Several dull hours after the latest North Atlantic Treaty Organization summit had ended, Britain made his way down the long twisting hallway of the UN building in downtown New York. Buses squealed and car horns sounded from behind the clouded windows lining one side of the walkway. Rows of waving flags of every color danced in the wind beyond the obscuring glass. He had been searching for Alfred for what felt like an eternity. After the meeting had been adjourned, the lad had just disappeared, which was quite odd for him. Normally, he would always stick around after large gatherings and invite the nations back to his apartment for some kind of ridiculous party.

This wasn't the only thing that had Arthur worried. Throughout the entire NATO meeting, Alfred had been completely and eerily silent. He couldn't even remember the last time he had ever witnessed America being that quiet. Every second of every day, he was always chattering on and on about some movie he saw, or some other piece of utterly worthless information. For him to not start up some crazy conversation, meant something had to be terribly wrong with the young nation. Arthur had searched all of his normal dwelling places, and even resorted to calling his telephone, to no avail. This was the last place he could think to look.

As he finally neared the entrance to America's personal office, he stopped several feet in front of its door. He found his eyes wandering to his polished black dress shoes, before reaching up to knock. Should he be doing this? What if Alfred just wanted to be left alone? Boy, he sure hoped the lad was alright… Arthur's expression tightened as he slowly looked up at the earthy pattern of the wooden door. Why was he worrying so much, anyways? His brother would be fine, he could handle anything, remember? Plus, the boy was supposed to be the "hero", the policeman of the world, nothing could hurt him… right? At least that's what Alfred had always sold everyone into believing. What if he was hiding something from them all, behind that grinning mask of his?

Arthur put on a stoic face, gathered his composure, and knocked twice on the dense wooden surface. He waited impatiently for several moments tapping his foot on the fine carpeting anxiously.

Nothing.

Arthur frowned and impatiently tried the door knob for himself. Finding it open, he couldn't help himself as he slowly guided the door ajar. When no one protested, he eagerly poked his head around the side, peering into the darkness of the office.

Surprisingly, he saw a small lamp illuminating a desk at the far end of the room. He gradually opened the door enough to take a step inside, when he noticed the man sitting on the other side of the office. Arthur raised his thick brows as he discovered what looked like Alfred, slumped over an overly cluttered desk, facing away from him. Arthur released the door and took a few careful steps forward to get a better look.

Before he could get within five feet of the other man, Alfred suddenly jolted upright, nearly giving Arthur a heart attack. Arthur reflexively took a step backwards, his hand flying up to his chest in alarm. To his horror, he found the nose of a glinting silver revolver looking him straight in the eyes. It took all Arthur had to finally rip his gaze off the gun that had been pulled on him, and his eyes slowly flickered up to Alfred's face. What he saw there made him panic all the more.

Alfred himself looked simply dreadful. His hair was a wild mess, sticking out at all angles, his silver rimmed glasses were crooked and nearly falling off his hardened face, but what scared him the most, was the wild look in America's bloodshot eyes. They glowered in the faint light like some kind of tormented cat's. He looked as if he were some sort of cornered wild animal. Arthur couldn't keep the worry off his face.

"A-America?" Britain just barely stammered out, slowly lifting his hands up, as if in surrender.

The younger only continued to stare, rhythmically taking in heavy gasps of air. Arthur could faintly make out Alfred's trembling fingers shaking nervously on the trigger, as he continued to aim the weapon at his former mentor's skull.

The American's eyes suddenly went wide as if he had finally came to his senses, and he unsteadily lowered his weapon as his expression turned into one laced with shame. Just as quickly, his face seemed to rapidly contort into a look of severe agitation.

"Britain?" he nearly whispered. His raspy voice abruptly getting deeper, seeming to carry dark undertones, "What are you doing here?"

"Alfred, what's the matter? You've been acting very strange lately…" Arthur choked out, still eyeing the revolver in genuine concern.

Before America could reply, Britain found his gaze wandering to the desk behind the American. There appeared to be an empty bottle of alcohol placed on the untamed mess of wrinkled paperwork. As Arthur searched the room further he found several others littering the floor around him.

Britain's brows furrowed further, "What's this?!" He mused aloud. Alfred rarely drank. He only sporadically witnessed the younger drink, but it was always only a small amount, on special occasions. He knew well enough that America much rather preferred a cold glass of Coke over any alcoholic beverage. Arthur always assumed it was because he didn't like to blur his senses. Not to mention, the boy wasn't even at a suitable drinking age, here, within his own country, to be able to drink legally anyways... If this was the case, then what was he seeing before him now? It appeared Alfred had been alone in his office, wasted and sulking, for who knows how long. Several hours, at the least. Oh, Arthur was going to get to the bottom of this.

"What is wrong with you, lad? You look a bloody mess! And what are those?" he gestured to the bottles, "I know you don't like to drink, Alfred." He could just barely keep the agitation out of his voice. "And, for goodness sake, what in blazes inspired you to pull a revolver on me?! Have you gone mad?!"

Alfred only sheepishly lowered his gaze, dropping the fire arm to the floor with a heavy metallic clank. He released an exasperated breath, and brought his hands up to his head, lacing them through his golden blond locks.

"I-I'm sorry…" the boy quietly murmured, strained voice cracking. He suddenly plopped back down in his chair, quickly turning away from the elder. Something about Alfred's mannerisms were making him uneasy. Arthur swallowed nervously as he cautiously neared Alfred again, this time carefully acknowledging the revolver laying discarded on the ground. Bloody Yankees with their guns…

Abruptly, Alfred spun back around in his seat, making Arthur jump out of his skin, once more.

"Britain, I'm so sorry! Please-! I-I didn't mean it!" he desperately shouted in a panic.

America looked up at him, with those big blue gems, almost pleadingly. His brother looked on the verge of turning completely hysterical.

"It's just…" The boy glanced away to some undetermined spot on the wall behind his mentor, "My people. They're just a little worked up right now… I guess they're just naturally causing me to be a little jumpy too…" Alfred then released a small chuckle, but with how normal laughter was associated with the American, this small sound seemed unnatural, almost forced to try and lighten the mood. Well, Arthur had just found his former charge slumped over, drinking, and shoving a gun in his face, so It was kind of too late for that…

Arthur gaped at the young nation, still quite shaken. "A little jumpy?" he repeated with accusation, "If this is what you consider to be a little jumpy, then I'd hate to see what you think a great deal looks like! Alfred, you nearly just shot me! This isn't like you, what have you been doing in here? Do you care to tell me what's the cause of all this?" he finished, crossing his arms over his chest in distress.

Alfred only pivoted back around in anguish, leaning low over his work station. Head hanging in his hands as he slowly lowered his face onto the table, hiding it in his arms. When there was no response, Arthur steadily walked up to Alfred's left, almost placing a hand on his former colony's back, but stopping himself for fear of setting him off again. Instead, he went into a slight kneeling position next to the other's chair, desperately wanting to understand what was going through the younger's head.

Gently, the Brit breathed, "Why are you doing this to yourself, America?"

The American was response less for quite a while. He stayed hunched over, face burrowed deep into his leather jacket, seemingly ignoring his mentor. After what felt like an eternity, Arthur could see the boy's shoulders tense, and he slowly lifted his head. Alfred glanced back at Arthur with a desolate stare.

Now under the lamps yellow light, he was finally able to get a closer look at America. Alfred looked worse than he had originally thought. He suddenly noticed how pale the boy's face was, despite the pink tinting his rosy cheeks, possibly from the substantial alcohol consumption, or maybe… Were those tears starting to blur Alfred's vision? The boy's pathetic expression was enough to send Arthur into so called 'worried-parent mode'. The next words that came out of America's mouth, sent Arthur into an even bigger state of concern for his little brother.

"I'm scared."

Suddenly, Alfred seemed much younger then he actually was. He seemed so much smaller, so much more fragile, much like the little boy Arthur had known and cared for all those years ago. Britain just frowned at him. If America was truly scared of something, something obviously more than a scary story to put him in this condition, then lord knows that they all better be afraid. Currently, the young nation seemed to be faring the best out of all of them.

"Of what?" He carefully asked, like a parent consulting a child about what kind of monster they feared was lurking in their closet.

Alfred only narrowed his eyes in contemplation at first, then the ghost of a bitter smile caressed is lips. He thought for a moment before replying, "Of the world… Of the future… Of everything… ".

At that moment, Alfred sounded so much like a child, that it almost made Arthur want to chuckle. Almost. But this couldn't be the only thing that was bothering the young man. It couldn't be. Those were things that every nation feared… things that ended up weighing on everyone… there had to be more to it than just simply that…

"Alfred," he gently sighed, "There has to be more to it than that. What's the cause for all of this alcohol? How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

America stared on even more contently at Britain, eyes breaking contact only to flicker around the office.

"It… It just helps… I'm just under a lot of stress right now…" Then, he added loathingly, "You wouldn't understand."

Arthur could hardly believe what he was hearing. His words reminded him so much of his own crude reasoning's for drinking, that it made him sick to know that Alfred had been putting himself through the same thing. He would have told the boy to "Stop it right now!", because it wasn't healthy, but how could Arthur tell the young nation that, when that's exactly what he did himself to escape from his problems? What kind of hypocrite would he be then? He couldn't deny being secluded in his home every Fourth of July, too hung over to stand, while London rain pounded down on his window, because he couldn't deal with the hurt anymore, because he couldn't handle any more pain… Yes, sometimes alcohol and its blissful numbing affects had been his only true friend…

"Oh Alfred, I probably understand much more than you think."

"No, you don't."

"Don't be silly, lad. Don't you think all countries go through this kind of stress? I was a great Empire once, even greater than-"

"SHUT UP!"

The sudden outburst startled Britain, and he wondered what he had said wrong to set him off, but before he could say anymore, Alfred interrupted him further.

"NO Britain! You don't understand! I don't care how mighty you think you were, or how great you used to be! You've never been in my position!"

Alfred was now glaring daggers up at him. His scratchy, strained voice, made him sound all the more infuriated. He could practically see the emotion burning in his eyes as he continued.

"You've never been in a situation like mine! You have no idea how much pressure I'm constantly put under!" Alfred nearly screamed, voice filled with an even larger amount of agitation. He forcefully rose from his seat, kicking it back, and faced Arthur, who was now starting to take several steps stiffly away from his former charge.

America brutally scowled at Britain, peering deep into his emerald eyes. "I," he said with a troubled voice, thrusting a thumb at his chest, "am the only thing that stands between Russia, and the rest of the world."

Arthur thought for several moments before replying, "That's not true." He regained his stoic composure, "You have the entire NATO at your side. We won't let Russia gain any more territory, we won't let him pull any more tricks."

The Brit gave the American a reassuring smile, in hopes of lightening his morbid spirits.

Despite this, the American's face remained grave.

"Britain," the boy almost pleaded, "I, am the only one who can match his strength. If I fail… If I somehow mess this up… If I do one little thing wrong, and for some reason he decides to test out a nuke… It's over… and not just for me… It could be for all of us."

Gradually he grew quieter and quieter, his expression turning more and more fearful as he spoke. Before Britain could utter a word, the boy continued with raging passion.

"You don't understand what Ivan is capable of…" Alfred lowered his gaze and bowed his head to the floor in defeat. "When Lithuania used to work in my mansion, he would often tell me stories…" The American's voice started to crack as he trailed off. He swallowed sharply and continued.

"He's told me horrible things… about Russia's cruel forms of abuse… how once he has you in his grasp, like one of his little toys, you can never escape…"

At this point, America's voice wavered and he had to stop, causing Britain to notice the glossy tears roll down his cheeks, from the long shadow of his face.

Alfred was now struggling to speak. "A-and… he was right… Russia has him again… and who knows what kind of torture he's being put through… even right now as we speak…" A fresh sob escaped his throat, and he tried to cover his mouth in a weak attempt to hide it. He continued to peer down at the floor in anguish, avoiding eye contact, "How am I supposed to be the hero, if I couldn't even save Lithuania?"

And with that, the American's walls crumbled, and he burst into tears. He leaned forward and covered his eyes as his body was raked with another round of intense sobs. It was so hard for Britain to watch. His infinitely strong, bubbling counterpart, reduced to merely a hurt child. He suddenly felt truly horrible, and wished there was something more that he could do. With the NATO, he was doing all that he could to help the situation… But, apparently that reassurance wasn't enough to put Alfred's tense mind at ease.

Before Arthur knew what he was doing, he found his old habits taking control again, as he subconsciously rushed up to the younger nation and kindly wrapped his arms around his shaking form.

At first, he felt the American's posture slightly stiffen with surprise at his touch, then, the boy slowly lifted his trembling arms up around Britain's torso and gently hugged him back. The younger then, not knowing what else to do, buried his face into the Brit's shoulder and begun to weep. He wept until all of his built up frustrations had finally been released. Britain awkwardly patted his back, and cursed himself for letting the lad's condition to have escalated to this extent.

America swallowed loudly, and Britain could faintly make out his weak voice speaking once again, "How am I supposed to protect everyone else?" He uttered into Britain's shoulder, which was now moist with troubled tears. "How am I supposed to protect Mattie?" Then even more quietly he choked out, "How am I supposed to protect you?"

The Brit didn't want to admit it, but he was mildly touched at his brother's sincere words. His former colony really did still care about him. He really did care about all of the other nations. He wasn't as much of a selfish brat as his arrogant hero complex led him on to be. But, why did the young nation feel that this was all his responsibility? He may have been the only other Superpower of this time, but that didn't mean he was alone in this. That didn't mean he had to carry the weight of this burden all by himself. Heck, compared to nations like China, America was merely an infant. Someone as young and naïve as his little brother didn't need all of this pressure weighing down on them.

They stayed like that for several long minutes. It was strange, when was the last time he had held his brother like this? Arthur continued to pat Alfred's back in a soothing gesture, contemplating what he should do… what he should say.

"Alfred," he slowly begun, words filled with as much sincerity as he could muster, "This world may be big. It may be overwhelming, even scary at times, but you're not alone." Then, he instinctively reached up to the back of Alfred's head to lightly stroke a few lose strands of hair. Comfortingly, he added, "It will be okay."

After what felt like an eternity, Alfred's breaths started to slow and he began to calm down from his sudden outburst. Eventually, the boy lifted his head and pulled away from Arthur's grasp, peering down at him.

Alfred suddenly seemed so much taller than he remembered. America's eyes were puffy and red, as he carefully removed his glasses to sheepishly wipe them on his sleeve. Although Britain had the faint urge to scold him about how improper the gesture was, and how he should really just be using a tissue, this was one of the rare occasions he held his tongue.

America attempted to collect himself as he placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, adjusting them, but he just found himself staring at Britain with a look of flushed embarrassment. Though, the hint of thankfulness in his eyes, implied that he was actually quite grateful for the unexpected support, but unwilling to show it.

His misty lashes fluttered in thought, and he looked as though he was about to formulate an apology. Britain only gave him a weak half-smile, as he gently brushed his tear soaked garments off. Oh, how he missed being an older brother, how he longed for someone to depend on him again. The pleasure of feeling needed. Those were the good old days… sadly reduced to merely hazy figments of the past. But, all wounds could be healed with time, right? Maybe someday, they could both regain the old relationship they once held so dear, centuries ago.

Before another word could be spoken, America quickly took a seat with a long, exasperated breath. His bangs fell in front of his eyes as he swiftly sent the bottle of alcohol, once sitting on his desk, tumbling into the garbage can beside him, with a quick sweep of his arm. It landed softly on the cushion of towering paper balls awaiting it. Alfred rubbed his eyelids, simply exhausted. He closed his eyes and lowered his head onto the desk using his arms as a makeshift pillow.

"You don't have to stay." He hoarsely mumbled, voice still sore from his abrupt meltdown.

Arthur wasn't sure what to do. He was about to protest when Alfred added, "You can go, Britain. Really."

Not wanting to disturb Alfred any further, Arthur nodded, and after taking one last long look at the boy, headed back towards the door. Right now, it was probably best for Alfred to be left alone and to get some rest.

But, before Arthur left, he hesitated in the open doorway for a moment.

"It's alright Alfred, I don't think any less of you. Everyone needs to cry every once in a while…" Then he gently added, "Even heroes." And before he shut the door behind him, he whispered almost inaudibly, to himself, "Just please know that we're here for you …" And he meant it.

Thick afternoon light flooded into the office window, and Alfred soon found himself drifting off into a much needed sleep in its warm embrace.

Many hours later, America woke up to the comfort of his own bed. Though, how he had gotten there he wasn't quite sure. It appeared to be the next morning, as the brightening glow of dawn illuminated the room in a sea of dull blue. He shifted his gaze down to his carefully tucked in torso, and his pair of spectacles neatly folded upon the bedside table. Beside it, sat a fresh mug of what could only be tea, still faintly steaming in the crisp morning air. It was all too familiar. Faint memories of being awoken as a child, to similar surroundings, tugged at the back of his mind.

He had been so tired, he had fallen asleep atop his office desk, and never returned home. That must have meant that someone else had brought him back to his apartment for him. This all could have only been the work of one person, and the beverage sitting at his bedside only confirmed his suspicions.

His older brother was up to his old tricks again.

As the scent of freshly brewed tea brushed the tip of his tender nose, Alfred's lips folded up into a genuine smile, as the realization hit him that maybe he wasn't so alone in this world, after all.

Author's Notes:

Well, although this wasn't my first upload, I think that this was the first ever successfully completed fanfiction I ever wrote. Not too bad for a first try though, I suppose! It's probably because I went back to edit and review it like fifty million times… XD (Really, I wrote this months ago. I figured you all might like to see it.)

I was like, "IT MUST BE PERFECT!" 0_0"

Anyway, I'm really sorry if it isn't completely historically accurate. (I tried my best, I'm not an expert on that time period…) It wasn't really meant to be that historical in the first place. It just takes place during the height of the Cold War, when the United States was all 'on edge' with the Soviet Union and stuff… XD I thought that Britain going over to comfort him during his time of need would be sweet, okay!

^_^ What can I say? I like writing about my favorite bros!

They're probably really out of character, though. (*cough**cough* America *cough**cough*) But I guess that's the whole point of fan fiction. To put characters in situations that bring out their other sides. : )

Thank you so much for reading! And I would also like to thank those who took the time out of their day to review, follow, and favorite my other story, 'Burying The Hatchet'! It means a lot! (3 I don't want to pressure you, but a review would mean a lot to me on this story as well! I would just really like to know that at least one other person is enjoying this as much as I am… (I don't blame you for not reviewing, I hardly do it myself! lol) XD Any constructive criticism is gladly accepted as well! : )

Thanks a bunch, stay epic fellow Hetalians!

~GoofieDaisy -^_^-