Arthur was gonna kill him. What he had planned for was a quiet night out with his friends, some rock music, a drink or two: well-deserved relaxation before facing the beginning of the U.N. session the day after. Instead, he found himself in the dead of the night holding Alfred's hair back as he threw up in the toilet. Yet, he couldn't really find it within himself to be mad. First of all, Alfred had carried him home several times after he had had one glass of whisky too many. And second…
America reclined his head over his shoulder, looking at him with foggy, tear-filled eyes. How could he leave him in such a state?
"I killed 'em." Alfred slurred. "I kill'd 'em."
Arthur wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him against his chest as he wept.
England had done terrible atrocities in the past, near past as well, things that kept him awake at night. And he knew America had been following his bloodied footsteps diligently till he had become a nation. Yet, to hear it from him was a totally different thing. To hear from his own lips what America had done, what his once innocent and bright child had become. Everything I am, you taught me !
He had burned Washington down to ashes, not to let America go. And now… Alfred tossed into his arms and buried his head in his chest. He had hurt him so much, yet he was still there.
They stayed like this till the phone rang. Who the bloody hell can be, at this hour of the night?
England thought, annoyed and a bit worried. Generally, when he was called at an unmerciful hour, it meant something bad had happened. Or either it was America that had forgotten about time zones. But America was there…He gently sat him upon the floor and, with a quick "Be right back" he went to answer. He lifted the handset with some degree of anxiety.
"Greetings, England." Nixon, of course. Typical american, to guess that everyone lived in their same time zone as them.
"Greetings, president. How may I be of assistance?"
He had the feeling he already knew what the president wanted, but he was British, and that meant he had a ceremonial to follow. It was called courtesy and it somehow eluded America totally.
His prediction was confirmed. "Do you happen to have heard from America, recently? He should've been home by now, but he's not answering his phone."
He knew that the last thing that Alfred wanted was for his boss to know about his current predicament. Hell, England would've died of embarrassment if his queen ever found him drunk.
So he hid the truth under a polite, dull tone. "Don't worry, Mr. President. He's with me. We wanted to discuss some private business before the meeting tomorrow. But we'll be there in time."
"He could've warned me." The president complained.
England faked understanding. "Well, sir, you know how America is. Always on the move, never thinking ahead, or concerning himself with the consequences."
Well, maybe he wasn't faking all of it. Anyway, it satisfied the president.
"Well, then, thank you, England."
"Farewell, Mr. President"
Sighing, he put the phone down. He had always hated having to deal with America's bosses. Every time it reminded him of the fact that he had lost him, that he was governing himself now. Lately, it reminded him that now America was the boss of him.
He found him still crouched next to the toilet. He didn't even lift his head at England's approach, nor did he react when he wiped the traces of vomit from his mouth.
"That I won't hold this against you is a sign of how much I love you, you bloody git" He uttered.
Alfred was a total dead weight, and a very heavy one in that. When he finally managed to drag him to his old room, Arthur was panting heavily. He threw him upon the bed. The sheets were a little dusty but, after all, America came from a military campaign in the middle of the jungle.
He removed his black combat boots and glasses, then unbuttoned his vomit-stained shirt. Under the military green garment, Alfred's right shoulder was wrapped in bandages. He grimaced. This is really taking a toll on you, isn't it?
Over the neckline of his white undershirt, Arthur caught a glimpse of a pair of wings. He gently lowered the cloth, uncovering the rest of the tattoo. He chuckled. It was an eagle, of course. He chuckled. Typical Alfred.
The first time he had seen America's new symbol, he had choked on his lunch. He hated that symbol. The damned golden eagle had plagued his dreams for centuries. This was a bald eagle, an american eagle, but an eagle anyway. Arthur could swear America had chosen it with the only purpose of getting under his skin. Now, two centuries later, he found Alfred's attachment to that ugly bird quite funny.
And then, he revealed the final part of the tattoo. His smile died. The eagle was perched on a skull, its claws sunk deep in the bone. There was a date underneath. 03/16/1968.
"Bloody hell, Al. What's happening there?"
The unconscious America had no way to answer. He probably wouldn't have done it anyway.
Taking the shirt off, Arthur found two other tattoos on his brother's arms. On the right a hawk, on the left a dove. Alfred had inked on his skin the struggle that was tearing him apart.
The boy hummed something Arthur couldn't catch and curled himself into a ball. Arthur made a sad smile. The great superpower looked so little and fragile, a defenseless scared child as he had once been.
Okay, enough of this. It's getting creepy. He had liked to watch over Alfred as he slept as a kid, to imagine how it must be to be resting peacefully, with no ongoing wars, no disputes with a certain frenchman or a stubborn spaniard. Sometimes, he tried to imagine how it would be to have a child of his own. But Alfred was no longer a child and he had never been his.
Arthur glanced at him one last time, then went to get as much sleep as he could. The next day would've been a tasking one. Starting with waking Alfred up. He thought with a chuckle, before drifting off to sleep.
Luckily, he was quite experienced in the matter. As soon as his alarm rang, England put into use the procedure that he had learned in almost two centuries of dealing with a young, not morning person at all, America. He walked to his room, trying not to be engulfed by the nostalgia of that familiar routine he hadn't got the occasion to practice since the Second World War.
"Rise and shine, sleepy head." He called cheerfully, snapping the blinds open. America groaned and buried his head under the pillow. It made Arthur chuckle. Some things didn't change, after all.
"For how much I would like to let you sleep, since you clearly need it, we have to be in New York by two p.m."
The name of his city didn't light any bulb in Alfred's hungover brain. England sighed. "The pre-UN-session meeting with the other personifications. We can't be late to it."
"I'm not going." Alfred mumbled. "My head hurts."
Arthur grimaced in sympathy. Having a tendency of getting drunk every other friday, often skipping the other, he knew very well the feeling of hungover.
"I know, Al, but the United States of America have to be there"
It wasn't fair. Alfred was clearly not okay. A long, tasking meeting was the last thing he needed. Yet, he had to be there. The moment he showed weakness, the soviet vultures would've come after him, after them all.
America had yet to move. Arthur stepped forward and snatched away the pillow he was covering his head with.
"Hey! What the fuck!" Alfred screamed.
"Come on now, get up" He said gently. "I have headache medicine down in the kitchen."
"No!" Alfred cried. "Get out!"
He would gladly have, hadn't he known that the moment he went out, America would've gone back to dreamland. "Not till you get up"
"I said no! Get out, asshole!"
England huffed. For how much sympathy he could muster for Alfred, he had no patience for temper tantrums. He grabbed the hedge of Alfred's blanket and pulled. America tried to resist, but alcohol and sleepiness had slowed his reflexes and the blanket slipped away easily. The boy squealed.
Arthur would have rejoiced in his victory, hadn't the act revealed a dark patch on the front of Alfred's military trousers. Oh. That was why…
"Sorry" He muttered as the blanket fell from his hands. Heat flushed to his cheeks.
Alfred's were even redder. He curled himself up and quickly pulled the blanket over his head. And then, to Arthur's utter shock, he started to whimper. "Please, Iggy. Don't tell anyone. Please"
He couldn't believe his ears. America, a superpower, the ruler of half the world, America was begging him. Meri… He sat down on the bed, ignoring the moisty sheets. "Oh, dear…"
Alfred had had his fair share of accidents over the years England had raised him, but he had assumed it had stopped when he had grown up. Just how much he didn't know about him?
How much didn't Alfred feel he could trust him with?
He mulled over Alfred's confession the day before, the tears only alcohol had brought him to shed in his presence. I don't know who I am anymore.
And neither do I. He thought. You're not the kid I raised anymore.
He reached for Alfred's shoulder. He was trembling. He was so embarrassed and scared, the poor thing. It brought England back to the time America would quiver in his presence, intimidated by the aura of the powerful British Empire. It saddened England and filled him with longing at the same time. But not all of him is dead.
He started rubbing calming circles on his back. "Don't worry, Meri. My lips are sealed."
Alfred let out some intelligible noise.
"You can trust me. Really." He insisted.
"It's embarrassing." Alfred mumbled.
"I know. But it's not anything I haven't seen before."
Alfred snorted. It had been the wrong thing to say. Damn.
"You're going through a lot. This is just a little accident. Don't worry." He tried again.
America grumbled. "Stop talking."
"Okay"
He lifted the blanket a bit, uncovering Meri's unruly hair. He passed his fingers through them, delicately untying the knots. When he felt that Alfred had calmed down a little, he was no longer trembling, he asked: "Do you have any spare clothes?"
He shook his head. "My bag was on the plane to New York."
What…?
"This is a story I would like to hear, but it will be for another time. I'll get you some of mine."
"Fantastic." Alfred uttered.
"Don't be sarcastic. I have a great dress sense. You just let the damn frog poison you with his lies"
Before Alfred could rebuke, he added: " Now get up or we're really gonna be late. And shower. You stink."
"Coming from you, Brit?"
The nerve of this one… "Careful, git"
"Jerk"
You always have to have the last word, don't you?
Chuckling, England went to make tea.
When Alfred finally walked into the kitchen, he looked like a zombie in red jumper and khaki trousers. He had puffy red eyes, which induced Arthur to avoid complaints for how much time he had taken, and dark eye bags under them. Letting himself fall on a chair, he said only one word. "Coffee"
England, may his queen forgive him, had already provided. He placed a mug full of the brownish substance America loved so much in front of him, then added a glass of water and some pills. "Medicine, first"
Alfred took it with no objection, which was a fair indicator of how bad he was doing.
Two cups of strong coffee brought back the usual America, or at least an appearance of it.
He wolfed down an incredible quantity of scones and grumbled that his donuts tasted better. Then he raised on his feet and glared at England, suddenly deadly serious.
"If you tell anyone about yesterday or this morning…" He left the phrase hanging, staring down at him from his annoying inches of height difference. And, England knew it well, from the height of his incommensurable power. This was the America he knew. He did not beg, he threatened. This was the America he had raised to be, he reminded himself, remembering Alfred's shocking, and so painfully true , words.
"I won't, I swear." He placated the superpower, just like he himself had been placated so many times by his colonies. I've turned him into some version of me. And it's eating him alive.
No, he couldn't think of it now. He handed Alfred a coat of his, since the genius had come to London with the very same clothes he wore in the much warmer Vietnam. "Come on. We're late."
Just how late they were, he discovered it while fastening the watch on his wrist. He had a half heart attack. "Bloody hell!"
They were gonna miss the plane. And they would've been late. It was a tragedy. Never ever had he been late to a meeting. His punctuality was a matter of pride, something to rub on France's face.
Alfred chuckled and patted his back. "Don't worry, I'll drive."
England knew he had no choice. He sent a quick prayer to all the gods he knew, then he got in the car.