"Treason? Your big solution is putting them all on trial for treason?" America stared with his mouth agape.
England crossed his arms. "It worked in the sixteenth century."
"Treason has been redefined since then," An intern said, tacking on "kind of" meekly as Arthur turned to narrow his eyes at her.
"In my country we don't lock people up because they saw something on the news," Alfred said with a huff.
"And you can't order the news stations not to broadcast something as sensitive as this? Surely they'd understand."
"They have freedom of the press, I can't force them to do anything," The president interjected.
"Oh for God's sake, you kept the fact that the president your people elected four times was in a wheelchair secret! What's so different now?"
"The fact that it's already out is what's different." The president said forcefully, standing. The three nations followed suit. "I can't send every one of our citizens to court."
There was a pause, heavy on every heart and head in the room. "What is there to do but go through with it then?"
"There's nothing to do but go through with it," Canada was the first one to speak up. A heartbeat passed before everyone in the room erupted into their own arguments, counterarguments, and fuming. Arthur was the first to leave, shooting Matthew a warning look before heading straight out the door and back out into the whisper-quiet hall. Matthew stared after him and sighed. He never enjoyed the role of the peacemaker.
Rumors spread, pictures of just what everyone thought their nation looked like emerged all over the internet. People fought over whether or not America was overweight, whether England would look like an old man or not, even whether they would look human.
"If we didn't look human, how could we remain hidden all this time?" Germany sat, finding both one of his dogs and Italy sprawled on him within moments. "And why is it that the worst assumptions about us are coming from my home?"
"Fate does not like you very much," Gilbert said around an apple, grinning when he saw his brother frown and try his hardest to not snap at him to chew with his mouth closed. "I am only saying the truth. Don't get angry at me!"
"It isn't Gilbert's fault everyone thinks I have a mustache," Feliciano shrugged with his usual mindless smile. "I'll just have to tell them it's okay — I couldn't even grow one if I wanted to!"
"That isn't something to be proud of," Germany groaned.
Arthur had been going to the same barbershop on the outskirts of London for seven years now. As suspicious as he knew it seemed he stayed at the same barbershop until any one of the barbers within made a comment about his age or how long he had been going. Only then would he switch.
But this was a special time, because it would be the first time to go since her majesty had made a public announcement confirming his existence, immortality, and appearance. She'd somehow managed to find every portrait ever painted of him, including one he'd commissioned back in the years of the Tudors of him with America and Canada as children. Every television screen in Britain had seen his face, unchanged over the years. Now, their secret was really out for good.
Despite all this he took his normal seat by the parlor window and his barber Jerry stepped on up nodding and chatting as usual. He took great comfort in this. Arthur was able to entertain the idea that perhaps Jerry was the only man in the city who hadn't seen a television or newspaper or caught wind of a radio broadcast in the past twelve hours, until a trembling hand slid a small autograph book at him from across the checkout counter. For Jerry, he'd do anything he could. The man was a savant with scissors.
But when he paid his dues and stepped outside, a mob appeared — a mob made up entirely of screaming people and flashing cameras and big microphones and paper and pens shoved into his face. He hadn't been as terrified of a hoard like that since the last great war.
But he was the man who invented the stiff upper lip. He was not about to run now. So he stepped right into the fray, pretending very much as if the stream of people and questions were not there.
"How do you respond to the allegations that this is a hoax?"
"Were you born before or after the Roman Empire arrived?"
"Did Elizabeth Tudor really die a virgin?"
That one stopped him in his tracks, and without thinking he turned, fists balled, gathering all the inertia of a hurricane in his body. Jerry had stepped out of the barbershop and was at the distant edge of the crowd, trying to break it up, but they held firm. A hundred cameras all were poised and capturing Arthur's every word, every movement.
"Doesn't matter," Said the reporter into his microphone with a laugh, "He was probably one of dozens that had her anyway." He should not have been surprised (though he was) when Arthur grabbed him by the shirt collar and gave him a swift punch.