A/N: Thanks for reviewing, I promise you that I read and cherish every one of them. :) Um, just FYI I don't intend on making Mexico like Texas romantically. Just, ya know...throwin' that out there. And I hope, if any of you are British, that you do not laugh at my lack of knowledge about England. I had to continuously look things up, and where they were located...so...yeah. I have actually been to London before, but that was a long time ago. :/ Oh, and I promise that this story really is about Texas...it's just we have to actually get there. I'm actually trying to make this a decent story...especially since it's Beta free.
Responses:
Fluffy's Lady: I like your name. ;) Anyway, thanks for the review! It's nice to hear an opinion from a fellow Texan, who in all honesty probably knows more about Texas than I do. I have a very...er...interesting ancestry...xD Anyway, yeah the whole 'Kirkland' thing makes no sense at the moment, but I promise I have a reason behind it. Anyway, seriously, thanks for reviewing. ((Hugs))
SkrillexFanatic: Thank you for reviewing, also! ((Hugs)) Yeah, being a Texan is awesome, even if the weather here is all over the place. And that's kind of cool that you look like how Texas looks (and or a little creepy xD).
The air was cool and crisp in London, England, on a fine Wednesday afternoon. The sky was a dreary, gray color, covered by clouds that threatened to snow down onto the buildings and the bustling people below.
Arthur Kirkland quietly hummed the soft tune of 'God save the Queen' as he stood in a decent sized crowd of people, waiting for the pedestrian walk sign to change from red to green. He huddled subconsciously into his rather thick, woolen sweater, holding a stack of papers in his arms tightly to himself. He had just payed the Queen a visit, discussing the matters of America's current debt. It was all professional, of course. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he enjoyed having tea with her majesty; nothing at all.
The queen understood Arthur's history with Alfred, and she knew that despite what he led others to believe, Arthur wished to help Alfred and America in any way he could. Of course, his wish to help Alfred was personal, and to be quite frank he did not have the money to help. In general, the world's economy in was terrible, not just America's. His own English government was one step away from asking to borrow money from Switzerland, which had the most stable economy at that time. However, even though it wished to remain as neutral as possible, Switzerland was also falling apart.
Cue the end of the world.
Arthur managed to persuade the government, and her majesty, to help out a little. It was not much, especially considering just how terribly deep America was in debt, but it was better than nothing at all. He could at least give Alfred a chance to make it, even though it would be a greatly slim chance. He realized that America was in trouble with his economy a few years back, but he did not know for sure just how bad it was. Then suddenly in the short span of two years, his country nearly crumbled completely. Most of it was civil matters, but his economy was a great factor in the problem.
Arthur sighed sadly as he walked down the streets of London, heading home after a long day's work. He did not actually live in London. In fact, neither he nor his brothers actually lived in their capitols like other country representatives did. He supposed it just ran in his family genes, or something along those lines. Arthur actually lived in a rather large house in Hodder Valley, and had actually been living there for quite some time. The only problem with living there was that he was just a tad closer to his brother, Alistair, than he would have preferred. He and his brothers, also, refrained from taking cabs or any type of vehicles home. Instead, Arthur decided to work off his 'fish n' chips' with a ten mile walk home from the bus stop in Lancashire.
Arthur froze in his footsteps as he came into a small town. His eyes stared blankly at a sign hanging over the doorway of a decently sized building, one that had a light blue exterior design. It had two large glass doors, covered in swirly black designs. Arthur's mouth fell open in disbelief, and suddenly the world's economics no longer mattered for the time being. Over the doorway, on a wooden sign, were elegant black letters spelling out 'Le Rose Français'.
Arthur took in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and began to count to ten. However, instead of calming himself down as expected, his aggravation tripled. He gripped his papers and documents tightly, and with a large huff he trotted down towards the restaurant. What he could not believe, was that his own people, his own English people, were eating at a restaurant that a certain frog owned. So what if it was most likely better in appearance than his restaurants, and so what if it had the slightest chance of tasting better than his own food? Francis Bonnefoy did not understand the art...the love that went into preparing British food.
Arthur pushed open the glass doors, purposely not using the handles so that the frog would have to clean the fingerprints off later, and ignoring the hostess, he made a B-line towards the kitchen. Francis was always the one cooking. He was almost never seen serving the customers. It was not like Francis did not like being social (in fact he loved it just a tad too much), he just preferred seeing the smiles on peoples faces when they tasted his fine cuisine.
Arthur looked around the kitchen, almost wincing at the way everything was shining, searching for the French man. There were a few assistant chefs working around, paying no mind to the blond man with bushy eyebrows in their presence. What Arthur did not know was that Francis had actually warned the chefs and waiters of him, knowing that the Englishman would catch on to his resteraunt soon enough.
"Oh, bonjour Angleterre! Puis-je t'aide?"
May I help you?
Arthur spun around in his heels to glare daggers at the blond in front of him, "There you are, you bloody git! What in blazes do you think you're doing, frog?"
Francis merely smiled at Arthur, wiping his flour-covered hands off on a small cloth. Francis blew a stray hair out of his face uncharacteristically, and shrugged nonchalantly.
"Why Angleterre, I am simply spreading my love throughout your pitiful country through ze art of French Cuisine, non?" Francis stated simply, smirking down at the Englishman.
"My pitiful- No. You know what? I'm just going to get down to the basics," Arthur growled angrily. "Get. Out. Of. England. Now."
"Or what, mon ami?" Francis pressed, leaning down slightly until he and Arthur were exactly eye-level.
Arthur's face was beet red, and he was shaking angrily. You would think after so many years of these little feuds between he and the Frenchman, he would learn how to control his anger. However, though time could heal many things, his tolerance of the French was not one of them.
"Or I will bloody find Alistair! He doesn't like you either!" Arthur yelled angrily.
"Hon hon hon, now we both know zat is not true," Francis laughed. "You forget of ze alliance between your frère and I."
Arthur's fists balled up, realizing that Francis was right, "Well...crap."
Francis laughed and threw his arm around Arthur in an attempt to both annoy and fluster him, "Worry not, Angleterre. I won't- wait...what are zese?"
Francis snatched Arthur's documents away before Arthur could even blink, and no longer than half a second later Arthur was reaching up on his tiptoes to take them back.
"Oi you bloody frog! Give those back immediately, you headcase! Stop this nonsense at once!" Arthur complained as Francis read a paper from above his head. At first Francis was only trying to take away Arthur's papers to annoy him, because it was fun. However, when he caught sight of what the documents and papers actually contained, he could not help but read them in both curiosity and slight worry.
"Wait...mon ami..." Francis said, his voice softening slightly as his arms lowered. "Is Amérique in zat much trouble?"
Arthur froze, and looked away with a frown, "Yes. It's much worse than he led us to believe."
"So, how much can you do?" Francis asked softly, handing the papers back.
Arthur sighed, "Not enough. None of us can. We are all in debt to each other in one way or another, and to be quite frank I'm not sure if anyone is really keeping track of 'who-owes-who' anymore. The world is falling apart Francis, for real this time."
"Oui, we are old enough to know zat things are not going to end very well for any of us." Francis bit his lip and looked down at the wristwatch on his left wrist, and folded his arms, "I'm closing in about an hour or so. You should stay, oui?"
"Why?" Arthur asked with a frown.
"It iz az you 'ave said, everyone iz in debt to each ozer one way or anozer," Francis said avoiding Arthur's gaze, awkwardly. "I am certainly no exception, but I do know that Amérique iz off far worse zan I am. I...I want to help him, and you seem to have a lead start already, non?"
Arthur had no desire to sit down and actually have a decent conversation with the Frenchman, but Francis truly did seem to wish to help America. Neither of them could do much, but America could use all of the help it could get. No. Alfred F. Jones needed all the help he could get.
"Alright," Arthur agreed after a moment's hesitation. "I'll go home and drop some of these papers off, and then I shall meet you in an hour."
Francis nodded, "Bien. I'll see you zen."
Arthur nodded curtly, and then turned to walk out of the restaurant. However, just as he was about to walk out of the door, he turned back around and popped his head into the kitchen and looked at Francis. Francis looked up, and then with an amused smirk, he raised his eyebrow.
"Do not think for one bloody moment that I have not forgotten about that fact that you've just opened a restaurant in Lancashire of all places." Arthur growled at the man. "I know for a fact that you only did it to bloody annoy me, you barmy frog!"
Francis chuckled as Arthur turned back around swiftly, and stormed out of the building.
"Ah, Oui. Some things will never change," he sighed to himself, pulling out some flour to being preparing some crêpes. "Of course, zese days...perhaps having some things remain ze same is good."
Francis pulled out some eggs from the refrigerator, and began cracking them into a large metal bowl that he had pulled out. He had to pause momentarily in his work, however, to answer the large telephone that began ringing in the kitchen. The kitchen's phone was not the restaurant's number, it was his own. So anyone that would have called on that phone was automatically meant for himself. Francis put the phone up to his ear, and was met immediately with a loud crashing noise.
"âllo?" Francis answered, wincing at the background noises from the other end.
"Eh! Alfred don't- Oh, Bonjour Papa," a quiet voice spoke on the other line.
"Ah! Mon petit Matthieu!" Francis said, his face breaking into an immediate smile. "To what do I owe zis pleasant phone call?"
"Oh, eh...well you see- Alfred, please get off the floor!" Matthew complained as loudly as he could, which in reality was still extremely quiet.
"Matthieu, iz everyzing alright?" Francis asked, growing concerned.
"Oh yes, everything is fine! Well...sort of..." Matthew sighed. "Alfred has decided that he refuses to go back to face his states, who at the moment are throwing things at my house in an attempt to rebel against America. And then there's something going on about his glasses, but he wouldn't answer any of my questions. He's...he's not doing too well, and I honestly have no idea what to do!"
"Je vois, I'll zee what I can do. Are you alright alone for now, petit ami?" Francis asked, frowning.
"I'll be alright, but please hurry. Just because I'm his brother, it doesn't mean that I know him as such," Matthew admitted. "I mean, we grew up so far away from each other...how am I supposed to know? I'm just scared for him, Papa...and I don't know how to help him! Plus, his states are crazy! I think one of them is throwing frogs at my window!"
"Calm down, Mon ami," Francis shushed him calmly. "Angleterre and I are about to dizcuss certain matters on Amérique. I will inform him of your current situation."
"Oui, merci Papa," Matthew said softly, as another thud was heard in the background. "Eh! Alfred! Please stop hitting frogs with my hockey sticks, that is not what they are for!"
Matthew hung up, causing Francis to blink for a moment. Matthew's situation must have been pretty bad on his part if it caused him to merely hang up without a goodbye. Francis sighed and put the phone down, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. Things really were growing worse by the day.
The phone began to ring once more, and Francis let out a frustrated huff before picking it up, "Oui?"
"Je suis désolé pour raccrochant sur toi, Papa. Au revoir," Matthew's soft voice spoke once more.
I'm sorry for hanging up on you, Papa. Goodbye.
Francis chuckled with a soft smile, "C'est bon, Matthieu. Je vais vous parler plus tard."
It's alright, Matthew. I'll talk to you later.
"Oui," Matthew said before hanging up once more.
Francis hung up the phone again, and then walked back over to work on the crepes he was making. A soft smile adorned his face at the small little action that Matthew delivered. Sometimes the simplest actions could brighten up your entire day, and in Francis' case...Matthew's kind-hearted nature was just what he needed.
Francis sighed once more before returning back to his crepe batter, and tried to look on the positive side of things. For example...
What is positive about the world today?
Francis thought for a moment, before smiling softly.
We have a new country. She is young, perhaps her naive nature and innocence due to age shall save us all from depression. We can only hope.
Arthur shivered from the chill in the air around him, and his arms curled around himself as he held documents in his hands. He had returned home to drop off some unnecessary papers to discuss with Francis (meaning all of the ones that he had drawn unicorns on), and had decided to put on a dark black trench coat to keep him warm in the nighttime air. Winter in London was never particularly his favorite time of the year. It always seemed to be much more dreary than the rest of the seasons. However, he preferred winter much more than he did summer; specifically July.
Arthur walked up to the French restaurant he had left only an hour before, and noticed that there was only one car left in the parking area. A silver Bugatti EB 110 parked alone, and Arthur recognized it as one of Francis' cars immediately. Arthur turned back to the restaurant, and opened the glass doors (once again, intentionally not using the handles). He walked inside to find it completely empty, and had he not known Francis was there, he would have turned around and left. Arthur walked towards the kitchen once more to find the Frenchman putting away a few mixing bowls, humming a soft tune to himself.
Francis turned to find Arthur staring at him, "Oh, Angleterre! You are here! Just one moment, s'il vous plaît ."
Arthur nodded, "Where should we...?"
Francis walking over towards Arthur, and pointed towards a decently sized table, "Over zere."
Arthur nodded once more and walked over towards the table. He sat down on one of the four, wooden chairs, thankfully cushioned with red cushions. Arthur squirmed in the seat, not liking the way it felt at all. It was so comfortable that it nearly felt as though it were squishing up from under him, and copping a feel. It was just so...French.
The restaurant itself was very lovely, Arthur had to admit. It was not extremely fancy like some of the other French Bistros and restaurants he's seen before, but it was most certainly not dull (nothing France ever did himself was dull). The tables were each adorned in white table cloths, and had vases with red roses. There was a single chandelier on the ceiling, but since the ceiling on this certain building was not very high (odd for a French restaurant), it was relatively small in comparison to others. The walls were white, decorated lightly with golden designs, and had a golden trim.
Arthur felt rather uncomfortable to be there, but the situation with America was far too important to pass up. As much as he did not wish to befriend the Frenchman, Alfred was worth it. He was far too young to experience such turmoil, and perhaps he could learn from his mistakes if he made it through.
"Voici, nous voilà," Francis said walking over to the table, with a tray full of food.
Arthur's eyes widened, "You...you cooked dinner for me?"
Francis looked up, honestly confused, "Oui, you are my guest, non? I am not so rude az to ask someone over to dizcuss matters that might take longer than an hour, and not offer them ma merveilleuse cuisine française."
Arthur rolled his eyes, "Oh, never mind. You're just trying to brag about how wonderful you are, as per usual."
"Well if you are not hungry-"
"Give me the bloody food!"
Francis smirked and placed a bowl of soup in front of Arthur, "I decided to make soup, since it iz so cold outside today. I did not make anything too spectacular, knowing how picky you can be sometimes."
Arthur sighed as some bread was placed in front of him as well, knowing full well that even though Francis said he did not make anything too spectacular, he probably spent the whole hour Arthur had been gone to perfect it. Besides, even though Arthur would not admit it, some of the lowliest foods France had to offer were much better in comparison to the foods that England had at the time. There was a time where England's food was enjoyable, but that was 'many moons ago'. Now, to be quite frank, Arthur really didn't care.
France poured some wine into the two wine glasses that sat on the table, carefully making sure not to drip any onto the tablecloth, lest it stain. Arthur looked at the wine, almost drooling inwardly in anticipation. It had been so long since he'd had any decent wine to drink, simply because he did not care to spend one-hundred pounds for some fermented grapes. Francis looked up at Arthur as he set the wine glass down, and then he squinted in a mocking sort of way.
"I purposely chose ze cheapest wine here," Francis said, and had he not been such an old country with a fair amount of pride, he would have stuck his tongue out. "I did not care to waste such expenzive loveliness on someone who can not tell ze difference between crepes and pancakes."
Arthur folded his arms with a slight pout, "It's not my fault, they taste the same to me!"
"But zey look completely different, non?" Francis nearly exclaimed. "Besides, crepes are so delicate, like rose petals~"
Arthur sighed, "Look, let's just...get this over with, shall we? I would rather we did not lolly-gag around, because I have places to be."
"Oh oui," Francis teased. "I would not dare intrude upon your embroidery."
Arthur opened his mouth to retort, but turned scarlet as he realized he did not have any good comebacks, "Please Francis, I do not have time for this."
Francis nodded, "You are right, Angleterre, Let's just get zis over with."
Arthur placed the documents he had of America's current economic situation, and the documents which showed how much money and help England could offer. There were so many papers with so many meaningless words, and yet so little help came from any of them. Arthur laid a few important ones on the table, and pointed out a few key points to Francis. They both managed to have a decent conversation with one another while eating the delicious food set before them.
"So zat is all?" Francis asked, concern washing over his face.
Arthur nodded while rubbing his temples in frustration, "Yes, and it took me weeks to convince my government officials to even think of providing this much."
Francis sighed and leaned back in his chair, taking a small sip of wine while skimming over the documents before him. He and Arthur had been staring at documents for over an hour, and Francis was beginning to see the reasons Arthur was so tired and frustrated.
"I do not know how much help I will be able to offer him, Angleterre, but I will see what I can do," Francis said. "My economic state at ze moment isn't ze greatest, so hopefully that will be a distraction to my officials, non?"
Arthur smirked, "Are you suggesting that you are going to steal from your own country to help Alfred?"
Francis grinned, "It iz not stealing if it iz my country. But if it iz Alfred, zen oui."
Arthur rolled his eyes, "Whatever you do is not my problem, as long as we help."
Francis nodded, "I will talk it over-"
Francis cut himself off as he noticed an untouched paper underneath a few others, but Arthur did not notice. Francis pulled out the paper to examine it, while Arthur began to rant about Alfred once more.
"He's just so young, he shouldn't have to deal with all of this rubbish," Arthur complained and looked up at Francis. "Did we have to deal with this when we were his age- what is that?"
Arthur sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening slightly. Francis quirked an eyebrow and looked up at Arthur over the paper he had skimmed over.
"So," Francis began, sipping his wine nonchalantly. "Texas has no need of your assistance, non?"
"Give me that, frog!" Arthur snatched the paper away and placed it beside him, "I though I took those papers out."
Francis smirked, "You never did explain the désordre on a certain Samantha Kirkland."
"I don't have to explain myself to you, nor do I wish to," Arthur said simply. "It's none of your business, so just keep your nose out of it."
"So, is she your new sœur?" Francis asked. "Or perhaps your secret Femme Cheri?"
"She is neither, and it is none of your concern!" Arthur said, turning scarlet.
"Oh, well if mon cher ami, Angleterre will not tell me, zen perhaps I should just go ask her myself, non?" France said with such innocence that if his eyes did not give him away, he could have rivaled Feliciano. "Perhaps invite her to dinner. 'Ave a few glassez of wine-"
Arthur reached over across the table and grabbed Francis' neck roughly, his emerald green eyes shining with a light that Francis' had not seen in many years. Sometimes he forgot that Arthur could indeed be quite strong if provoked a certain way at just the right time.
"You stay the bloody hell away from her, frog, or I will castrate you and make sure that you are never able to feel your 'Eiffel tower' again."
Francis merely smirked at Arthur (though he was in fact quite terrified), "So she iz your daughter, mon cher?"
Arthur blinked, and sat back down with a huff, "It doesn't matter. Just stay away from her."
"I did not zink you had it in you, mon ami!" Francis laughed while pouring Arthur one more glass of wine. "All of zese years zat I 'ave made fun of you, you actually had a fille? Why didn't you say anyzing?"
Arthur's eyes softened, and his harsh gaze became slightly sad, "Why would I?"
Francis frowned, confused.
"If I had told you, or anyone else for that matter, that I had a daughter..." Arthur began with a sigh. "She would have been a target for everyone far more than she already was, and she would have been hurt. She may be strong now, but she wasn't quite so strong then."
Francis was reminded of his beloved Seychelles at that moment, and suddenly felt a wave of understanding wash over him. He had to admit, Arthur was much stronger than he appeared. To keep yourself away from your own daughter for centuries just to protect her, must have taken a lot of effort and emotional trauma.
"You 'ave a point," Francis nodded, then he frowned. "But how on earth did you...I mean...how is she your daughter? I don't recall any countries ever actually being able to 'ave children."
Arthur smirked, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, frog."
Francis rolled his eyes, "Try me. I am just az old az you are, Angleterre, and I know you well enough to be able to tell when you are joking."
Arthur pursed his lip, "Hm, no. That is my business."
Francis sighed, knowing full well that Arthur would not tell him, "Fine."
Arthur scratched the back of his head, "Er...well, yes. So, got any ideas about America, frog?"
Francis' eyes shot up to look at Arthur, "Ah, oui. I nearly forgot to tell you zat Matthew phoned in earlier, and said that Alfred waz currently...well let us just say zat he seems to be 'aving some sort of 'state-related-problems'."
Arthur's eyebrows pressed closer together, "Really? Where?"
"At Mon petit Matthieu's house, I believe," Francis said whilst rubbing the stubble on his chin in thought. "And zere was something about glasses and frogs, but I waz distracted by ze sound of banging and crashing."
"...Glasses?" Arthur asked. "Hm, well we should probably go see what's wrong then."
"Oui," Francis agreed.
The snow that had been cascading down from the heavens and onto the country of England did not cease when Arthur Kirkland left. In fact, it seemed to spread all the way across the Atlantic ocean, following Arthur's plane. The entire ride to Canada was dreary, but of course Arthur was used to it. He had hoped that perhaps the weather might have warmed up, but it seemed that General Winter had other plans.
"Zis plane food iz...well it iz..." Francis began to complain once more about the airplane components. "It iz terrible."
"It is airplane food, what did you expect?" Arthur said rubbing his temples.
"We are in first class!" Francis exclaimed, throwing his hands up.
"Oh, well I'm sorry if normal people don't eat frogs and snails," Arthur said, his eyes narrowing.
Francis was just about to retort when a calm, female voice sounded throughout the plane, "We have reached Ottawa, Canada. Please fasten your seat belts as we prepare to land, and remain seated until we have come to a complete stop. Thank you for choosing 'British Airway'!"
"She soundz much more cheerful zan most of ze other English people I've met," Francis muttered.
Arthur glared at Francis, "Well at least my people aren't all shagging and such!"
Francis stared at Arthur, "...I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me!" Arthur growled. "You're people are- Oh crap we're going down!"
Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose, "We are suppozed to be going down, you silly person!"
"I know, but my ears are popping again!" Arthur muttered, rubbing his ears furiously. "I hate flying, so bloody much..."
"Ah yes, a man of ze seas, non?" Francis smirked.
Arthur could not possible argue with that statement, especially since his heart skipped a beat at hearing those words.
The plane landed soon after, and the two men made their way out the plane. As they stepped outside, the freezing, Canadian air seemed to hit them like an arctic blast. The warmth they had felt from the plane left them immediately, and they shivered.
"Oh, I feel so bad leaving my dear Canada out here like zis!" Francis said. "Maybe I should ask him to stay with me in ze winter..."
"He wouldn't leave," Arthur said. "It is his country."
Francis shrugged, "I'll ask anyway."
Arthur and Francis walked through the tunnel towards the airport, and were met by several employees along the way, each one of them smiling widely. It was blatantly obvious that Canadians were, no doubt, much more friendly than the British; or at least, Arthur Kirkland.
As the two foreigners waited for their luggage to arrive on the carousel, a small voice spoke out in the bustling airport. If Francis and Arthur had not been paying attention, they might have just missed it. However, they did not miss the voice, and the Canadian accent was automatically recognizable.
"Hello," Matthew said as he walked up to the two men, "I'm glad you two made it here safe, eh?"
Arthur nodded politely, "Indeed, though I do hope my bag has not been lost... I had an original copy of 'The Chamber of Secrets' in there."
Francis rolled his eyes, before looking down at Matthew with concern, "Mon cher, you should 'ave told me 'ow cold it is 'ere! You know I will alwayz 'ave a place for you to stay, should you ever come to France."
Matthew smiled, happy that someone actually cared about his well being, "It's fine, Papa, really. Although, I think the reason you find it so cold is because of your...er...clothes."
Francis looked down at his usual attire, and pursed his lip, "What iz wrong with my clothes, sont-ils trop désagréable?"
Matthew sighed, "Papa, you are wearing a thin blue suit, some red tights, and a capelet about as thin as paper. I'm surpised you aren't a popsicle."
Francis turned slightly red, "Well, it iz not quite as cold in Paris as it iz here."
"I know for a fact that it get's cold enough to wear something warmer than that in Paris, Papa," Matthew chided with a small smirk. "You just can't stand wearing sweaters, and you know it."
Francis frowned, "Sweaterz make everyone look fatter zan normal. And zey are always so itchy, non?"
"Aha! My luggage has arrived!" Arthur exclaimed, grabbing the bag before it could disappear on the carousel. "Well, I suppose we are done here?"
Matthew tilted his head slightly, "You aren't looking very warm either, Mr. Kirkland."
Arthur shrugged, "I've become rather used to feeling cold and wet."
Matthew sighed, "Come on, I may have some spare coats in my car."
"And he has been this way for how long?"
Francis and Arthur had arrived at Canada's house, which was just outside of Ottawa. It was a very nice two-story house, but it still held a warmth to it that most countries' houses lacked. Of course, it could have just been the fireplace.
The two guests had settled in quickly, Francis going to the room he usually used when visiting Matthew, and Arthur on the couch. Matthew apologized for not having another spare room for Arthur multiple times, but Arthur waved it off saying it was just fine. After they settled their sleeping arrangements, Matthew led the two upstairs to one out of the two spare rooms that he owned. The one that Alfred F. Jones currently resided in.
The three of them found the American curled up in a ball, underneath a mountain of comforters, on the guest bed. He did not move a single muscle, but Arthur knew for certain that the American knew they were there. Arthur always knew when Alfred was pretending to sleep; he had gained that ability during Alfred's childhood.
"Well, at least he's not breaking everything in sight," Matthew muttered. "And the states are gone for the moment, but I have no doubt that they will be back tomorrow."
"Then I suppose we shall stick around the house tomorrow, and try and find out what exactly they want," Arthur said.
Arthur took another good look around the room, and noticed that almost everything was indeed broken or torn. There were a pile of broken hockey sticks in a corner, one of them covered in shards of glass, and there were random piles of laundry scattered across the floor. Arthur frowned when he noticed the many, many Twinki wrappers amongst the clothes; at least two hundred of them.
"I thought they weren't making these anymore?" Arthur said picking up a wrapper and showing it to Matthew.
Matthew chuckled softly, his voice not holding any sort of amusement, "He stocked up on them when he heard that they weren't making anymore. He has an entire room full of Hostess products, I've seen it. It's the only thing he's been eating since he got here."
Arthur looked back at the huddled form that was Alfred, and felt his throat choke up a tad. He knew better than anyone what it was like to have someone you cared for, more than anything in the entire universe, leave you behind and break your heart. He had gotten over the American Revolutionary War, or at least as much as he figure he was going to, but he could still feel the heartache Alfred must have been feeling along with real physical pain. To have part of you ripped away...it felt as though your entire being was being relentlessly tortured and abused until you finally split in half.
Besides the physical pain Alfred was experiencing, it was obvious the meaning of his current depression ran deeper than one would expect.
"Let me speak with him," Arthur spoke up softly. "I'll see if I can manage to get through to him."
Matthew nodded, "Alright, I'll go make some pancakes. Come on, Papa, you can help, eh?"
Francis nodded, "Oui."
The two exited the room, shutting the door quietly. Arthur flipped on the light switch, which had previously been turned off, and began to make his way through the river of clothes and Twinki wrappers.
Arthur sat down next to Alfred's curled form, and places his hand on what he assumed was Alfred's left shoulder.
"Alfred," Arthur said calmly. "I know you are awake."
Alfred made no response, not even a single movement.
"Alfred, please, talk to me," Arthur said softly. "You know you can tell me anything, I'll always be here for you."
Alfred grumbled something incoherent in response, and shifted away from Arthur.
Arthur sighed, "Alfred lying there and moping about is not going to help you."
"It's better than going out there."
Arthur paused, slightly surprised at Alfred's sudden response, "What do you mean?"
"Everyone...outside wants to leave," Alfred said softly. "And the worst part is, I can't blame 'em."
Arthur frowned, "Who?"
"My states."
Arthur nodded in realization, "I see. So tell me exactly how lying here and not doing anything is going to help?"
Alfred wriggled slightly, "I...I don't know...I don't know anything anymore! My life is hopeless!"
"Your life is most certainly not hopeless," Arthur said. "Your life was hopeless during the depression, and yet you managed to make it through that alright."
"That was different."
"How was it any different?" Arthur asked, becoming slightly exasperated.
"Because Texas was there," Alfred said before shutting his mouth tightly, and cursing inwardly to himself.
Arthur froze upon hearing those words spill out of Alfred's mouth, and his eyes widened. At that very moment he realized that the situation Alfred was currently in was much different than his own situation during the Revolutionary War. Sure, Arthur was heartbroken afterward, but not for the same reason Alfred was moping about at that moment.
"You...really care about her, don't you?" Arthur asked softly.
Alfred was hesitant to answer. He sat up slowly, blankets pooling around him, revealing some rather nasty wounds on his chest, "Of course I do, I've known her since we were kids. I've always been there for her, and she's always be there for me...up until recently, anyway."
Arthur took one good, long look at Alfred. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, he seemed a tad thinner than he did at the meeting a while before, and he obviously had not shaven in quite a long while. He was only wearing a pair of boxers, and they were a dull gray color instead of the usual American flag print. His chest and arms were covered in bruises, but what caught Arthur's eye was the rather large scab on Alfred's right shoulder. The scab itself was scarlet in color, and the veins surrounding it were an extremely apparent, blue color. Wounds did not usually take long to heal when it came to nations, so Arthur recognized that wound straight away as not normal.
Arthur had a very good idea on how that wound got there.
"Alfred, I know for a fact that Samantha does not hate you," Arthur said with a slightly tight jaw. "She just hates being told what to do, is all. She's always been like that...so prideful. I swear Alistair is a terrible influence."
Alfred nodded feebly, "Yeah."
Arthur sat up and held out his hand, "Come on, let's go downstairs. You need to eat some proper food."
Alfred stared at the hand that was offered to him, and his expression turned blank, "I'm not very hungry."
"I don't care, you're eating anyway," Arthur said sternly. "Look, I know things look rough now, but I promise it will all get better in due time. It always does, and I am old enough to able to tell you that."
Alfred looked back up at Arthur with a sad expression, "Things are worse than rough, Arthur, even I can see that. And...and they are just getting worse instead of better."
Arthur folded his arms, and his bushy eyebrows narrowed over his eyes, "Well, you have two choices you may make, Alfred. You may either sit here and hope that all of your problems simply blow away in the wind, or you can get up off your bloody arse and at least try to do something about it!"
Alfred blinked up at Arthur in slight surprise. Arthur was known to yell at Alfred for being stupid, but he had not scolded Alfred in such a long time that Alfred had forgotten how demeaning it felt. Arthur's stern words, however, helped Alfred to see just how dramatic and childish he was behaving. Alfred seemed childish to other people often, but that was simply because their etiquette and personalities differed from his. However, Alfred truly was acting adolescent at that moment, and he immediately felt rather embarrassed for it. After all, the only reason the American Revolutionary War had started was because Alfred wanted to show Arthur that he could actually take care of himself, and that he was not a child anymore. If he could not even handle Texas rebelling against him then he really had not proven anything to Arthur at all.
Alfred sighed loudly, "Fine. You're right. I should do something."
Arthur's eyes widened, "Oh...yes! Yes, of course you should!"
He did not actually think that little speech would work.
Alfred gave Arthur a small smile as he stood up from the bed, "Yeah, I am the hero after all. If I can't save anyone, who can?"
With those words of wisdom, Alfred exited the room and towards the smell of Pancakes.
Arthur stood there with a dumbfound expression, and then chuckled to himself, "Yes. And the sad part about that is...you're probably right."
He stared at the doorway for a moment, and sighed.
"Just...don't try and do it alone."
Dark brown eyes scanned the completely white area. The blanket of snow that covered the ground sparkled in the sunlight, yet refused to melt. The temperature was below freezing, and there was no wind. The fields of snow stretched for miles, and everything was eerily silent and calm.
Brown, leather boots kicked at the snow curiously, and brown eyes watched as it fluttered back to the ground gracefully.
The brown eyes narrowed in confusion, and stared out at the fields of snow once more.
"...'The hell is this crap doin' in Texas?"