like Alfred's could get. What gave England pause though, was the furrow of his child's brow, the way his forehead wrinkled and the newly made lines around his eyes.

It was like looking in a distorted mirror.

England had seen that look many times before. When France was cooing at a toddler America, when Spain was watching him from above, in a victor's ship while Arthur himself drowned. When his brothers scowled at his rulings, muttering about how all his power couldn't make up for that gaping hole where his heart should be, or when his children whispered about Alfred's freedom and how fun it would be, to be a grownup Nation, to not have Father at their shoulder.

England was a jealous man, with a possessive streak a kilometre wide, and had been known to hold on too tight. After all, what was one to do when something so precious was wrenched from his grip, and twisted into something terribly new. When America had left him, both times, he'd felt that age old rage build, but also a new unfairness he'd never known. His son was something more important than any of his other belongings, and it had gone from him freely, yet to return.

There had always been hope, though. Hope that Alfred would come running back to him, stubbornly clinging on even as America stretched past the Appalachians, absorbing parts of New France and New Spain, stealing from Mexico and the Indians. Arthur had, perhaps illogically, continued to believe that Alfred was just throwing another tantrum, even as his son's border's expanded and England's own peers began to see Alfred as one of their own. After all, Alfred was a child, an easily distracted, brilliant child, and he would realise the world was too big for him soon enough.

Looking at his son now, Arthur saw soon enough was not going to come, was it?

His son had the look of a man threatened, the look of a powerful Nation questioned. He looked like England had in his pirate days, full of youth and anger. But that wasn't right. His little Alfie wasn't an angry child, never prone to bouts of bitterness or grudges, so why did his little boy look so…furious? So much like an adult with too much to lose and a temper not to be trifled with.

Why did he look so much like England?

Had Alfred become an adult while Arthur wasn't looking, again? Had he run off to conquer the land in front of him and in turn conquered his new body? Though, England supposed, it wasn't new anymore. Hadn't been for over a hundred years. And that couldn't be true, that his little boy hadn't been little for so long. That his son had been gone from him long enough to become a Nation respected all on his own. A Nation that didn't need England's tutors or name or security, because he could provide all that for himself. A man who had made a place for himself on the world stage, without the input or support of his father. A country that had wealth, influence, and the manpower to sustain itself even when his fellows were falling apart.

A Nation so powerful and primed for action that the British Empire had come begging.

Arthur swallowed, feeling off centre for the first time in a very long while, "I wasn't going to say anything snide, America. Just that I hope you know what you're getting into."

America's answering smile told England everything he already knew.