A/N: I actually didn't plan on writing another one of these. Alas, the vigil we had in the courtyard at lunch today inspired me to write this little drabble. Not nearly as good as last year's, but se la vie. It's focused more on Alfred and Arthur than the occasion. I apologize in advance if it's nonsensical and for any stupid errors; if I read it over I probably won't post it. So, enjoy, and God Bless America.

9/11/2012

It was very unlike Alfred to be so quiet. He had always been quite boisterous, even as a child, and nobody knew that better than Arthur. He had practically raised the boy. And now, in their older years, he was an ally, confidante, and friend. As an ally, confidante, and friend, he had every right to be concerned.

Arthur knew what day it was. He didn't need to look at the calendar to know; it was so deeply ingrained in his former colony's heart that he could feel it. He would be surprised if some of the others – Francis, Ludwig, Kiku, Ivan – didn't feel it too. It had been that powerful an occurrence.

The sympathies were out there, more strongly at first than now. Flowers, memorials, prayers, letters, vigils; it was a beautiful time for the world. For the first time in all of Arthur's existence, the world mourned together, and that was certainly a feat. But now, after so long, every one else had mostly moved on. He didn't blame them, that was just the way things were. Time marches relentlessly forward.

But a little part of Alfred died that day. The last young, soft, innocent part of him. The boy was allowed to mourn it. Arthur certainly did.

He waited for the boy to get back from the memorial. It was a beautiful thing, the memorial – a testament to Alfred's resilience, if nothing else.

Arthur knew well about resilience, he had been around a lot longer than the boy, and he knew that sometimes resilience was about being weak. Alfred was never allowed to be weak. He was America. He was big, brave, strong. He had to prove himself over and over again and still he didn't get the respect he so desired. As a result, his guard was always up, his face always cracked by a smile, his eyes always bright.

Eventually he would overload. It happened all the time, even to the humans. And then where would he be? A dependent child, all over again. Arthur, being the good big brother he was, couldn't allow that to happen.

He waited patiently in front of Alfred's apartment in the city. Wordlessly, he took the man by the arm and led him back down the elevator, on to the street, down the block. They stopped for pretzels – street pretzels were not nearly as good as street hot dogs or street pizza, but the American was still quite fond of them – but continued on their way.

They eventually came to a small pub (a British pub). Technically, Alfred was underage. His ID, as fake as it was, called him eighteen. But this tiny pub didn't seem to care. Arthur ordered two pints. He didn't touch his, though; he knew that he would get drunk far faster than the behemoth before him. Alfred took his first sip before long. Then his second. Third. It was only a few minutes before the pint was gone, and Arthur ordered another.

It too disappeared without a word.

Half way through his third pint Alfred choked, but not on his alcohol. The mug slipped from the young man's hands and smashed against the floor. A soft head pressed itself against Arthur's chest, soft sobs wracking to form of the young nation, much too young to carry such a burden. Arthur ran his fingers through honey-blond hair, humming softly an anthem he had only played once.

In the morning Alfred would have to be America again. Big, strong America. But for now he could just be Arthur's little brother and they could mourn the hole in his chest together.