hey gang! so i got an apartment, a roommate and moved and hour and a half away! so thats why there was no update over the summer :/ but im really happy to get this one out to you im uber proud of it tbh. also consider this chapter by love letter to newsies 92, i am crazy about that movie and i had to make them newsies because of it dont me alright?

this chapter is an al chapter but it does have a lot of tex so im happy to present it to you all! alfred is a little harder for me ot write but i think i got him pretty good here. in more ways than one lmaooooooooo

anyway anybody else getting geared up for banyoles? im very excited to see what the future holds for the boys

Please Read and Review!

It had been a long day.

They were all long days now; had been for a very long time. Exhaustion coursed through his body, turning his stomach and pounding at his head, the only things left in him that weren't numb from lack of blood flow or completely calloused over. Alfred let out a shaky breath, heavy and aching and so so tired. It was hard to think straight; his eyesight going in and out and up and down and fuzzy in ways it hadn't been since he first admitted he needed those damnable specs.

He leaned back against the grimy brick building, ignoring the day old fish rotting in the trash can beside him, and let his eyes fall closed. Only for a few moments; he just needed to rest his eyes for a few moments and then he'd get back to selling the Sunday paper. He couldn't afford anything more than that. Not with the recent rent increase or the price of food these days.

Besides, he could sell The Eagle faster than any newsie in a five mile radius. He was a veteran, been hawking headlines on and off for almost thirty years and it showed. Every career newsie steered clear of him, aware that he was a sinkhole for sales no matter how bad the corner or headline. 'Ol' Patriot could sell a blank sheet to van Aden himself,' the older boys would say before pushing a little one to wander after him and pick up techniques and Alfred's scraps.

America smiled at the memory of the last boy he'd helped out. Kid was doing fine, great actually, nearly ten now and had a steady corner carved out for himself. He and Al would meet up in front of the Eagle's wholesaler every morning and chat about the newest Wild Bill paperback or whether it was worth it to run down the races that week. Sometimes they'd just complain about how shitty the headline was and how nothing interesting ever happened anymore.

"Al!" A voice yelled from down the street, "You'll never believe it! Al! Al turn around!"

Alfred flinched violently away from the sweet embrace of sleep. The heavy stack of papes slipped from his grip, landing on the damp brick below him, and Alfred swore as he scrambled to pick them back up. He flipped them over, silently begging the Lord above that the bottom paper hadn't smeared enough to be unsellable.

An arm wrapped around him as a weight crashed into him, nearly knocking him over and into the fish, "Al! I been callin' ya! You'll never believe it!" Tex yelled into his ear, jarring any lingering fogginess from his almost-nap. Alfred harshly elbowed his brother in the stomach, putting more strength than usual to get the older boy off him. Texas let out a wheeze, stumbling backwards, "Jesus, Al! What's got you in such a bad mood?" Tex whined, "That bum on Ninth cuss you out again?"

"No, I'm in a bad mood cause some nitwit is screamin' in my ear while I'm tryna rest!" Alfred yelled back, shoving his cap back on, too tired to worry about the dirt and grit all over it. At least his papers weren't torn.

Tex blinked, "Aw, Al…you can sleep when you're dead." He laughed, punching him on the shoulder, before reaching up and gently brushing the hat off and situating it on his head correctly.

Alfred smiled, any remaining annoyance dissipating at the gesture. It was hard to stay mad at Tex these days, especially when he did these little things that made some hollow part of his heart thump with emotion. He let out a breath, "So what was so important you had to interrupt my nap?"

"Huh?" Tex said, letting his hand fall from where it was fussing with his hair. He blinked, "Oh! Yeah!" He grabbed Alfred's shoulders, shaking him in his excitement, "Steeplechase is burning down!"

America stared for a moment, "Steeplechase like Coney Island?" He asked, trying to imagine how an entire amusement park could burn down, "It burned down? When?"

Texas let out a laugh, a bellow more like, his grin stretching wide across his face, "That's the best part!" He shook Alfred again, "Steeplechase is on fire right now! Let's go watch!" He said as he began pulling Alfred out of the dank alley.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Alfred yelped out, straining against his brother's grip, "What about work?!"

Texas snorted, "As if you can't sell that whole stack by the time we get there!"

"Not me! You!"

Tex turned back to him, still pulling him along down the busy streets of Brooklyn, "Al, I lost half my hand in a milling machine yesterday," He held up his other hand, or what was left of it, and wiggled his thumb, "remember?"

It was pretty gruesome to look at, which was probably why Alfred had been unconsciously avoiding the thought of it. The bandages the hospital had given Tex were completely saturated with dried blood and already yellowed with what he hoped was sweat. He swore he could almost smell the gore from yesterday; his stomach turned at the memory.

Alfred was having a pretty good sales day, all things considered.

Sure, it was almost unbearably hot, the sun beating down on his shoulders and burning his exposed nape. And yeah, his sore throat was edging closer and closer to being painful, all while his hand was cramping around the Saturday edition of The Eagle. But, he'd already sold nearly half his papes, and it was barely eleven! If he kept this up he might be able to head down to the docks and cool off there with Red Face and Fingers before it got too late.

Alfred let out a wistful sigh at the thought of jumping into the East River, before shaking his head and getting back to work. Dreaming about something and getting it are two different things; and he'd never get a dip in the water if he didn't get rid of the rest of these stupid papers. He raised his hand to his mouth, "Berlin Ripper at large! Ten more little girls stabbed overnight! Three cents!"

He continued like that for a while longer, entertaining himself and the growing lunch crowd around him with increasingly outlandish titles. Men in stiff suits and ladies in fancy dresses bought his papers, and the weight of his wallet grew heavier and heavier with each penny. Before he knew it only the bums and other illiterate workers were around him; his clientele heading back to their cushy desk jobs or into a carriage back to their pretty mansions.

Alfred counted the papes he had left, his ink stained fingers flitting through the pages as he walked towards the bodega that opened up a few years back. Their sandwiches were cheap and delicious in a way he hadn't been able to experience since the Industrial Revolution began. Plus the workers there reminded him of Tex, though if his brother knew about the comparison he'd probably beat the snot out of him.

"Oh, hello, Patriot!" A sweet voice called to him as a bell jingled over his head, "Do you want you're usual?"

Alfred smiled at the woman, older and plump in the middle with dark skin and black hair just starting to gray, "Yeah, Loopy!" He slid into the single stool beside the counter, "And get me one of them Cokes, too! Headlines good today!"

Loopy laughed as she wandered to the back to throw together his Ham and Cheese, chattering in Spanish to her husband and youngest while she worked. Alfred rested his cheek on his palm, leaning into the counter, and letting the white noise of a foreign language wash over him. It was almost like when he and Tex had first become friends, before the War and before they were really brothers; back when Alfred would visit Texas in his own country right after the Alamo and Spanish was still spoken by a majority of his citizens.

Back then, Texas would speak Spanish so quickly, his words rolling together until Alfred couldn't tell when one word ended and another began. It was fascinating to listen to, the rolling r's and almost musical way the language sounded kept him interested in conversations even when Texas and everyone had seemingly forgotten him. Sometimes, Tex would forget so thoroughly that he'd turn to Al, a big smile on his face, and let out a string of syllables Alfred could never hope to disentangle. Of course, at the blank look he was given, Texas would immediately remember Al's lack of Spanish knowledge and switch back to his halting, unconfident English and force everyone around them to conform as well.

By the time Texas was a state Spanish had fallen out of popularity, and by the time Alfred woke up from his little nap, Texas was a one language man himself, or at least he tried to be. Those ten years after the War, Alfred took great pleasure in watching Texas struggle to keep up with America. Alfred would use large, complex sentences that ran circles around his fellow personification. It was a source of easy revenge for him, watching his brother fumble for the right words in the right places, a near constant furrow in his brow as his face flushed with embarrassment. He was a laughing stock in the American political sphere for years, and many of the politicians, whether influenced by America's own feelings or not, would gladly aid their country in humiliating a backstabber like his brother.

Now, though, Alfred sometimes found himself missing his brother's other language. Missed hearing him croon drunkenly into glasses or work himself into a frenzy, spitting elaborate curses Alfred wished he fully understood. But, it had been years since either had heard Spanish spoken freely, and even longer since the one speaking was his brother. And Texas was determined to keep it that way, no matter how much Alfred wished something would force it out of him.

"Here, you go, mijo." Loopy said, holding out the fresh sandwich to him, already rummaging around the icebox for his Cola. Alfred smiled at her, wondering only for a second what a me-ho is, before digging in. The woman slid the drink towards him, cold as it could be on a day like this and dripping with sweat, before crossing her arms and leaning onto the counter in front of him.

"So, Patriot, what's in the news today?" She asked, a teasing grin on her face.

Alfred looked up from his lunch, already half gone and aching for more, "I dunno know, Loopy." He smirked up at the woman, "I don't read the paper much these days. Jus' bad news, usually."

The older woman huffed out a laugh, hitting him lightly with the back of her hand, "Oh, come now, Patriot! You wouldn't deny an old woman her entertainment for the day, huh?" She leaned closer, "Just tell the 'hanging' parts! I give you discount." She whispered out.

Alfred snorted at Loopy's word choice. Who knew she was cool enough to know how to use hanging right? Well, obviously Alfred did, or he wouldn't eat here as often as possible! He let out a put-upon sight, "Alright, ya twisted my arm! Take three cents off my total and I'll leave ya something to soak up the next spill, yeah?" He threw down what he owed, already gearing up to make this sell bigger and better than any of the previous ones today.

Loopy laughed, big and full bellied and warm, "Sí, sí! Now hand me my paper, Mr. Patriot!"

Alfred leaned down and pulled a paper from his stack, setting it down away from the splash zone of his Cola, before beginning his headline spiel for today, "Well, first thing ya gotta know is that that Berlin Ripper? He killed ten–no fifteen more little girls last night! And the German police can't do nothin' about it!" Loopy hummed in terror as she wiped down the counter, "And that kid, Mikey; the one who went missin' last week? He was definitely kidnapped! His dad got a ransom note and everything! It said, 'give us three-thousand bucks or he's dead by Sunday!'." Loopy let out another noise as she rummaged under the counter for something, "And, ya know, what Loopy?"

Loopy stood up from her bent over position, smoothing her hair back from where it had fallen out of the ribbon holding it back, "What, Alfred?" She stage-whispered, "What happened next?"

"The note was written in blood!"

The woman gasped, "Who's blood?"

That made Alfred pause. Whose blood was the note written in? Or, rather, who's blood should the note be written in? It couldn't be little Mikey's, if they found him tomorrow or paid the real ransom then Loopy would know he took her for a sucker, but it couldn't be the kidnapper's cause he hadn't been caught yet. Alfred looked at her expectant face, regretting getting caught up in the embellishing part of hawking with someone he considered a friend.

"Patriot," Loopy put a hand on his arm, "you can tell me. I'm not some weak-hearted old woman." She smirked, "I wouldn't have left Puerto Rico if I was."

"It was…" Alfred looked around desperately, begging the Lord to give him a way out, "a hawkshaw!" He snapped his fingers, "Yeah! It was a disgraced hawkshaw's blood who'd gotten too close to the scene, and, without any backup, was caught!" He laughed out, excited for the rest of the story to unfold.

Loopy smiled, and it was soft and filled with an emotion Al couldn't quite read, "Very fascinating. I hope tomorrow you can read me the paper too.

"A'course, I can! In fact, I can tell ya some of the other, more boring stories right now!"

"Oh, that would be wonder–

"Patriot!" The door swung open, banging on the wall beside it. Alfred stood up, fists raised and ready to fight whoever was interrupting his lunch, "Patriot! You gotta come quick!" The boy in the entryway gasped out. It was a younger newsie from the Lodge House down the street from his and Tex's tenement.

Alfred let his hands fall, still tense and ready to cheese it, "What is it, Spades?"

The boy looked up at Al, his blue eyes wide and face paler than he'd ever seen, "It's Lone Star! He's in a bad way."

A pit the size of Manhattan opened up in Alfred's stomach. Texas had just gotten a job at a milling company cutting metal parts into shape. What for, neither Tex or Al knew exactly, but they did know that the pay increase from newsie to factory worker took them from the old, broken down Lodging House they were staying at, overrun by other boys and packed shoulder to shoulder, to a tenement where they had their own room with a door and kitchen that worked half the time.

The job was dangerous, and Alfred almost asked his brother not to take the job all those months ago. They'd been walking past the factory, drawn by the sound of an ambulance and screaming; when the road had cleared a well dressed man in a clean suit pointed at Tex and asked him if he wanted a spot on the factory line. Texas had looked down at the last morning pape he had left to sell, down the street at the fading carriage, and said yes. The man then smiled, said he started now, and bought Tex's last copy of the morning Eagle.

Alfred had been selling solo ever since. It was a bit lonely, but every time Texas brought back a fat paycheck or was able to afford non-moldy bread and hot coffee in the morning, Alfred reminded himself it was all worth it. Or at least it was.

If Tex had been hurt on the factory line, and bad if the way Spades was shaking in his boots, then that invincibility they'd both been feeling for the entire summer, was about to come to a screeching halt. Usually, they didn't have to really worry about things like exhaustion or lack of food or water breaks affecting them in the way it did with their citizens. Getting hurt on the job, passing out or getting sick from overwork, was only something that really happened to humans, and ever since they won the Spanish-American war and stamped down the insurrection in the Philippines, neither of them had felt very human.

They had become an empire, had lost the vulnerability of their fledgling Nation status, and rose to the height of their fathers.

Now , though, Alfred felt his age. He felt like he did when he was a scared little child watching England's back fade in the distance as he walked away from him. He was alone and seas away from anyone who understood his existence.

America scrambled out of the bodega, ignoring Loopy and Spades as they called after him. Neither of them mattered right now, nothing and no one mattered more than Texas right now. The factory was a ten minute walk from Alfred's usual selling spot, but he could make it there in three if he ran like no one was looking. And nobody would, not with the way Alfred was willing his citizens to make a path for him and ignore the unnatural way the ground underneath his feet seemed to push him forward, or the way his legs blurred around the edges as he ran faster than what was humanly possible.

It was like a sick version of deja vu, when he finally arrived. An ambulance, screams, and blood covered the stoop of the factory entrance. But this time, instead of being some blurry-faced, unnamed worker sitting in that carriage, it was his brother. His brother who was covered in gore and spitting mad. Alfred fought his way to the front of the crowd, shoulder checking anybody who got too close to him, until he was finally able to see the damage for himself.

It was…bad.

Texas's left hand had been severed in half below the knuckles. His fingers were completely gone, bone and ligaments handing from the open wounds like string. Alfred felt sick, not because he hadn't seen worse injuries than this, hell he'd had much worse himself, but because it was Texas who was the one suffering. His brother talked with his hands! How was he going to snap his fingers when he found the right word? How was he going to his Alfred when he was laughing too hard? How was he going to make vulgar gestures at the bulls whenever they harassed the newsies over a little soaking?

How were they gonna afford the tenement now that Tex had been fired?

"Oh. Right…" He muttered, looking anywhere but Tex.

Texas yanked his arm, "Ah, don't worry 'bout it! I still got my thumb!" He winked, "The most important of 'em all."

Alfred hummed, forcing a chuckle out. Texas was always so cavalier about his injuries, being a cripple made selling papes easier he had joked once he'd been released from the hospital, but it was hard for Al to find any humor in their situation. They'd have to move back into the Lodging House by the end of the week, and Alfred both dreaded and anticipated their return. He missed playing craps with The Dane and trading stories with Lead Foot, even if it meant he had to shower with ten other boys in the room. He thinks maybe Texas is excited too, and that he might have missed being a newsie more than he let on, if the smile on his face or the spring in his step meant anything.

"Al, this is the most hanging thing to happen all summer!" He yelled, maneuvering them around a pack of fancy ladies. One of them yelled out, but upon seeing Texas' bloody bandage she bought a paper and sent them on their way with a tight smile, "I mean, I been wantin' to go to Coney Island all summer, but it burnin' down means there's gonna be a lot more entertainment on the streets!"

Alfred snorted, "Oh yeah? What kinda entertainment we talkin'?"

Texas turned back to him, a smirk on his face, "The best kind! Ton's a fightin'! Nobody's got anythin' to do! So's people's is gonna be red hot all the time with nowhere to go about it!" He winked, "And where there's a good fight! There's people willin' to buy papers."

America laughed. Leave it Tex to turn their favorite amusement park burning down into a business opportunity! Alfred wouldn't be surprised if he woke up one day and his brother was running an underground fighting ring, complete with a round card girl and a vaudeville act to follow. He said as much and Tex got a kick out of it as well.

The rest of the walk was spent selling pity papes (Texas), hawking headlines (Alfred), and figuring out what code names they were going to go by when they start their fight club. They hashed the whole thing out. They would go by their work titles, Patriot and Lone Star, and would spread the word by slipping homemade flyers into their papes. The fights would take place in different alleys every night, and by the time they got a real ring, they'd have Theodore Rosevelt himself repping their business.

Teddy did love a good fist fight.

By the time they reached the dock, it was nearly noon, and the evening edition of the Eagle was no doubt printing its first copies. For a second, America worried about whether or not they'd make it back in time to get their usual selling spots. It didn't matter though, because any thought of selling papes flew out of Alfred's head the minute he saw the burning remains of Steeplechase Park.

The park was fifteen acres worth of raunchy entertainment that even the bluest nose couldn't help but snicker at. Texas would attest to that, seeing as Al had almost as much fun on the Whirlpool as he did. Though Alfred kept his hands off the lady he was seated next to, unlike his brother who insisted on steading her every chance he got.

Now though, it was ashes. Smoldering, smoking, burning ashes. The flames, red and angry, crackled in the daylight, consuming everything in their path. Nothing was safe, and Alfred belatedly wondered if they, too, were next to be swallowed up. Sweat dripped down his back, cold even in the summer heat he was complaining about seconds ago.

"Well, what're we waitin' for!?" Texas whispered, nudging Alfred with his shoulder.

"Huh?" He said, unable to take his eyes off the sight.

"Let's go dig around in the part that's already done burnin'!"

Alfred's stomach swooped uneasily at the thought of getting any closer to the disaster before them, "What?" He couldn't help but stutter out.

Texas chuckled, wrapping his good arm around America's shoulders and steering them towards the shared remains of the southern side of the park, "Come on, Al! I'm sure there's something real interestin' in there." He leaned in close, "Plus Ol' Tilly'll probably start charging people to dig around the ashes tomorrow."

Tex pulled them inside the threshold of the park, stepping over broken wood beams that had fallen during the fire, and around piles of ash that were once beloved rides. Alfred said nothing as they walked deeper and deeper into the park. It was completely abandoned, eerily silent in the way any part of Coney Island never was.

It was like the soul had gone out of the boardwalk alongside the flames.

Texas hummed as he ducked into what must have been the Human Roulette. Oohing and aahing at the way the inside had melted some, curving his fingers over the wobbly stripes and pushing on the outside to see if it still worked. Surprisingly it did still turn, not like it used to, when it spun so fast people fell head over heels into each other, sliding into and brushing up against the other sex in an entirely exciting and inappropriate way.

"Ha! Al, spin it for me! I want a private turn on the Human Roulette!" He laughed out.

Alfred nodded, forcing a big grin, when his brother turned his way and was silently thankful that Texas hadn't called him inside. The idea of being in such a small space that still smelled of smoke and burnt mortar sent a shiver down America's back. He steadied his shaky legs as he leaned down to push the side of the Roulette up.

After a few strong pushes the wheel began moving with its own momentum, and the sound of Tex banging around while giggling like a child nearly made Alfred's sense of apprehension go away. That is, until Texas called out that it was Al's turn now. The small smile fell from his face immediately, a stone settling in his stomach, "Ah, Tex, you know I ain't a big fan a'this one!"

Texas crawled out of the ride on all fours, limping in the way only dogs with broken paws should, before he got to his unsteady feet, "Oh, right." He said, holding onto an iron bar that was only slightly scorched, "Let's go to the races then, eh? If them ponies is still up, betcha we could race!"

They took off in the direction of the Racetrack, closer to the seaside of the park, and closer to the fire, if not by much. Texas was a few steps ahead of him, poking his head into every burnt sideshow attraction they passed, even the boring ones neither of them would have glanced at for more than a second any other day. Alfred guessed they must look different covered in ash, at least to Tex. He didn't see what was so interesting about the burned remains of the Funny Face signs or the torn big top.

"Oh! There it is!" Tex yelled, running full tilt towards the mechanical horse track. Alfred scowled, holding his breath so the kicked up soot and dirt Texas left behind wouldn't clog up his throat, before jogging after him.

The Steeplechase Ride, or the Racetrack as they called it, really was one of Alfred's favorite attractions. It was Tex's too, even if he always complained it could never compare to the real thing. The track was one big circle, with sets of stadium seats enclosing it like an actual derby, but instead of trained jockeys and purebred stallions, the metal horses sat a on a mechanical track that pushed them forward based on, well, Alfred could never really tell what decided which horse would win any given day. It certainly had nothing to do with any actual knowledge of horse handling, or Texas would've won more than three times in the past ten years.

"Al! Al! Get on!" His brother called out to him, already on his favorite horse. It was an, admittedly, poor imitation of a Paint Horse, but every one of Tex's hard earned wins were on her, so he stood by her. The poor thing had warped slightly in the heat, her head caved in on the right side and one of her legs had lost its paint job entirely, leaving it a scorched rusty gray color.

Alfred hefted his leg over the horse next to the Painter, a brown Thoroughbred with a very angry expression despite the fact that the person who detailed him had forgotten to add an eyeshine. Not that any of that mattered, of course. The only reason Alfred had any fondness for this horse over any of the others was because he was sitting on this one when Texas had finally won a race nearly six years ago. He situated himself on the Thoroughbred, ignoring the way his fingers came back covered in soot and how, exactly, that made his stomach feel, "Alright, cowboy," He looked over at his brother, "now what?"

Texas leaned back on his horse, kicked his legs down the ground and pushed himself forward an inch. He rubbed his face with his good hand, the other laying gently on the Painter's face. He blew his cheeks out, before hopping off his horse and turning to him, "Lemme push you."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, not-so-subtly looking down at his brother's deformed bloody hand, before shrugging, "Okay." Tex rolled his eyes, before getting behind him and bracing his weight against the horse slightly. He adjusted his grip for a second, unsure of what to do with his dud hand, before settling on pushing the meat of his palm against the flank of the horse.

And then they were off!

It wasn't nearly as fast as riding a real horse, or even riding a fake one when the machine was working. The metal track underneath him wobbled dangerously, the Thoroughbred tilting this way and that as they went through the circle, and screeching terribly on more than one occasion. But Tex's running commentary in his ear, and the breathless way he was laughing in between words, put a huge smile on Alfred's face. It'd been a while since he and Tex had had some fun by themselves, especially in an open space like this. The way his heart was fluttered could almost make up for the fact that the smell of smoke was still in the air. They reached the end of the track; Alfred declared the unequivocal champion of the mechanical pony derby, and Texas a sweating lump on the ground.

They were both still laughing, when Texas let out a harsh cough. He sputtered for a moment, nearly bowing over with the strength of the cough, before it slowly died down, "Ack! Sorry 'bout that Al! Got some ash in my throat." He snorted, "Guess I shouldn't sit in soot piles anymore." Texas stood up, stretching and dusting his pants off in vain. He was covered in ash, his hands, his bandage, his previously near-white shirt, and his face.

It made Alfred sick to his stomach, his heart stuttering at the sight.

"Let's go check out the pool next! I'm due for a bath." He laughed, holding out his arms and spinning around. Showing off the extent of the damage.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to just him and his brother; down to the smoke lingering in the air and the still smoldering embers just a few yards away. Panic crawled its way up his spine, painstakingly, agonizingly slow, like a tidal wave in slow motion or a faulty motion picture. Alfred opened his mouth to say something, make an excuse about a bad sandwich or remind Texas that the evening paper was going to print soon and it took them over an hour on a good day to get from Coney Island to the distributor's office back in Brooklyn.

But nothing came out, and Texas had already turned his back and made his way towards the middle of the park.

America swallowed the panic, shook away the haze he was in, and followed after. He didn't know what that was, didn't want to know what that was, but he knew a dip in that fancy saltwater pool would do both of them some good. Texas would cool down and hopefully all that stuff on his person would disappear once he hit the water, and Alfred would be able to swim off some of the uneasy energy buzzing underneath his skin.

The walk to the big 'white house' was a little quieter than the last two. With more distractions on the way, Texas was too preoccupied speculating about whether that ruin would be rebuilt or left behind when Tilyou opened the park again next season or if they'd come up with some new fantastical ride. A lot of them involved being dangled upside down or beams of light, which seemed a little far fetched in America's opinion. Then again, he thought the Loop The Loop ride was crazy when it was first introduced at Sea Lion Park.

The smell of smoke was thickening in the air as they drew nearer to the white house. It was as close to the flames as Alfred was willing to go, in fact he could see the fire still going strong from where they were standing. He hoped Tex would finally grow bored of the park once they finished investigating the pool and Atlantis; they were both daredevils but neither of them wanted to waste a day's worth of pay to an easily avoidable death.

Besides, dying by fire was the worst.

The white house was, miraculously, still standing when they finally reached it. Seems like the fire had completely skipped over the structure, going from the Sour Pavillion right to the Revolving Tower. With the flames firmly behind them, Texas and America made their way into the pool house from the rifle range outside using the employee entrance. Not without shooting a few blank rounds into the bullseye and helping themselves to a few of the candies from the prize jar.

Once inside, Alfred was quietly amazed by how big the building was when it wasn't crowded from shoulder to shoulder with tourists and opportunist pickpockets. The floors were a beautiful granite tile, elegant if not for all the scuff marks littering it, and the pool itself was enormous. They hadn't been able to swim here for a few years, with all the wars they were fighting in, and then with how hard times had been for them since their penchant ran out last march, Coney Island wasn't at the top of their priorities.

But, inside the pool house, away from all the devastation outside, in this nearly clean open space, Alfred felt like a real high falutin' celebrity. Like he was rich enough to rent out the entire park for the day, just because he felt like it. And nobody could stop him, because he was a big shot, strong and prosperous and rich. He was influential and omnipresent in his impact on the world. His citizens loved him, the world wanted to be him, and the Nations respected and feared him in equal turn. He could he do anything he wanted, make anything he wanted happen, he could–

A splash cut his thoughts off.

Alfred shook his head. Fantasies like that weren't worth entertaining. It didn't matter how big his landmass was, nor how much power he had over the continents in the New World; Europe would never treat him the way he wanted to be treated. They'd never see him as anything more than a loud-mouth upstart. And he liked it that way.

"Come on, Al! Jump in!" Texas called from the pool. He was bobbing up and down in the deep end, doing lazy laps on his back.

America stepped to the edge of the pool, toeing off his shoes and rolling up the hem of his pants, "You sure you should be swimming with your arm like that?" He asked, looking at the drenched bandage covering Texas' hand.

Texas floated to an upright position in the water, "Oh, this?" He held his hand up, "It's already mostly healed. I ain't worried about it." He gently unwrapped the wound, tossing the dirty dressings onto the edge of the pool.

"You're disgusting!" Alfred squealed, skittering away from them as they landed with a wet plop next to him, "I don't want your dirty hand wraps near me! Get out and throw it away!"

Texas held up his newly free hand to the light shining in from the skylights ahead. He was right, it was mostly healed. What should have been a gorey and infected wound, was a bruised and freshly pink scab the size of Alfred's face. It was still entirely foul to look at, but it was better than the exposed nerve endings and twitching bone he had seen yesterday. Still, Alfred wasn't sure that it should be soaked in dirty salt water so soon.

America opened his mouth to voice his opinion, intent on keeping his brother from a painful infection that would keep him from work for God knows how long, when he was suddenly underwater. The shock of the cold pushed the breath out his lungs, and he almost inhaled on instinct before better judgment forced his legs to kick upwards. He broke the surface with a hacking cough, holding himself up with an arm on the ledge. When the coughing subsided, he could hear his brother snickering from a little ways away from him. Alfred's head shot towards him, "Tex! I'm wearing my clothes!" He shouted.

Texas snorted, kicking away and drenching America with more saltwater, "So am I." He shrugged, "Just thought you needed a little help gettin' in." Alfred let out an incredulous breath, before smirking and taking off after his brother. He could get an infection and loose the rest of that dud hand of his, for all he cared now. Texas was going down!

For the next hour or so, neither Jones boy was the greatest at time management, let alone when they were playing by themselves. Hours would slip away in droves through their fingers, days turning to weeks and months where they simply lived and survived and explored without any outside intervention. The government hated when they did that, but who were a bunch of humans to judge how two Nations spent their time? They could never comprehend how time worked when you lived for an eternity, how it stretched and squashed and moved at the rate of molasses and disappeared in the blink of an eye, just how inhuman it all was.

They were in the middle of a game of water tag, Texas was it, mostly because you need fingers to actually tag someone, but also because Alfred had always been the stronger swimmer of the two, when a crash echoed across the empty pool room. Both boys slowed to a stop, treading water silently as they waited to see what would happen next. After a few seconds of silence, the brothers glanced at each other and silently came to the conclusion that they should probably scram before the bulls showed up and sent them to a Refuge for Wayward Boys for trespassing.

Alfred pulled himself out first, his wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to his back and weighing him down. Once back on solid ground, he stretched his neck in the direction of the sound, before leaning down and helping Tex out. They stood there for a moment, squeezing out some of the excess water from their shirts and shaking out their hair before pulling their hats back on.

Another crash rang out, this time closer and much louder.

Texas patted Alfred's chest, leaning close and whispering, "Let's get outta here. We had our fun, but I'm sure the evening pape'll be out any time now." America nodded, eyes still staring into the distance.

They made their way towards the south exit of the poolhouse. Steps as silent as humanly possible when their every move caused a squelching noise. As they neared the hallway, Alfred felt the hairs on his neck stand up, a sense of terror washing over him. Something inside him was begging him to run, but they were already moving away from what should have been the danger, so why did he feel like he was entering the belly of the beast?

He stepped a little closer to his brother, his heart pounding in the dim light of the hall, glancing back from where they came. In front of him, Texas reached the little side door that led back to the boardwalk. He moved his hand toward the knob, slower than he should've, but Alfred knew his brother was feeling the same apprehension he was right now, and couldn't blame him for acting like they were back in enemy territory.

Something clattered to the ground behind them, startling them both and Texas' hand shot out like a rattler next to a rabbit. He gripped the doorknob, twisting it and pulling it open faster than Alfred had seen him move in a few years now. He was about to say as much when Tex let out a pained yelp. He stumbled backwards, clutching his hand against his chest and that was when the door burst into flames.

It was like the gates of hell had opened.

The door flew open, and with it came a heat so unbearable, so painful, neither boy could stand it. Flames immediately moved into the previously cool building, eating at the walls and the floor and encroaching closer and closer to both Texas and Alfred. Smoke filled the room, circling just above their heads and swirling into their lungs, disorienting them and making it difficult to see more than a few feet away from them.

"Al!" Texas yelled, his voice already hoarse from smoke inhalation, "Come 'ere! Let's get outta here!" He flung his hands out in front of him, and the motion caught Alfred's attention just before one smacked him in the face. He grabbed Texas, gripping him in a tight, bruising hold, before they shot down the hall and away from the fire.

The flames followed them, the smoke already moving into the pool room and keeping Alfred dizzy and panicked in a way he usually wasn't in an emergency situation. He lagged behind his brother, if only slightly, as a fuzzy sense of detachment fell over him. The urgency bubbled underneath his skin, crawling up his spine, and he could feel it, but he also felt ten feet away from his body. He could see Texas, covered in ash again, and the bubbling white burn on the palm of his hand in front of him, and could see himself somehow, and the unsettling glaze over his eyes.

He took a deep breath, coughing at the dryness that immediately attacked the back of his throat, trying to ground himself with the pain of it, but it did nothing to help. In fact, it seemed to make it worse, his feet slowed again, and he could see Texas adjust his grip on Alfred, moving from holding hands to wrapping his arm around his shoulders. Tex said something to him, a pinch in his brow and his eyes watering from the heat around them, but Alfred couldn't make it out. It was strange because the words were said right next to his ear.

The pool room was not the salvation they were looking for. The room was covered in low hanging smoke, the bleachers surrounding the pool were engulfed in white hot flames, and the exit they were aiming for was blocked by a fallen beam. That must have been one of the crashes they heard, and if that was true then the other sounds from the east exits were also support beams burning up and crashing to the ground.

They were trapped. They were trapped in a burning building that was going to collapse on top of them. They were going to burn–

–alive!

He was going to burn alive here! He was going to die alone! Again!

The library's ceiling creaked, sending his stomach plummeting to the depths of hell, as more sparks fell down upon him. He flinched away from them, the heat kissing little burns all over his exposed flesh and eating away at his uniform.

Alfred crouched down and grabbed a few more books, tossing them out the broken window and into the woods as hard as he could. His throat burned with the effort of it all, but as more and more books were saved, he thought about how happy Miss Dolley would be when she saw. The tomes were important to her and the United States history as a whole. They were his lifeblood, and one of the few joys he was allowed to share with his First Lady; he had to remain here and save as many as he could.

A wooden beam fell down next to him, sending a spark of smoldering ash into his skin and setting the book he was holding aflame. He dropped it, mourning the loss of it, before moving on and climbing up to the top shelf of the opposite wall. His grip was weakened by the amount of smoke he had breathed in, and the soft burns puckering his fingers and stinging with every small bit of pressure.

The pain didn't matter though, he was a Nation, something bigger than pain and death and despair. He was America, strong and new and radiant, and he would save this library. He would stay here until the roof caved in, until there were no more books to save, until he was physically unable to do more. It was his duty, and he would not fail.

With his arms full of another dozen or so books, he jumped from top of the shelf, ignoring the way his legs shook with the weight. He reached the jagged window, wound up as far as he could, and threw them with all his might. Shards of glass pierced his skin, slicing him open and embedding themselves into flesh. It hurt like hell, the glass already hot with the heat of the fire sinking into him, but Alfred pushed the pain away.

He was more than this.

Another four or five passes continued this way. More books were saved, more books were lost, a part of the ceiling came crashing to the ground, nearly breaking Al's shoulder in the process. He was moving slower than in the beginning, his movements weighed down by the fog in his brain and the constant need to stop and bow over coughing. It was becoming painful to move, but he only had one more section of the library to move outdoors, and then he could leave.

He stumbled over to the east side of the library, holding his hands out in front of him, blind from the smoke. He brushed his hands over the books of the shelf level with his head, before swiping them into his waiting arms. A few fell from his hands and onto the ground, he cursed and bent to pick them up before the ash caught on their pages. When he secured his grip around them, shoving them under his burnt arms, his legs nearly gave out when he moved to stand, but Alfred dug deep into the reservoir of strength he knew was deep inside him.

Slowly he made his way to the open window, shoving them out pitifully, he let out a hacking cough, wet and dry at the same time. His vision blurred around him, going from smoke dark to black and white to entirely too colorful in a matter of seconds. Alfred stood for a second, leaning against the nearly black wall, while waiting for the fit to pass. He shut his eyes, a tear squeezing out as a sense of despair and complete terror washed over him.

He barely had the strength to move on, let alone grab the last hundred or so books waiting patiently for him to rescue them. Dolley would be so disappointed in him if failed, and even more embarrassed if he died here. It was a pitiful death. He should be ashamed. A Nation like him, dying to a common house fire.

Except, it wasn't a common house fire, was it?

It wasn't just any house on fire, it was his White House, his capital building. The home of his Commander in Chief, the place where many of the most important meetings that decided his and his people's futures were decided. It burned away at his heart, causing an immense ache that sent shockwaves through his entire body even now that it had been burning for hours. And it was no accident that caused this fire. It was his…his former family that set it.

His brother, whom he shared so much, and his uncles who he thought would be proud of him for breaking free of the chains Father had inflicted upon all of them. He thought they would join him, or at least would do the bare minimum when forced to help the wretched empire attack. Alfred thought he held a semblance of love and respect in his family's eyes. He thought they thought more of him than this.

But that wasn't true. They had jumped at the first chance to attack America. Had reveled in the pain they inflicted and the victories they brought to England. HIs own brother had set his fire, he knew in his heart of hearts. Alfred had felt the other Nation's presence, had known, deep down, of the wicked intent he had when he neared the White House. American thought he wanted a fight, thought Mattie wanted to test his strength against his brother, but instead had fallen victim to his usual tricks.

And now he was going to return back to base a failure, dead in an avoidable collapse and the victory of his defeat claimed by his dirty Frenchman trickster of a sibling.

America shook his head. No, he was not going to die here. He wouldn't give the enemy the satisfaction! He was stronger than this. He had defeated the Empire that held the world in his hands, had held a musket rifle to his Lord Father's head at the height of their war and came out unscathed. He was a Nation unto himself, and he would not let a sniveling little colony like Canada or a set of far off Countries that cowered behind the mighty shadow of the British Empire kill him.

He was the United States of America, and he would continue this fight like the devil himself had possessed him.

He pushed himself away from the wall, turning to face the now gaping hole in the wall that was the window. With no glass left to cut him, Alfred knew it was his cleanest escape route. The foundation around it was weakened by the flames licking up it, and all it needed was one good, solid kick to become the doorway to safety Alfred needed it to be.

He wound up the kick, his leg heavy and sluggish, before slamming it into the wood as hard as he could. The wall caved in slightly, groaning with the weight of the attack, but held firm. Alfred let out a heavy sigh, breathless with the smoke clogging his lungs and his mind, before winding up once again. Another kick and another few centimeters closer to salvation. Once more, America resolved, one more kick and he would home free. He pulled his leg back as far as he could, putting the last bit of strength he had into the motion, and knew deep in his bones that this was his last chance. He leaned back, held the pose, and–

A bullet lodged itself in his eye.

"Al come on, please!" A voice screamed in his ear, cracking and desperate. A desperate hand shook him, "Allie, I'm sorry! I didn't know this would happen!" That same hand cupped his face, gently even as they shook with terror, "Please come back so we can get outta here!"

Alfred blinked, every sensation that had been muffled rushing back to him all at once, and gasped at the sudden onslaught of information. They were in a burning building, or they were? The world widened from where it had narrowed down, the sun shined lazily overhead, the air was only thick with factory smog, not killing smoke, and he and his brother were both outside. Not only were they outside, but they were out of the park entirely.

He was seated on the stoop of Bowery Vaudeville side entrance. Slumped, really. His hat was gone, and there was a glass of water next to him. He swallowed harshly, blinking rapidly again to move the stars from his eyes. He looked up at his brother, who was crouched down in front of him with a pale face and wide pinprick eyes, "What 'appened?" He croaked.

Texas let out shaky breath, falling back on his butt in relief, "¡Gracias por Dío!" He whispered out, looking up into the sky, "Al, I busted us outta there, but you were–" He cut himself off. Looking deep into Alfred's eyes he asked, "Allie, what was that?"

Alfred rested his head against the door, "What was what?"

"That, that shellshock thing that happened! You froze and started breathin' all funny and babbling about God knows what!"

He took a moment to consider that, to wonder at where exactly he went during the fire, but any memory of the last who knows how long, slipped right through his fingers. It was like he'd simply blinked they were suddenly away from Steeplechase and the fire entirely. It was a little disquieting, to be honest, but if Alfred couldn't remember a thing about what just happened, what did it matter? They'd just have to avoid being inside burning buildings ever again.

Easy enough, he supposed.

After a moment, America just shrugged, unable to answer the question. He could tell Texas wanted to pry, but his brother respected his wishes to move from this. Tex moved to sit next to him, shoving the water in his hands and watching him drink it slowly, before nudging him, "You wanna hear how badass I was, bustin' us outta the stupid park?" America smiled into his drink, taking in the burns all over Tex's hands and charred remains of his pants. Must've been some epic story, for him to come out looking like that.

Alfred couldn't wait to hear it.