December 21, 1950
Battles came and went. A tentative peace was made and held, as the holiday season approached, though America's borders had shrunk, leaving him with a third less land than he'd started with before Mexico's 'reclamation'.
Time continued to wear on.
He could no longer look at the boy that he had raised, England had discovered once the initial hesitation had been overcome, because that boy no longer existed. The child had vanished, and the teenager who had taken his place had died on a battlefield nearly two hundred years before. This young nation was still America, with many of the memories- both good and bad- the same ravenous appetite for both food and company, but at the same time, he was completely unknown.
It was almost like getting to know a familiar stranger.
The last thing Arthur had expected to see as he entered Alfred's parlor was to see the aforementioned nation calmly sitting in a wing chair, having an intense conversation about prolonging the lifespan of Winter Daphne … with a fairy.
"So, if I do what you told me, it'll live a few more years?"
"Yes, dear. I'm certain. Can't have you getting lost in the garden again," said Bluebell, with a sparkling smile, "Hello, England."
"Hello, Bluebell." England managed, getting over the shock, wondering if Alfred even knew who- or what he was talking to right now. "What are you doing here?"
"Visiting young America, of course. We have long chats from time to time. He's a very good listener, you know. It's worth the trip, just to see him smile- as you well know."
Alfred's pale face turned a faint pink.
"Well...I... just never expected-" England stammered, trying not to notice the blush and faint smile, and failing. "He knows that you- well- that you're..."
"She's a fairy." America gave England one of those (rare in these times) bright smiles. "I know."
"But I thought you didn't-"
"I could never see them before." Alfred explained simply, "I could always hear them though. Always thought they were ghosts, and they scared the stuffings out of me, so I mostly blocked them out. They weren't so scary after everyone was invisible- so I started listening more.
"Why did you tell me that you didn't believe in fairies, and that I was-"
"I was jealous." There was that blush again. "You were always so happy when you were talking to them, and I- well. I liked to see you smile, but I- um... liked to have your attention focused on me. When you were flustered, and trying to convince me that they existed, you were so..."
"Passionate?" suggested Bluebell with a tiny laugh.
"Y-yeah."Alfred's blush only deepened in the silvery bells of the fairy's laughter.
And to Arthur's surprise, his own face felt warm.
"You should tell him, little one." Bluebell hovered closely to the blind man, and stroked a hand along one flaming cheek. "He won't laugh at you, and it will do you good to let go of that particular secret. It will only wear you thin with regrets in the end."
"Secret?" Arthur parroted, "Alfred?"
"You didn't have to tell him that!" Alfred protested, "Bluebell-"
"I didn't tell him anything- that's for you to do." The winged creature laughed again, "I must be going, my flowers miss me when I am away too long—it was lovely seeing you today, England. Goodbye, dear America, we will speak again."
The fairy vanished before England could begin to give a proper answer, leaving him alone with America.
"Um." America said concisely. "She always leaves so fast."
"Yes," Arthur frowned, making his way to the settee that the young man occupied. "They tend to be a bit flighty like that at times."
An awkward silence lay upon the room like a cheap rug trying to cover a large gaping hole in the middle of the floor.
"Alfred?"
"Arthur." Alfred said, the bright smile of earlier fading to one that almost seemed—well... shy.
"I assume that the secret Bluebell was speaking of isn't that you talk to them, as that is moot at this point." The blush returned, faintly colouring to the tips of Alfred's ears. "You do not have to tell me anything, if you do not wish to, however I must warn you that the fae do have a tendency to forget that things are secret."
"Oh..." In that simple syllable, Arthur heard an anxious horror. "You mean... she'll tell you anyway?"
"Not deliberately. She'll simply forget that she's not supposed to tell me whatever it is that you told her." Arthur reached over to pat Alfred's shoulder fondly. "Next time, perhaps you shouldn't confide something so personal as this secret seems to be in a fairy."
"I'll... remember that." Alfred said, very quietly, face still alight with that brilliant blush, almost seeming to lean into the hand on his shoulder. He went silent after that.
"It is curious, however, that she would encourage you to speak to me about it. Is it something that should concern me?" Arthur broke the silence, after studying the face that seemed to be trying to hide by turning towards the windows. "Alfred?"
"Y—maybe."
"Maybe?"
Alfred mumbled something far too low and quick for Arthur to catch.
"If you're not comfortable telling me, Alfred..." England sighed, watching the young man beside him squirm. It was probably something very personal that was bothering America, and England should keep his nose out of it, unless Alfred decided to bring it up. "We're friends. I don't like seeing you so unnerved. Bluebell shouldn't have hinted at anything to start with, and I shouldn't pursue it further. I will be here, if you should ever decide to-"
"Thank you." The terrible uncertainty lingered in Alfred's face, "It's nothing... horribly awful—just. I can't … not right now. Not yet."
"All right then." Arthur wouldn't admit that the whole business had him curious about what sort of thing that Alfred couldn't bring himself to talk about- with all the stolen conversations over the past few years, all the catching up with details about goings-on of other nations and bosses- there wasn't much that they hadn't covered. Sometimes it had been as involved as European history, others, as simple as the lyrics to a scarcely remembered song, half sung to the young man on some of the more difficult days of the recent war.
Anything to distract the boy he loved from the familiar pain of invasion.
Love? England frowned suddenly, letting the silence hang just a fraction too long, and America was shifting restlessly beside him. Where did that come from?
"It's the longest night of the year." Alfred said, out of the blue, reaching to grasp the hand on his shoulder. "And quiet- um... I know you're my guest, but I wondered if you would-"
"What would you like me to read to you this evening, Alfred?" England found his smile again, remembering the fond way America seemed to hang on every word read aloud. He took comfort in the words in his personal darkness.
"There's a book that Mattie sent. Poetry- he read me one about snow, and the longest night. It reminded me- I wanted to hear it again." There was a vague gesture towards a table. "'Promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."
England found the book easily, and almost laughed at the author's name. Frost: so appropriate for one writing about snow and winter. It only took a few minutes to find the poem that America had wanted, and a few more to settle in next to his friend and read it.
"...The woods are lovely dark and deep/But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
He glanced at the quiet man next to him, watching the melancholy expression that had appeared. The younger might have been thinking deeply- perhaps the echoes of war, perhaps a contemplation of the rebuilding in the future. Of his own size and strength that had been sapped away...
"Alfred?" The somberness rearranged itself into the same shy smile, as though Arthur hadn't been meant to see that particular mood.
"I'm glad you're here for Christmas, Arthur." The low murmur didn't make an echo in the room, "Could you read another one?"
And for the next hour, England did, allowing himself to be more comfortable than he had expected in this parlor, even though the swirl of emotions that both worried him and made him wonder. Arthur loved Alfred, despite past arguments, despite present problems.
He always had, and even if things had changed, if they had become different people, there was still something that pulled England back.
Promises and alliances.
Arthur made silent promise to the enraptured figure, so intently listening, in whose warmth he was basking- never to hurt him again. To make certain that that bright smile returned.
To bring back the joy that had once lit his eyes, and made England want to abandon his responsibilities, and just stay in the beautiful lands and golden presence...
Outside, the wind howled angrily, bringing with it a fall of snow.