Alfred knows that when Arthur thinks of his revolution then he thinks of mud and muskets. He defines those bitter years by that final showdown, by a shot not taken and tears in the rain. That's not how Alfred remembers it. He hasn't forgot that scene, not in any sense of the word. He won his freedom that day and he refuses to apologise for that fact. His cause was just, his was the side of angels. But that didn't make it any easier. No when Alfred remembers the Revolution, when he digs past the fireworks and the glory and the heady realisation that he was free, when he really remembers, he thinks of Paris. Paris and the promise that Arthur made there.

He realises now what a stupid idea it had been but back then, when he'd cornered Arthur on the day of the signing, all he could think of was that for the first time in his life Arthur was ignoring him. That despite spending hours across a table from each other, whenever Arthur's eyes happened to pass over him they never seemed to register his presence. Only two years had passed since the war but Alfred missed Arthur and he hoped, and it was this hope that lead him to attempt a reunion, that deep down Arthur missed him too.

Needless to say the meeting did not go well. The wounds were still too fresh and nothing Alfred was willing to say could penetrate Arthur's distance. He was so aloof and cool, the perfect English gentlemen and Alfred could not help but lose his temper. His rage however did not seem to have any more effect than his niceties. In fact if it hadn't been for how the meeting ended, Alfred wouldn't have been sure that Arthur had even listened. Alfred was finally admitting defeat and leaving when it happened. A cold hand encircled his wrist hard enough to leave bruises and roughly turned him to meet Arthur's hard eyes.

"I did not give you permission to leave." Alfred was dumfounded. "I still have something to say" and as he spoke Arthur pulled Alfred down to his level and whispered in his ear. "I promise you on my honour as a gentlemen that one day I will stop loving you, and on that day I swear I will show you how I built the empire on which the sun never sets." And then in an instant Arthur was gone.

They never spoke of that day again, it was like that moment never happened. But sometimes in Alfred's nightmares there's a green-eyed man with a chilling whisper and a rising sun in his smile. And sometimes Alfred laughs over the fact that all his best and worst memories contain Arthur.

Alfred first sees it at world meetings. He can't remember when it began, perhaps the process was so gradual it went unnoticed but the wide berth all the other nations give Arthur's chair is glaring once Alfred's eyes are drawn to it. So is the stillness that surrounds him, Arthur is not supposed to be so calm. Arthur is supposed to spit and snarl and swear his way through meetings. He is supposed to throttle Francis for his perverted ways, to yell at Alfred for his stupid ideas. But Alfred can't remember the last time he saw Francis and Arthur fight. And when he describes his latest idea to combat global warming by putting the Earth in a giant fridge, Arthur merely raises one of his overly-large eyebrows before returning to his papers.

Then nations start to talk in corridors, their hushed voices die whenever he approaches but Alfred still catches tiny snippets of conversation. He doesn't like what little he hears but they won't tell him more. They murmur platitudes to him as if he can be pawned off with cookies like a child, as if he doesn't notice that they're mouthing "special relationship" over his shoulder when they think he's not looking. He's not stupid, he realises that if they knew the truth about his current relationship with Arthur they might explain more but Alfred still can't bring himself to tell them that the "special relationship" isn't that special anymore.

Alfred makes up his mind to keep a closer eye on Arthur but somehow there is always so much to do and quiet, dependable Arthur, his best friend and closest ally, slips down the list and through the net. After all he depends on Arthur who's always been there whenever Alfred needs him. A safety net, a security blanket and a damned good source of advice all wrapped up and packaged in the form of an irritable Englishman with bushy eyebrows and a sharp tongue. Arthur understands that he's snowed under with treaties as the world rushes to secure America's assistance. Arthur understands the stress that the global arms race and the rising tensions is causing him. So when France and Canada and Japan try to talk to him about what's happening in England, with England, Alfred laughs them off. Because despite his misgivings Alfred trusts Arthur. Arthur understands.

Alfred can't remember much about his existence before Arthur took him so he doesn't know if he's ever been invaded properly before. What he does know though, is that it hurts like hell. That Arthur's invasion is more painful than the Revolutionary or the Civil war, that he's screaming far louder than he ever did over Pearl Harbour or 9/11. Alfred didn't know it was possible to hurt this much and suddenly he respects France and Poland so much more for surviving this over and over again. Every hour seems to bring another message of defeat and destruction but Alfred doesn't need to be told, he can feel his people burning. His torso is crisscrossed with lines of agony and he knows if he gets out of this, when he gets out of this, there is going to be more scar than skin. Despite being American Alfred can appreciate the irony. He always wanted to look like Arthur back when he was a child, before he understood what those wounds meant and he's got his wish. But like most children and most childhood dreams, Alfred finds that wanting is not the same as having.

The confrontation seems almost a gross form of parody when it happens. It's not exactly the same but it's similar enough for it to be an eerie replay of what went before. Except it's not. Because Alfred is pretty sure he won the Revolutionary War and he's not winning this time. Perhaps he should have given Arthur more credit back then because it takes every ounce of strength he has to look into Arthur's eyes as he, as America crumbles and falls away. There's something terrifying in Arthur's expression at that moment. There's victory, power, death and a glint that he will never forget. Alfred knows in the future, that when the ghosts come for him, they'll all have Arthur's eyes.

He tries not to flinch when Arthur's towering figure looms over him but a soft laugh tells him that one managed to escape anyway. He doesn't even bother trying to disguise his terror as Arthur bends down to his level. It's too late, the hero has flown and Arthur can smell fear. Alfred closes his eyes when he feels Arthur's hot, stinking breath against his ear and tries to imagine himself far away. But he can't, that was never his gift and Arthur's words echo in his ears for eternity.

"And to think, you used to be so big."

And as Alfred kneels in the mud, blood-soaked and broken, he realises that Arthur has finally made good on his promise.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. I don't normally ask for reviews (though obviously I really love them) but I had a lot of trouble with this fic so I really would appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you think.