I sing America, The Beautiful when i'm sad. So i thought, what if Arthur did that? and this is what i came up with.

It's still July, therefore, I can still write about this holiday. :P

"O beautiful for spacious skies."

Alfred F. Jones, the one and only personification of the United States of America, stopped in his tracks at those familiar words. Was that?

"For amber waves of grain…"

Yeah, that was defiantly it. That was the song. Alfred's song. "America, The Beautiful", by Katharine Lee Bates. Alfred followed the singing through the halls of his Colorado state home.

Alfred has a home in every state of America, plus one in Puerto Rico. The Colorado home is one of his favorites, it's just off the side of Pikes Peak, one of the state's most well-known mountain. From up here, they can see the far-off mountain ranges, the forest below, and if you looked long enough, you might just catch a glimpse of the Denver lights in the distance. It was amazing, being up this high in the cold mountain air. Patches of snow clung to the ground, refusing to melt. Alfred loved this state the most, but he wouldn't admit that to the others.

He had invited Matthew, Francis, and Arthur over to celebrate The Fourth with him. Usually he held a huge party, with food, fireworks, bonfires, and music. He'd invited the whole world to join in the celebrations. But this year, it's just the four of them. Alfred thought something simple would be refreshing.

Fireworks are illegal in Colorado, due to forest fires. So Alfred made sure that they had a huge dinner and played games to celebrate his birthday. After dinner, when Al and Matt started to set up the speaker system, Francis pointed out to the American that a certain Brit had disappeared.

This is what made Alfred go running through his home, searching for Arthur. He left his brother and Francis in the living room a while ago, and had begun to think that the Englishman left, when he heard-

"For purple mountains majesties."

That.

Alfred turns the corner down the hall and stops outside his room. The country presses his ear against the door and hears small hiccups and gasps for breath. Crying. Like, really bad crying. Alfred's hand finds the doorknob as he slowly opens the door. It creeks quietly, but the sobbing inside doesn't stop.

The room is dark and musty, since Alfred never really goes in there. His room is simple, compared to his other house's master bedrooms, with a bed in the corner and a bookshelf on the opposite wall. A fireplace sits in the center of the long wall, with a comfy chair in front of it. The floors are wooden, with two carpets on the floor. It's a kind of room that would be on Little House On The Pierre. You'd expect a cat to be curled up and an old person talking about the past while the radio played in the background. It's cozy and nice. Alfred likes it.

But he can't think of anything but the sweet, sad voice singing his song.

"Above the fruited planes…"

Alfred walked up to the back of the chair, noticing the stench of alcohol in the air and the piles of empty bottles on the floor. How fast did he drink those? America didn't know it was possible to down that many drinks.

"America, America…"

The words were slurred and hidden behind sobs and hiccups. Al looked over at the Brit slumped into the seat, a half-drunken bottle sliding out of his hand.

"God… shed his grace… on thee…"

England used his free hand to wipe his face, smearing his flushed cheeks with tears. He mumbled something under his breath while he choked on air. His next lyrics were soft as he sang slowly, "And crown thy good, with brotherhood…"

Alfred joined in with the next words. He hummed as softly, as soothingly, as he could, along with Arthur, "From sea to shining sea."

The Brit looked up, slightly in shock, his drunk stare looking up at America in confusion, he mumbled quietly, "O beautiful, for pilgrim feet… that left me with nothing…"

The American tried not to smile at the Brit's singing. Ducking his head, he scratched the back of his neck as he said softly, "Those aren't the lyrics."

Arthur shook his head, staring at the fire. "Might as well be." The bottle of liquor that Arthur held in between his fingers finally slipped and smashed to the ground. The glass shattered into tiny pieces, and the alcohol spilled onto the wooden floors. Al quickly moved to be standing in front of England. He squatted before the chair, and placed his hands on gently on Arthur's knees to steady himself.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"America, the beautiful." England said, not really looking at Alfred, but looking through him. At something long ago, on this day.

"Is it because of the 'R' word?" Alfred asked, his grip on the other's knees hardening slightly.

"America is great." The words are said bitterly, or perhaps sarcastically. Either way, the Brit's gaze hardens. Alfred noticed his tears stopped momentarily, but his eyes are red and puffy.

"You're still mad about that?"

Alfred had no choice about the revolution. He had to. For multiple reasons. His people needed it. He needed it. He knew it would hurt Arthur, but it hurt him too. At first, there was tension between them so thick, you could feel it across the sea. But over time, they started talking to each other again. And after a while, they became good friends. Arthur was really the only one, besides Matt, that he could turn to. Alfred would be lying if he said he didn't feel anything for the other man. That's why he invited him over to the party. He wanted to spend time together. He didn't expect Arthur to disappear like that. The thought never crossed his mind.

"America, the evil."

"Why haven't you mentioned it?"

Arthur never spoke of the Revolution before. He never mentioned it at all. Al wasn't even allowed to say the 'R' word in his presence. Alfred thought the other man forgot about it. Apparently not.

"America, I hate."

Alfred sucked in a breath, his heart stopped. No, that's not true. It can't be true. Arthur's just bitter. He doesn't really hate him, does he? And he's drunk. But drunk words are sober thoughts, right? America didn't know what to think.

"America, the traitor."

The American tried to change the subject, nervously laughing a bit he says, "Are you drunk because you're sad or sad because you're drunk?"

"America, so cruel."

"America, a curse."

"Because of that duel."

Alfred gulped. This wasn't going anywhere good fast. He stood up slowly, his voice hoarse, "So, uh, Francis and Matty are waiting downstairs for us."

Only now does Arthur seem to hear what he says and recognizes that America is before him. Vaguely, though, because he shouts, "Francis! I should have let the frog have you! He deserves this! Not me!"

"Arthur… was it really that bad?" America asks quietly, his hand finding England's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Alfred didn't know it would hurt the other that much.

"America the traitor. America, so cruel. America, a curse." Tears began to fall down his face again as he spoke. "Because I'm a fool." Arthur pulled his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his head, hiding his face.

Alfred, put in a situation he's not used to, doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to react. But a question was bugging him ever since he walked into the room. He had to know the answer. "Arthur… do you regret taking care of me?" He asked slowly.

The Englishman doesn't look up. He makes an unidentifiable noise, a groan perhaps.

America nods, his heart breaking a bit. "Right… Sorry I bothered you while I was… under your care."

A dark, full silence filled the room. It sucked all hope from the room, all happiness and cheer and pride that his holiday expressed. The silence left nothing but pain. Pain from those days. Pain from that war.

"Why did you leave me? Was I not good enough?" Arthur spoke finally.

He sighed, leaning close to the other man. He was preparing this response since before the war. "I… I had to grow up. Become my own person."

"You could have done that with me!" England shouted, his head flinging up to see the other country's gaze. Their eyes locked, both fighting back tears. England was panting slightly, and their faces were so close that Alfred could feel his breath on his skin.

Alfred breathed, "No…" His eyes flicked from Arthur's eyes, to those distractingly close lips, and back again. "I couldn't have."

"Why bloody not?!" His voice was loud, but his eyes were vulnerable. Alfred looked into his eyes, and he saw the same emotions he saw that day. He was hurt. He was scared. He was broken.

"Because." Al kept his voice quiet, in contrast to Arthur's, "If you stayed with me, I'd always be your little brother. I'd be another Scotland or something."

"Scotland is my older brother, you twit." His voice didn't sound as slurred anymore. His eyes more focused. He seemed to be trying his hardest to concentrate.

Alfred nearly screamed in frustration, 'BUT WOULD YOU FUCK SCOTLAND?!'

He didn't. Thankfully. That might have been a bad move. Not very subtle. At least Arthur would finally understand how he felt. How he's always felt. But he couldn't find the words to say. He never really could when it came to things like this. He was a man of action, not words.

So, he did what he really wanted to do. His hand found Arthur's cheek, his eyes flicked up to look into the other's green ones one last time, with lips nearly touching England's he whispered softly, "I really couldn't have… because if I did, I could never do this…"

Then their lips touched, softly, shyly. He felt Arthur freeze up next to him. Nerves made Alfred pull away after getting no response, but Arthur's expression made him kiss the drunk Brit again. A slow, gentle kiss that ended with America holding England's face in his hands, their foreheads touching. They didn't say anything, they didn't move. The two sat there, with America leaning over England, and breathed in each other's air.

Alfred got antsy with the on-going silence. He opened his mouth to speak, "I-"

England blinked, apparently realizing everything that's happened at once, "You-"

They both stared at the other, waiting for the other to finish their sentence, to give an answer.

Al couldn't think of anything to do. Reluctantly, he leaned back, sighing deeply. While running a hand through his hair he tried to start again, only to have England cut him off.

"I forgive you."

Blue eyes darted up from the floor, locking with green ones. "You what?"

He never thought he'd hear those words. Not from this man. Not in this context. The other man simply nodded and looked away, his face flushed from their earlier kiss. The air around them felt like it was thinning, the intense atmosphere from a while ago disappearing quickly.

Alfred nodded, realizing he wouldn't get the other country to repeat his words. Chuckling slightly, he mumbles, "Let's get you cleaned up and downstairs. You made my room smell like alcohol." The States grabbed England's hand and helped him out of the chair. Arthur leaned on him, dizzy from all his drinks.

A few minutes later, as they walk towards the stairs, Al asks, almost nervously, "What are the chances you'll remember this on the fifth?"

"Very high. What are the chances you'll kiss me again?"

"Very high." Al grinned, leaning down to kiss the other nation again. He stopped when a thought hit him. "Wait, why were you singing America, The Beautiful?"

England's cheeks got red, "I, um, I always sing that when I think of you. And that day."

Al nods, "Oh yeah? I think of a song too."

This pikes Arthur's interest. "Really? Which one?"

"The Wicked Witch is Dead." Alfred laughs at Arthur's horrified expression. He kisses the other quickly, to stop him from shouting. He can't stop the smile that graces his lips at the other's annoyed grunt.

After a while he pulls away, his hand finding the other man's, fingers intertwined. As they start walking again, taking their time to get downstairs, Alfred said, "You know that song was written on the top of this mountain."

"Yes, Matthew mentioned that."

"OH SHIT! I FORGOT ABOUT MATT!" Alfred raced down the stairs and into the living room where he left his brother with Francis. Matt was scrunched up on one side of the couch, his hands up in defense, while Francis nearly hovered over him, his eyes like a predator. Alfred nearly tackled the Frenchman, causing the couch to nearly flip over.

England leaned against the wall, watching as America nearly choked France while Canada tried to separate them. Smiling slightly, he started to hum a song. But this song no longer expressed betrayal and lost love.

This song finally described something beautiful.

As always, please review.