England and America/Canada (no pairings). Colonial times. England isn't really sure about all this.
Shouldn't need to be any warning, just working off of my headcanons here.

Arthur Kirkland wasn't quite sure about being a father. Sure, he'd gotten into a blow-up with France over custody of the children- new nations technically- but that didn't mean he was any good at this whole parenting business. He'd honestly done it just to tick off the frog, not thinking about the whole raising children aspect of the matter. And the evidence for that opinion on his parenting skills was right in front of him, in the form of a hysterical child that he had no clue how to deal with.

Because it was just RAIN. It rained all the time in England- the two boys had been through more thunderstorms than he could count on one hand- or two hands. So why was this phobia developing now?

Alfred's blue eyes stared accusingly at him as Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, and bit his lip, looking perplexed. Matthew didn't notice, sobs increasing in intensity as lightning lit the room- and actually screaming as a thunderclap rolled in. Yes, it was irrational and were it France he'd tell the man to shut up and grow a set. But something about it coming from a child seemed pitiful rather than simply stupid, drawing him over.
Arthur took a seat on the edge of the bed, hesitantly resting a hand on the boy's shaking back. The child turned towards him, purple eyes red and swollen- how long had he been like this before Alfred had called dad up?

"Hey Mattie." He used the nickname gently, trying to make things seem less important and less intimidating. Choking sobs answered him as the small child hugged his stuffed bear (honestly, the two were inseparable) tighter, burying his face in the white fur.

"C'mere..." He gathered Matthew up into his lap, hugging the boy against his chest. It was fuzzy, but he had a vague memory of Wales- or was it Scotland- doing the same for him when he was a toddler. Of course, then that was because he'd scraped his knee up badly and bloodily enough to warrant Scotland wrapping it in gauze. And that had made it seem dangerous and frightening to the small him, tears not helped by Ireland freaking out.

A flash of lightning brightened the room, a clap of thunder that was enough to rattle the windows following a beat later. Alfred looked bored, sucking his thumb, watching his dad and brother from his spot in the corner, surrounded by a heap of blue flannel blanket and leaning against one of the walls. Arthur's gaze was drawn down by a scream, and by Matthew trying... Trying to what? Burrow into him? He tightened his hold subconsciously, rocking slowly from side to side.

"It's okay, Mattie. It won't hurt you..." Was that right? Was he doing this right- wrinkling the red blankets (red for Matthew's side, blue for Alfred's) as he moved, with a toddler snuggled into him? Why wasn't Matthew calming down?

"Shhh..." The sound slipped from his lips as he moved a hand, rubbing circles on the child's back. His reward? A slight decrease in the volume and intensity of the tears.
"Here... I'll keep you safe. Nothing will hurt you." Arthur slowed his rocking, pulling Matthew into a slightly more upright position, so Matthew was sitting in his lap rather than awkwardly on his legs. Purple eyes looked up at him, the child taking a gulp of air

"P-Pwomis?"

"Yes, promise." He raised his voice slightly to compensate for the thunder that had shaken the house, hearing a gasp of terror from the boy. Arthur tightened his grip, feeling Matthew's terrified shaking.

"Here, I'll tell you two a story." His eyes flicker to Alfred. "Come on over, Al." The blonde scrambles up next to him, and Arthur turns, leaning against the wall (the headboards and pillows being child sized), shuffling his grip to let Alfred lean against his side, Matthew slightly of to the other side, one arm around each.

"Once upon a time..."
He loses himself in the tale of princesses and knights and dragons, barely registering the thunder slowly fading out, Matthew calming enough to be exhausted (because it's getting on towards dinner time), Alfred winding down enough to sit still.

"...And they all lived happily ever after." Arthur looks down, finding one boy asleep against him, tearstained face finally calm, the other bouncing slightly.

"Dad, I wanna help make dinner!"

"Alright, alright." He shifts Matthew onto the pillows, pulling a blanket over the boy.

"Dad?" The child looks up somewhat shyly.

"Yes, Alfred?" He's holding a knife, chopping vegetables.

"I wanna be a hero like you." Arthur is so stunned by the sentiment and choice of words that the knife clatters to the counter, his attempt to catch it only resulting in a sliced thumb. With a hastily censored swear word, he slips the offended digit into his mouth, sucking on it. Habit more than anything.

"How am I a hero?" He doesn't feel like one, thumb throbbing, voice odd from speaking around said thumb, having just managed to get a small child to stop crying not ten minutes ago (and admittedly being very frustrated at said small child).

"Like the knight in your story. You saved Mattie." It's such a simple view that he wants to laugh, to exclaim that if anyone is a hero, Arthur Kirkland is not that person. He's done far too many bad things to be a hero, being an Empire, a pirate. He doesn't even truly want to be their father, at times. He doesn't deserve to be called that.

"Well, thank you Alfred. But I think you'd be a better hero then me." He's still young, he has time.

"I'm the hero?" Blue eyes widen comically, toddler breaking into a wide grin.

"Sure." He ruffles the boy's hair, lips curving at his son's cheerful smile.

"Awesome!" Alfred spins in a circle, the egg he'd picked up to get help cracking winding up crashing to the floor. Not where the insides were supposed to wind up.

"...Oops."

Arthur only hides a smile, going to get a washcloth.