May 8, 1945

War is hell.

Arthur wasn't entirely certain just who had made that statement, or when at the moment, however he could testify that it was true in many ways. He couldn't force the images from his memories of the things that had been happening to his neighbors by his neighbors.

Buchenwald and Belsen alone would always make him nauseous and angry, and to the point of wanting to grab Ludwig by the collar and screaming 'WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU THINKING?' in his face.

But as with his own country, he didn't know absolutely everything that went on in it. If Arthur were privy to every single conversation that went on in his own boarders, he would be a raving lunatic. Germany was responsible, ultimately, and the consequences of everything that had set the whole of Europe into a bloodbath would begin, but-

Right now it was all over.

At least for this continent. Japan was still refusing to surrender.

Things had gotten so hectic after the meeting last February, that England had been launched into plans and preparation and transport off to battles- at least that's what he told himself. He wasn't afraid of meeting America. There just was no time to listen for a familiar laugh, no time to look for the spot of sunshine-coloured hair in the hallways.

There were signs of passage, however.

On occasion, he would need to stop at hospital, to find one of his men, or one of his leaders who had been wounded, or was visiting comrades that were trapped within battered brick walls. The American soldiers who were there were usually in good spirits- as were the few children who had been unable to escape London. The nurses and orderlies told England of a young blond man- American- who would come in to visit them all, always cheerful, and happy, despite the fact that he seemed to be blind himself— always had an escort, and a large white dog to guide him. He soothed the youngest patients, and encouraged those who needed it.

The children loved that dog, who was almost big and fluffy enough to be a giant teddy bear, almost as much as 'big brother'.

The word 'blind' alone put another knot in England's stomach. There really was no question in his mind as to who would be making the rounds like that in a ward full of American pilots.

He had done it himself, often enough.

Arthur avoided the American wards, and got Francis' scorn once more- however it hadn't lasted long in the furious days of fighting that led up to this perfect moment, where a new peace was forged on the ashes of Germany's surrender.

Celebrations were well underway, as he stood in the middle of the square near the hospital's drive. People- his people- joyous at the ceasing of hostilities, of the end of war, of families to be reunited, of no more young men being sent off to die in a foreign land. People. His people were happy.

There were other allied troops within the mix, but Arthur could only feel his own, and they were intoxicating.

His smile didn't falter, even as Francis came to him for a celebratory embrace- however, Arthur drew the line at groping- which surprisingly didn't seem to bother the Frenchman one bit.

A glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd made him pause- Matthew had returned to London, apparently, however before Arthur could attempt to call to him, he saw the young man's face light up, and Canada pushed his way through the crowd towards the archway of the hospital, yelling something.

And then England noticed the quiet figure in the shadow of the arch- and whatever he had been going to call Canada with died in his throat.

A slender young man, with blond hair, and dark glasses that overshadowed a far too pale face- grinning that familiar silly grin. Not much older than he'd been the last time that Arthur had seen him. As Matthew approached, the ridiculous grin grew wider.

There was a ferocious hug, and Matthew was spun around by the shorter boy, and they were animatedly yelling at each other, while a white animal- good lord, was that a bear?- sat quietly watching them.

Arthur felt something catch in his throat.

Alfred.

He'd stopped shooting up like a proverbial weed, England noted, trying to keep a detached view no matter how it wasn't working. Still strength enough to nearly push Canada over, but...he was nearly the same as he had been back then.

This was the first time Arthur had seen America- Alfred- in over a hundred and fifty years, and even with the celebrations going on around him, he had to fight to keep the tears from coming.

"Angleterre?" Francis had noticed his sudden freeze, and laid another casual arm across his shoulder, rubbing his arm. "What is-"

England didn't trust his voice not to shake, his arm not to tremble, so he said nothing, just drinking in the way the sunlight was still in the boy's smile despite the wars on two fronts.

"Ah. I see." France had followed the direction of his stare, "He still has that air of innocence, does he not? Even through battles lost and battles won, he will smile as though it were nothing."

"Yes." Arthur managed to say, the drunken happy feeling now only a mild buzz in the back of his mind. The pair were embracing again, and then linking arms. The white bear followed them, as they disappeared into the crowd.

"And yet, you still have not found the courage to face him." Arthur flinched.

"Is it cowardice?" he wondered, "Or is it that he might not wish to see-" the word got caught. Words had been doing that a lot these days.

"You do not know his mind, mon cher." Words were breathed into his ear. "You do not know his heart. Look at his people, here to help us in our hour of need. Look at him, here with his people- he did not have to come. Perhaps he was hoping to find you."

The fragile hope that Francis was offering was almost more than he could handle.

England- no- Arthur, closed his eyes, trying to keep a grasp on the golden threads of fancy.