Author: I decided to pick my stories up now. Sorry if people waited a long time :C
Oh and the section separation of all my chapters got messed up, so sorry you you get like a billion messages.
And If You Don't Love Me
Chap 2: Brothers
Alfred Jones, you are truly impeccable.
Matthew Williams sat sternly at his desk, staring blankly at the thick Canadian woods outside OF his office window. He was restless, too close to the civil strife in America, the violence and blood shed that plagued the country just below him. He could not see smoke pillars or flames, but he could feel it. Every gun shot, fired cannon, and fallen soldier were distant tremors in his head, insignificant yet significant, discountable yet enough to drive him insane.
Worrying seemed to consume most of his conscious time, and now that war had spread to America, especially to America, Matthew feels as if he could not sit still any longer.
Although Alfred had always been more ambitious, more daring, and more reckless, Matthew still had more in common with him than anyone. They were discovered, influenced, and even loved by the same countries. They spoke the same language, shared similar cultures and experiences, and lived through the same crossfire between world powers. They were brothers; seeds planted together long ago and molded to become a splitting image of Europe.
But of course, Alfred refused to be like his older brothers. He rejected the royalty, the rules, and the relations. Was that ungratefulness or ambition? Foolishness or valor? Did Alfred make a mistake? Could this all have been avoided if America remained a colony? Or was Europe's grasp on the new nation doomed ever since the beginning? There were many possibilities, many roads not taken, but mulling over the past would not help the present condition, Matthew realized that.
Alfred was all alone now; no more brothers to help him, no more aid, no more borrowed soldiers. Europe wanted nothing to do with this war, and neither did Matthew. But he worried for Alfred, because he and Alfred were a like. They were both young nations, raw and naïve, but unlike Matthew, Alfred stood alone against the rest of the world.
For the sake of his former brother, maybe it was time for Matthew to do something reckless.
Alfred woke up to a dull ache all over his body. He felt as if he had slept for an eternity, his limbs taut and heavy from prolonged stillness. Nonetheless, he was not a bit rested; a heavy beat pounded steadily against his fragile eggshell skull, closely imitating the rhythmic ticking of a clock. Time ceased to exist during the weeks that Alfred detached himself from the rest of the world. His illness worsened, for he found himself unconscious most of the time, passing out periodically and often waking to a completely different setting. However, the only constancy seemed to be the presence of the other America, always looming closely by with his trademark visage of resentment and mockery. And this time was no different, as Alfred lifted his head to find the other sitting idly by the foot of his bed.
"You have a visitor," he said nonchalantly, waving a hand in the general direction of the window.
Alfred turned to find a white bird fluttering against his window pane, a note tied securely to one of its claws.
"Who's it from, Jones?" The other America shifted closer to Alfred, eyeing him curiously as he detached the note.
Alfred had half a mind to tell the other off, but all of his hostility vanished upon realizing the sender of the note. "My brother…Matt—Canada, I mean. He's coming to stay here for awhile…" He heaved a sigh. "I haven't talked to him since 1812…"
"Oh?" The other raised a brow.
Alfred closed his eyes and leaned against the backboard of his bed, contemplating. "It didn't last too long—that war. The French and British were blockading coasts and capturing ships. Some American ships got caught in between so we declared war. It was rather impulsive, actually."
"History, I am well aware of," the other America scowled, "but what surprises me is how flippantly you dismiss such an outright insult to our nation."
"I was angry." Alfred said mutedly. "…But it was nearly five decades ago. I—"
"Did you forget the impressment of American naval officers into the Royal Navy, Jones?" The other watched Alfred, full of scornful judgement.
"No, I remember." Alfred winced as the grim reminder stuck a tender wound.
"Or Britain's impediment on American expansion?"
"I know. I was there. I—"
"Or maybe you forgot the complete incineration of our capital under British hands." The other continued relentlessly, mercilessly, until Alfred finally cracked.
"Shut up! For Christ's sake!" Alfred broke into a fit of fury, his patience long wasted. "I don't need you telling me any of this! Of course I remember! How can I fucking forget? It was England! It was A-Arthur! E-Even after I became a nation…He still…I still c-cant…" I still can't compare…
"And what about Canada?" The other resumed without care.
"What about Canada?" Alfred sighed wearily, no longer wishing to participate in this dialogue
"He remains loyal to Britain."
"Yes, I know that."
"He is your twin bother, and yet he remains loyal to Britain. He is oppressed under the same empire as you were, and yet he remains loyal to Britain. You fought for eight long years, paving a road to independence with nothing but the blood and sweat of your men, and when you asked him to join you, he refused. The sacrifices he needed to achieve freedom would have been nothing compared to yours—after all, you did all the dirty work—and yet, he still remains loyal to Britain. Perplexing, isn't it?"
Alfred gritted his teeth. "You better be going somewhere with this."
The other America grinned. "What I'm trying to convey, my dense friend, is that Canada is no brother of yours, just like England is no brother of yours. He is not a welcomed guest here. So, what do you plan on doing, Jones?"
Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." Alfred waved the note at the other America irately. "You think this is some kind of a request for invitation? He's not asking to come here, he's telling. Which means he's already on his way. Which means there's nothing I can do to stop him."
Irritation quickly swept over the other's features, but Alfred paid no heed as he impatiently separated himself from his bed, continuing his ranting while rummaging the room for his scattered clothes. "He sure is some character, that Canada. He lets you step all over him most of the time, but once he actually puts his foot down, there is literally no escape from that will of steel of his. He'll nag at you until your ears grow calluses. He'll follow your every footstep until you start to wonder whether you two are actually jointed at some vital organ, incapable of being apart. He'll—" Alfred paused to stare at the illusion thoughtfully. "—Actually, he'll probably get along great with you."
The other opened his mouth for retort, but Alfred quickly filled the void with his own speech again before the other could begin. "But, you needn't worry. He won't be staying long. He's just being the fusspot he has always been since the dawn of time. Time changes nothing, you know? He'll leave as soon as he sees that I'm perfectly well on my own. And of course, in order for me to seem well, I can't be talking to you. Therefore, if you want him gone so badly, it might be in your best interest to disappear from my sight. I—"
Alfred blinked a few times as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, his vision growing dimmer and duller. The walls around him began to spin, and all his surroundings meshed together into a swirl of beige and brown. He instinctively groped around for something tangible, but soon realized that even the solid ground he stood on had become illusionary.
"Are you sick, Jones?" the other America asked indifferently, his voice nothing but a distant echo, before everything faded to black.
Matthew was already overwhelmed with regret and uncertainty as he approached Alfred's home in Virginia, a lone mansion on the outskirts of Jamestown. He arrived on horseback in the late afternoon, the setting sun painting the sky in brisk streaks of orange and red. The wind rustled in the leaves and the birds frantically chirped, and Matthew had never felt so alone, standing before a large, almost eerie mansion, without a soul in sight. He swallowed hard as he descended his horse, gently stroking the tired animal's nose before bringing his gaze to his destination again.
After learning of Alfred's temporary withdrawal from the White House, Matthew had decided to do that same, and enter America not as Canada but as Matthew Williams, a Canadian. There were benefits to this seemingly reckless decision. He was granted freedom of mobility in the other country, no longer restricted by soldiers or guards. He could easily blend into the populace, into any shop or bar. And most important of all, he would not be dragging other countries into America's war, and England might never find out that he was here, theoretically.
And of course, with pros there were cons, and perhaps the most nerve-racking drawback of all was that Matthew was stuck in a foreign country alone, in the midst of a civil war, knowing no one except a former brother whom he had no contact with for nearly five decades.
Matthew gathered up all his nerves before he shyly approached the mansion's front door, finding it unlocked and slightly open.
How careless of you. Matthew frowned as he gave the door a small push, nudging it open slowly as the rusty hinges of the door released a muted squeak. He was not entirely surprised at the dismal condition of the interior of the house. He knew that Alfred would be ill. The civil war had wasted away his health after all, forcing him to withdraw from the white house. Thus, Matthew was willing to overlook the dust, the fallen furniture, the unwashed dishes and scattered clothes.
"Alfred!" Matthew shouted into the empty house, before taking a few tentative steps inside. "Alfred, it's Matthew!"
He waited a few seconds but was only greeted by stony silence. Surely Alfred had gotten the note and knew that he was coming. "Alfred, are you okay?" Matthew yelled again.
Matthew heard the door slam from behind him as the room quickly grew dim. He swung around immediately, eyes still adjusting to his new shadowy surrounding, for the only light source now were the faint glow of closed curtains. He soon recognized the shadowing figure that stood smugly between him and the exit.
"Alfred?" Matthew breathed out nervously.
The figure that resembled Alfred grinned. "Please, call me America."
Author: It turns out that I'll continue anything if people nag me enough.
Review if you like it please~