Chapter Five

England knew he wasn't always the most popular nation on the map. Heck, he could count his friends on one hand, and he'd need his toes if he were to count up all of his enemies. But, never in all his long years, had he felt so targeted.

Nearly every nation glared at him as they passed, or ignored him completely, or even turned around and marched promptly in the other direction. Even Japan, with whom he'd had a rather easy-going friendship, looked startled when England said hello and muttered a confused-sounding greeting before briskly carrying on his way.

England didn't particularly care — he had gone it alone before, after all — but when it came to the meeting, each time he started to propose an idea he'd be shut down immediately by a rude, interrupting nation. He didn't understand. Halfway through the day, he started to get angry. What had he done to deserve this? He never had a smooth meeting before but he'd never had the cold shoulder. People at least had some shred of respect. But now…

What was different?

Even America would listen to England when it was completely necessary—

He shook the thought from his mind. He should be happy that he was powerful again, that his title of the British Empire still held as long as he claimed sovereignty overseas. Let the others think what they want. He was not backing down just because of a couple jealous countries.

Yes, that's what they were, England decided finally. Jealous, jealous, jealous.

Besides, Alfred was happy with England, as he rightfully should be.

Alfred's distraught expression flashed fresh in his mind, the soft, vulnerable tone of his voice, and the pathetic gleam in his eyes, and England felt his resolution crumble just a tad.

As he blankly watched Germany, who seemed bigger somehow, his mind was swirling in a whirlwind of questions and answers that only made him question himself more.

No, he thought sternly. This is better. I don't care what the others nations think, or what France thinks he knows, or what Alfred said in a fit of mindless, drunken insanity. This is better.

So, for the remainder of the week, England forgot all about his doubts and his anxieties. Instead, he focused on two things: work and Alfred. He looked forward to coming home to find Alfred there, smiling not scowling, and going on and on about how much he missed England, and had already made dinner — real, traditional English cuisine that was almost as good as England's own cooking. England listened happily while Alfred yapped about how things were back at his place and how he was excited for football season to come around again. And he meant football not that preposterous sport that America had conjured up one rainy afternoon.

This is better.

England had nearly forgotten all about France's words—surely the frog was just having a laugh. France was the bleeding nation of love so of course he'd be reading into things that weren't there. Alfred was still young. He didn't know what he was feeling.

And England was happy. Why wouldn't he be happy? He finally had what he always wanted.

This is so much better.

Alfred smiled at him from across the dinner table. England smiled back, happily eating a mouthful of beef. Damn it all, the kid may actually be a better cook than he was... As he was busy sulking over that fact, he almost didn't notice that Alfred's fork was just chasing the food around his plate. "Aren't you hungry, Alfred?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, not really," Alfred replied with a shrug.

That was a red flag. America - the United States of or not - not eating was like Italy not cooking pasta, or Prussia not hoarding baby chicks, or Japan not having the compulsive need to take pictures on vacation. It was not normal.

"Are you feeling all right?" England asked slowly, carefully, half-expecting Alfred to topple over right then and there.

"Fine."

"Been sleeping all right?"

"Been getting my eight hours, yeah."

England watched him closely. "Are you sure you're well? You're quiet, you've barely touched your food, and you seem to be rather pale."

Alfred just grunted noncommittally, choosing to nudge his beef with his knife instead of answering.

For a few moments, they sat in silence, and England discovered he had no idea what to say to the boy. Before, he could at least chastise America about his behavior at the world meeting, or discuss current issues, or reminisce about their happier memories. But, the man sitting in front of England didn't attend meetings, today's news wasn't the same, and he had different memories - four hundred years' worth of memories as a colony.

He watched as Alfred put on a forced smile. "Hey, who do you think is going to win the cup this year?"

Just like that, they're thrown back into conversation. But, this time, England noticed the flickers of emotions that run behind those blue eyes, and how that smile didn't seem so cheery as it did worn, like he was hanging on by a thin thread.

It was a look England had worn the last three hundred years.

He suddenly wasn't hungry any more, either.

...

That night, Alfred went to bed before England, not caring much for sitting around and reading all night. "Good night, Alfred," England called from his comfy armchair.

Alfred stopped on the first stair, and England felt something change in the atmosphere. He watched, suddenly nervous, as Alfred turned back around and regarded him with sad blue eyes. "Hey...Arthur?"

"What is it?"

Alfred took in a deep breath and stepped back into the room, hugging his arms close to his chest. He paused for a moment, searching England's eyes for something unknown and looking disappointed when he found it wasn't there. "If you did something for yourself but it hurt other people... you'd... you'd fix it right?"

England looked up from his novel, eyebrows scrunching together. "Did you get in an argument with someone, lad?"

The look on Alfred's face clearly showed that he was in no mood for sharing.

"Right," he muttered. "Well... I suppose... if one were to break something then he had better get his lazy arse up and fix it, shouldn't he?"

"But if you did something," Alfred asserted, "would you personally fix it?"

England thought of rain, the front of a gun in his face, and those same blue eyes that were staring down at him with the same hard expression. "Yes," he whispered quickly. "I suppose I would."

Alfred didn't answer. He was staring heavily into the carpet, looking even more conflicted than before.

England sighed. "Is there anything you want to tell me, Alfred?"

He jumped at the sound of his name, attention snapping up. Then his shoulders sagged. "Guess not." He sighed. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"All right," England said, not wanting to pressure his colony into anything. He had learned not to push America's buttons too hard. "Good night, Alfred."

Alfred was already at the stairs. "Good night... England."

And he was gone.

England stared at the empty stairway for a long time, wondering what in the hell just happened.

...

England woke up to the sound of birds chirping. The sun cracked through his curtains, warmed the air, and set the scene for a beautiful day. All in all, it should have been a beautiful day. But, England had barely gotten a wink of sleep, managing to rake in a lousy three hours in total. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Alfred's disappointed look. He'd forgotten how intense those looks could be.

He was half-afraid that he'd go downstairs to find Alfred in a blue uniform, declaring his immediate independence while England was buttering his toast. Just the thought of it made him curl further into his bedding.

He was content to lie there forever, hidden between his quilt and his mattress, until the bed itself rotted away, but there was a sudden knock at his door. "Arthur?" Alfred's voice sounded timid and unsure.

England didn't answer. He drew the covers over his head and watched the door carefully through a crack. He heard the doorknob jiggle a little, as if someone placed a hand on it, before it stilled again. Moments later, he heard Alfred's footsteps carry off down the hall and down the stairs. He sighed.

He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was the kind of ominous feeling he had carried around in several dark points of his history - especially during the decline of his empire. His head was swimming with Alfred's strange question from last night. Was he suspicious? Did he already know what England had done? He'd place any bet on France spilling the beans. England didn't even have the strength to reach for his phone and send a long, life-threatening text.

By the time he finally pulled himself together and marched downstairs, Alfred was in the kitchen. England took a heavy step into the room and froze immediately when Alfred spun around. A dazzling smile brightened the colony's features, eyes sparkling with the sudden resurgence of his cheerful spirit. "Finally! I was starting to get worried that you were sick," he said.

England wasn't sure exactly what was causing his heart to pound so strongly in his chest, but he was immensely relieved there weren't any revolutionaries present at the breakfast table. "Yes, good morning, Alfred."

Alfred's smile grew. He gestured to the stove. "I'm making pancakes, if you're hungry."

"Ah, yes, thank you. That's fine." Could he sound any more pathetic?

Alfred didn't seem to notice or care. He just returned to cooking, looking quite sure of himself. England couldn't take it any longer. He cleared his throat. "Uh, Alfred?"

"Hm?"

"L-look, I - um - about what you said last night - "

The spatula slipped through Alfred's fingers. "Ah!" he cried, swooping down to scoop it up in time to flip over a slightly-burned pancake. Then, he faced England nervously. "Just forget about all that, kay?"

"What?"

"Yeah, it was just something stupid I was worrying over," Alfred assures. "Now, to more pressing matters, do you want syrup with your pancakes?"

England chuckled. "Not if you drown the poor thing in it."

"But it's the best part!" Alfred protests, bringing over a teetering tower of pancakes on a plate. "Here ya go!"

See, this really is better.

England tried his best to smile, and Alfred noticed his tense posture and sighed. "Seriously, Artie, just forget about it. I figured that everyone deserves a little bit of happiness now and again, right? And sometimes they may do dumb stuff but that doesn't mean they love you any less, right?"

"R-right," England choked out, unsure of whether or not that was the appropriate answer.

As Alfred helped himself to an alarming portion of food, England had one last question. "Alfred... are you happy? L-like this?"

Alfred's eyes flittered up to England's. He gave a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. His grip seemed to tighten on his fork. "I'm just glad to see you, Artie," he answered and went back to eating as if nothing had happened.

The enigmatic answer hit England as hard as if he'd just been physically struck. Though, he'd always really known it, it still hurt to admit it.

This is worse.

...

Pros:

Cleans up after himself

Has decent manners

No obnoxious eating habits

Is very helpful around the house

Drinks tea, doesn't steal it to dump in a harbor

Doesn't make me want to shove pencils in my ears each time he opens his mouth

Cons:

He's not America.

England tapped his pen against the notepad, frowning at the underlined name. He thought of America, the real America that stuffed burgers down his throat like a recovering drug addict, and that bounced off childish ideas for serious matters that were both idiotic and endearing, and that had, no matter what, fought alongside him in both World Wars and had never given up.

He cursed and let his forehead drop against the desk. Even now, he could hear America in the kitchen, humming God Save the Queen as he fixed up yet another cup of tea. "Go away," he muttered.

He had always wished America hadn't rebelled, but he hadn't wanted this. It wasn't America. It wasn't Alfred. It wasn't right.

If you did something for yourself but it hurt other people...

He groaned and wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into. He knew he would hate himself for the rest of his life either way at that point. But, damn it all, he was going to fix this. Gentlemen's honor and all that.

...Would you fix it?

England pinched the bridge of his nose.

Gentlemen's honor was a load of bollocks.

A/N: Ahhh, this is so LATE. I'm sorry! Real life has been whooping my ASS lately. Projects, exams, scheduling, job, work study, a concussion, doctor appointments, and a break up D: AH. BUT I'm still kicking. Any-who, enough of my blabbering. Thank you so much for reading!

Also: we're nearing the part I'm excited about X3 This story won't be sad forever :)

Edit: A huge thanks to the Guest who alerted me to a crap load of errors! :) I wrote these last parts super fast, and it showed in some parts, I think. It happens! You know who you are, and thank you again! (Hugs)