Oh, so it was Arthur's boss; Alfred rather liked this one more than the last one (who brought back painful memories of his own last president along with him) so he told Arthur to pass on his greetings, ignoring England's pointed eyebrow. President Obama would be so proud of Alfred's awesome diplomatic skills; he beamed at himself.
"Look, I have to take this outside; just. Alfred, don't bloody touch anything, alright? I'll be back in a few moments." Arthur hissed, hand pressed on the receiver. Sure, don't let your boss hear you speak rudely to America, and yet you do it nonetheless.
"Fiiine, whatever. Go do your thing, Iggy."
Arthur threw him on last glance before leaving, uncertain and a little bit softer around the edges. A look that made Alfred's cheeks go pink and his stomach clench uncomfortably. Damn butterflies. He didn't need this right now; of all the times! Not with Arthur here, not with Alfred in this old house full of childhood memories long past gone.
So he got up, determinedly shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took a look around the study; same as ever, books and papers left and right, shoved here and there or put on stacks, in what Arthur called 'messily organized', some of them open, as if Arthur had been looking for something and forgot to put them back in their place afterwards. The large bookcases that adorned the walls were literally spilling with books; all of England's authors, poets, ages' worth of works carefully placed one next to each other. He knew Arthur felt proud of each and every one of them, loved them like his own children (although that was a rather painful thought to have).
There were book on various topics as well; surprisingly, not all of them in English. Arthur loved mythology of course; if his little imaginary friends were anything to go by. There were titles in what Alfred vaguely recognized as Latin, Italian and Greek, or even in those messy, difficult scrawls Kiku considered to be legitimate letters (how could they write like that; didn't they get bored drawing all those letters?).
Alfred had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed the small stack of books laying forgotten on the foot of the bookcase, and so ended up tripping over it, knocking his shoulder hard on the shelves and ending up sprawled on his back in Arthur's study (and not in the good way), feet in the air. The self rattled noisily for a second before collapsing, sending books sprawling heavily on Alfred's middle.
"Shit, who the hell leaves books on the floor. That was so not awesome." he stood up slowly, favoring his stomach and scowled at the fallen books. When he picked one of them up to put it back in its place, he noticed a small, worn looking black diary of some sorts, collecting dust in the back of the self. Unable to help himself, he reached out and picked it up.
author!anon cannot describe how happy your comment made her, asghgs ♥♥♥♥! I'm glad you like it so far; it's going to take a while to type it all, but I have it all written down, so no worries~
The cover was plain, so, after throwing a nervous glance at the door (Arthur was thankfully taking his time) he turned to the first page.
The-the title s-said:
Diary of sir Arthur Kirkland, The Kingdom of Great Britain [1775 to 1783]
"Oh my god." This couldn't really be-what the hell would a thing like this-Arthur's...diary? From 1775 to 1783? Alfred would never forget those years, what they had meant, for both his country, himself, and his tattered relationship (or, rather, what remained of it) with England. I-I can't read this! he thought, teeth gnashing his bottom lip in distress. This was personal. B-But. Maybe just a tiny glance? He had always wondered how Arthur had felt back then, had never had the courage to bring up the topic as more than a joke.
Despite everything telling him to put the damn book back and leave it alone, get the hell out of here, Alfred's unsteady fingers turned to the first page:
[1775]
America has declared his independence. Sovereignty, they said. They demand sovereignty. They want nothing to do with my Great Britain.
Traitors. All of them.
United states of America. What a bleeding joke.
I thought he would grow out of those foolish notions; but he wants to be independent. He doesn't need me anymore, he said. Wants to be his own nation, decide and speak for himself. Fight for himself.
I cannot allow this to continue. Alfred can't walk away from me like this. Not after everything I've done for him. Ungrateful bastard of a child. How can he even think of throwing away everything I did for him so easily.
He will come back home with me. I will make sure of it.
This is nothing more than a childish whim.
I will answer him with war, if that is what he desires. No one will interfere with my kingdom. Not even Alfred.
Not for much longer, anyway.
[1776]
We have lost North Carolina. Boston, Massachusetts. Rhode Island denounced its allegiance to my king. Quebec was defended successfully. Matthew is, at least, with me. He has not abandoned me still. He has nightmares. He is in pain and I do not know how to comfort him. My dear Matthew. This must be so painful for him, to watch as we tear at each other, do you not think so, my oldest friend?
They have written a 'Declaration of Independence'; ratification proved to be only a matter of time. How far are you willing to take this, Alfred, I wonder. So many battles fought, lost and won. I can feel my people growing tired. Weary. Wasting away.
'My dear Arthur', my king said to me, 'all is not going well for Britain in this war'.
Despite the Hessians' assistance, nothing is looking up. When will you come back home, Alfred? If you do so now, I might be able to forgive you.
I am sorely tempted to begin cursing George Washington's great-grandfathers to oblivion, no matter what my beautiful fairies say about black magic always finding its way back to the user. Screw karma. That man is one of the most aggravating tossers I have ever had the displeasure to come across; if one does not count France of course.
Who, by the way, seems to be enjoying our little show, Alfred. I learnt he sent you one of his men to train your troops. I hope they got taught how to fight, though I am very much doubtful.
September 11 marked a great victory for us. It feels so good, after such a long time of failures upon failures, to taste blood not of my soldiers'.
November 17, however, was not. The Articles of Confederation have been submitted to the states for ratification. Alfred seems so far away now. He seems lost to me.
I feel tired, my greatest king. I miss our days together; although you would laugh at me for saying so, I am sure. Back then, everything was so much simpler.
I am too old for this, I fear.
[1778]
Bloody bastard of an excuse for a nation. France? Of all people to join the war! Alfred, how can you not realize he couldn't be arsed about your independence? I thought I taught you better than that.
Forming alliances with the wine freak? Against me. How could you leave me? Traitor. Nothing more than a traitor. France cares only about my territories to the West; he has had his eyes set on them for a while now; he is not doing this to help you, why can't you see.
Or do you just not care?
And Gilbert. I had honestly not seen this coming. Gilbert.
It's been three years, Alfred. Why won't you cease this nonsense and come back home now. Back to me?
[1779]
I'm so fucking tired of this.
Spain has joined the war as well. I will bloody kill them both, burn the remains until nothing is left; how dare they. How dare they take advantage of this war.
As if Spain bleeding supports independence of colonies! I have not laughed so hard in such a long time, but this one was just too hilarious to pass up, my king.
I hope each and every fucking one of them colonies of yours revolts, Spain. Davy Jone's locker is to be havin' a very special seat reserved for you, courtesy of Captain England.
Alfred. I cannot seem to stop wondering. Where did I go wrong? Do you despise me? Do I repulse you? Even if I take you home by force, will anything ever be the same between us again? After we have found ourselves on the opposite sides of a battlefield? After I have killed your men and you've been responsible for the loss of mine?
I miss your smile. That huge one you used to give me when I came to visit; you were always complaining about how I should stay a little bit more, remember. Would anything be different now?
aasdfgafkfjl!!! I LOVE Arthur's voice in his diary entries, and I can't wait to see the angsty confrontation between Arthur and Alfred!! Keep updating, authoranon, it's fabulous ;D
I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Every day that passes, I feel less willingness to shoulder my musket. The losses have stopped hurting as much as they did before. I am growing numb, my king.
I-I cannot even see an end to this war anymore. It has gone too far. Was the darkness that covered the skies a sign? Or this might just be me being superstitious again. I have my own internal problems to deal with right now; I cannot even properly focus on this war anymore.
John, I hope your soul may rest in peace. I am sorry.
[1781]
'You used to be so big', he said; Alfred that is, my dearest king.
And I used to, didn't I? I used to be magnificent, brilliant. Used to stand tall and proud, not on my knees in front of enemies.
Now I have grown too old; I remember the Roman Empire, that bleeding idiot of a Roman who had jokingly decided to 'adopt' me. He used to pinch my cheeks, damnit! Wanker. He was the first one to call me by my name; Britain, Britannia. I remember Francis and his stupidly girly clothes, twirling in the sun and hugging me tightly, even through my protests.
I couldn't do it, you know. I couldn't shoot him. Am I a fool for it? And yet, even if it has earned me your scorn, my king, I would not go back to change my actions. I cannot bring harm on the boy I helped raise. I'm such an emotional old git. I should've shot him; for disobeying me, for starting this, for turning against me, with France and Spain no less! For all the pain and tears he caused me.
But then he looked up at me, and I only saw the boy that picked me over France and brought an end to my horrible loneliness.
You told me before you passed on that I was still as beautiful as the first time you saw me, remember? I was so small then. What would you have told me if you had seen me now? Streaked with mud and blood, head bowed and on my knees? Maybe I'm starting to behave too much like a human.
Alfred. You idiot. Why. I will never find the answer to that question on my own. Wasn't I good enough? Didn't you pick me over France first? Weren't you happy? But you used to love me so. I wonder if everything was a lie after all. If those smiles were fake, and pathetic older brother England was too busy fawning over you to notice.
eh, this anon is so sorry she made people feel so bad; Arthur will get his happy ending, anons! don't worry, author!anon is a completely romantic idiot, there's no way this will end in angst.
[1782]
Thankfully, I do not have to attend the signing of the preliminary peace articles. Give this old man some time to lick his wounds, wouldn't you? God, I am so pathetic. I will eventually have to see you again; the world is not as big as we often fancy to delude ourselves it is.
But I'd like some more time before that inevitable meeting.
I hope I'll be sober by then.
[1783]
Seeing you again is too painful, Alfred. Too soon, and the wounds are too raw; they feel as if they've been scrubbed open with salt. Seeing you again to sign what will forever relinquish my hold on you is even more painful.
In the end, you got your independence, didn't you?
Hold onto it for me, will you? Don't lose it, ever. Do me just this one favour, so that I know everything that happened had a purpose. That at least you will be content, happy, even if it is not with me at your side.
I noticed you know. You didn't look at me. Not even once.
I guess that would be asking too much, wouldn't it. Like I said, everything is still very fresh in our minds. I hope we'll get over it, someday.
I hope I will be able to see that smile again, someday. And that you will be looking at me by then. Really look, unlike before.
Our troops have left your New York City by now, Alfred.
From now on, you're on your own.
Just like you wanted.
I hope you do well.
Love,
Arthur Kirkland, Kingdom of Great Britain
ps; I wonder if I'll ever be able to show you this. Knowing me, I probably never will, and it will go unread, rotting away somewhere. Or maybe I will have changed by then. I only hope my feelings for you will be the same; though I rather doubt I am capable of such radical change.
Oh dear god, anon, how did you know how to hit every single one of the angst points for this plot so perfectly? sjkdlfkdj that was painfully perfect. Just... beautifully done. I can't wait for more of this; if anon were the easily-crying sort she'd be sobbing like an idiot right now--as it is she's just going to reread like mad until the next part goes up. ;_;
author!anon loveslovesloves this comment, and can only hope the rest of it is worthy of your praise as well, sasdfd. you people are giving me confidence ♥♥~
Alfred reread the last article, only becoming aware of the tears in his eyes when one of them hit the yellow-tinted page with a splash, and then another. And another. His fingers were trembling, along with the rest of him. Arthur. "You selfish bastard. Why didn't you say anything. So long. It's been so long." He wiped the tears away hastily as best as he could, but there didn't seem to be an end to them. Not after what he'd read just now. Not ever.
He had to find Arthur; had to-to just talk to him. This was too big to ignore, pretend he never knew when he did. Arthur loved him; he'd said so in this diary! Said he didn't think he would ever get over him, Alfred. Surely there was still hope-
"I'm sorry I took so long, Alfred, but you really should know better-" Shit, shit shit. There was no mistaking the way Arthur's eyes widened in recognition, nor the way seconds later they were glaring icily back at him. No, you've got it all wrong he wanted to say; you're not the only one, I love you too, you bastard, I've been feeling like this since forever-
"A-Arthur, this isn't-"
"So?" Arthur inquired angrily, moving to grab the diary out of Alfred's hands, "How was it?"
"...What?"
"I said: Aren't you going to start laughing now? Laugh at stupid, pathetic England for this?"
Alfred felt his eyes go wide as Arthur continued yelling at him; anger and bitterness and were they really going to get over this-
"Come on. No need to hold back! You have never done so before, so why would it be any bloody different now?! I said, come on, Alfred."
"Y-You; what the hell are you saying!"
"Couldn't respect anything, ever; that's you alright. Laughed over how pitiful I was and still am even now? Was it a fucking good laugh, at least? You like rubbing it in my face every year on the 4th of July anyway, so this has done nothing more but give you more ammunition, hasn't it?" Arthur was-he was crying. Oh god, was this how he felt? Alfred had really just meant what he said two years ago to be taken as a joke, to break England out of his own pity party. He had been joking, he hadn't meant to hurt Arthur like this.
"Say something!"
He'd never want to hurt Arthur like this; "How can you even think- how dare you, Arthur." Arthur seemed surprised by his outburst, and Alfred took the opportunity to grab him by the shoulders and pin him back against the bookcase, holding him there despite his protests and hissed curses.
"Do you think you were the only one that had been hurting like this?! I deserved to know about this, you idiot! Why did you never tell me what you felt-"
"To accomplish what exactly?! Have you mock me?!"
"I wouldn't do that! Arthur; do you really think I'd do that?" Please say no, tell me you still believe in me-
"Why did you leave me then? If you didn't want to hurt me, why? You read the damn thing. Tell me why."
Oh, so it was Arthur's boss; Alfred rather liked this one more than the last one (who brought back painful memories of his own last president along with him) so he told Arthur to pass on his greetings, ignoring England's pointed eyebrow. President Obama would be so proud of Alfred's awesome diplomatic skills; he beamed at himself.
"Look, I have to take this outside; just. Alfred, don't bloody touch anything, alright? I'll be back in a few moments." Arthur hissed, hand pressed on the receiver. Sure, don't let your boss hear you speak rudely to America, and yet you do it nonetheless.
"Fiiine, whatever. Go do your thing, Iggy."
Arthur threw him on last glance before leaving, uncertain and a little bit softer around the edges. A look that made Alfred's cheeks go pink and his stomach clench uncomfortably. Damn butterflies. He didn't need this right now; of all the times! Not with Arthur here, not with Alfred in this old house full of childhood memories long past gone.
So he got up, determinedly shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and took a look around the study; same as ever, books and papers left and right, shoved here and there or put on stacks, in what Arthur called 'messily organized', some of them open, as if Arthur had been looking for something and forgot to put them back in their place afterwards. The large bookcases that adorned the walls were literally spilling with books; all of England's authors, poets, ages' worth of works carefully placed one next to each other. He knew Arthur felt proud of each and every one of them, loved them like his own children (although that was a rather painful thought to have).
There were book on various topics as well; surprisingly, not all of them in English. Arthur loved mythology of course; if his little imaginary friends were anything to go by. There were titles in what Alfred vaguely recognized as Latin, Italian and Greek, or even in those messy, difficult scrawls Kiku considered to be legitimate letters (how could they write like that; didn't they get bored drawing all those letters?).
Alfred had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed the small stack of books laying forgotten on the foot of the bookcase, and so ended up tripping over it, knocking his shoulder hard on the shelves and ending up sprawled on his back in Arthur's study (and not in the good way), feet in the air. The self rattled noisily for a second before collapsing, sending books sprawling heavily on Alfred's middle.
"Shit, who the hell leaves books on the floor. That was so not awesome." he stood up slowly, favoring his stomach and scowled at the fallen books. When he picked one of them up to put it back in its place, he noticed a small, worn looking black diary of some sorts, collecting dust in the back of the self. Unable to help himself, he reached out and picked it up.
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The-the title s-said:
Diary of sir Arthur Kirkland, The Kingdom of Great Britain
[1775 to 1783]
"Oh my god." This couldn't really be-what the hell would a thing like this-Arthur's...diary? From 1775 to 1783? Alfred would never forget those years, what they had meant, for both his country, himself, and his tattered relationship (or, rather, what remained of it) with England. I-I can't read this! he thought, teeth gnashing his bottom lip in distress. This was personal. B-But. Maybe just a tiny glance? He had always wondered how Arthur had felt back then, had never had the courage to bring up the topic as more than a joke.
Despite everything telling him to put the damn book back and leave it alone, get the hell out of here, Alfred's unsteady fingers turned to the first page:
[1775]
America has declared his independence. Sovereignty, they said. They demand sovereignty. They want nothing to do with my Great Britain.
Traitors. All of them.
United states of America. What a bleeding joke.
I thought he would grow out of those foolish notions; but he wants to be independent. He doesn't need me anymore, he said. Wants to be his own nation, decide and speak for himself. Fight for himself.
I cannot allow this to continue. Alfred can't walk away from me like this. Not after everything I've done for him. Ungrateful bastard of a child. How can he even think of throwing away everything I did for him so easily.
He will come back home with me. I will make sure of it.
This is nothing more than a childish whim.
I will answer him with war, if that is what he desires. No one will interfere with my kingdom. Not even Alfred.
Not for much longer, anyway.
[1776]
We have lost North Carolina. Boston, Massachusetts. Rhode Island denounced its allegiance to my king. Quebec was defended successfully. Matthew is, at least, with me. He has not abandoned me still. He has nightmares. He is in pain and I do not know how to comfort him. My dear Matthew. This must be so painful for him, to watch as we tear at each other, do you not think so, my oldest friend?
They have written a 'Declaration of Independence'; ratification proved to be only a matter of time. How far are you willing to take this, Alfred, I wonder. So many battles fought, lost and won. I can feel my people growing tired. Weary. Wasting away.
'My dear Arthur', my king said to me, 'all is not going well for Britain in this war'.
Despite the Hessians' assistance, nothing is looking up. When will you come back home, Alfred? If you do so now, I might be able to forgive you.
But you won't be coming back. Will you.
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I am sorely tempted to begin cursing George Washington's great-grandfathers to oblivion, no matter what my beautiful fairies say about black magic always finding its way back to the user. Screw karma. That man is one of the most aggravating tossers I have ever had the displeasure to come across; if one does not count France of course.
Who, by the way, seems to be enjoying our little show, Alfred. I learnt he sent you one of his men to train your troops. I hope they got taught how to fight, though I am very much doubtful.
September 11 marked a great victory for us. It feels so good, after such a long time of failures upon failures, to taste blood not of my soldiers'.
November 17, however, was not. The Articles of Confederation have been submitted to the states for ratification. Alfred seems so far away now. He seems lost to me.
I feel tired, my greatest king. I miss our days together; although you would laugh at me for saying so, I am sure. Back then, everything was so much simpler.
I am too old for this, I fear.
[1778]
Bloody bastard of an excuse for a nation. France? Of all people to join the war! Alfred, how can you not realize he couldn't be arsed about your independence? I thought I taught you better than that.
Forming alliances with the wine freak? Against me. How could you leave me? Traitor. Nothing more than a traitor. France cares only about my territories to the West; he has had his eyes set on them for a while now; he is not doing this to help you, why can't you see.
Or do you just not care?
And Gilbert. I had honestly not seen this coming. Gilbert.
It's been three years, Alfred. Why won't you cease this nonsense and come back home now. Back to me?
[1779]
I'm so fucking tired of this.
Spain has joined the war as well. I will bloody kill them both, burn the remains until nothing is left; how dare they. How dare they take advantage of this war.
As if Spain bleeding supports independence of colonies! I have not laughed so hard in such a long time, but this one was just too hilarious to pass up, my king.
I hope each and every fucking one of them colonies of yours revolts, Spain. Davy Jone's locker is to be havin' a very special seat reserved for you, courtesy of Captain England.
Alfred. I cannot seem to stop wondering. Where did I go wrong? Do you despise me? Do I repulse you? Even if I take you home by force, will anything ever be the same between us again? After we have found ourselves on the opposite sides of a battlefield? After I have killed your men and you've been responsible for the loss of mine?
I miss your smile. That huge one you used to give me when I came to visit; you were always complaining about how I should stay a little bit more, remember. Would anything be different now?
If I had stayed a bit more?
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I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Every day that passes, I feel less willingness to shoulder my musket. The losses have stopped hurting as much as they did before. I am growing numb, my king.
I-I cannot even see an end to this war anymore. It has gone too far. Was the darkness that covered the skies a sign? Or this might just be me being superstitious again. I have my own internal problems to deal with right now; I cannot even properly focus on this war anymore.
John, I hope your soul may rest in peace. I am sorry.
[1781]
'You used to be so big', he said; Alfred that is, my dearest king.
And I used to, didn't I? I used to be magnificent, brilliant. Used to stand tall and proud, not on my knees in front of enemies.
Now I have grown too old; I remember the Roman Empire, that bleeding idiot of a Roman who had jokingly decided to 'adopt' me. He used to pinch my cheeks, damnit! Wanker. He was the first one to call me by my name; Britain, Britannia. I remember Francis and his stupidly girly clothes, twirling in the sun and hugging me tightly, even through my protests.
I couldn't do it, you know. I couldn't shoot him. Am I a fool for it? And yet, even if it has earned me your scorn, my king, I would not go back to change my actions. I cannot bring harm on the boy I helped raise. I'm such an emotional old git. I should've shot him; for disobeying me, for starting this, for turning against me, with France and Spain no less! For all the pain and tears he caused me.
But then he looked up at me, and I only saw the boy that picked me over France and brought an end to my horrible loneliness.
You told me before you passed on that I was still as beautiful as the first time you saw me, remember? I was so small then. What would you have told me if you had seen me now? Streaked with mud and blood, head bowed and on my knees? Maybe I'm starting to behave too much like a human.
Alfred. You idiot. Why. I will never find the answer to that question on my own. Wasn't I good enough? Didn't you pick me over France first? Weren't you happy? But you used to love me so. I wonder if everything was a lie after all. If those smiles were fake, and pathetic older brother England was too busy fawning over you to notice.
Even so. Even so.
I still love you, you prat.
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*crying uncontrollably*
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[1782]
Thankfully, I do not have to attend the signing of the preliminary peace articles. Give this old man some time to lick his wounds, wouldn't you? God, I am so pathetic. I will eventually have to see you again; the world is not as big as we often fancy to delude ourselves it is.
But I'd like some more time before that inevitable meeting.
I hope I'll be sober by then.
[1783]
Seeing you again is too painful, Alfred. Too soon, and the wounds are too raw; they feel as if they've been scrubbed open with salt. Seeing you again to sign what will forever relinquish my hold on you is even more painful.
In the end, you got your independence, didn't you?
Hold onto it for me, will you? Don't lose it, ever. Do me just this one favour, so that I know everything that happened had a purpose. That at least you will be content, happy, even if it is not with me at your side.
I noticed you know. You didn't look at me. Not even once.
I guess that would be asking too much, wouldn't it. Like I said, everything is still very fresh in our minds. I hope we'll get over it, someday.
I hope I will be able to see that smile again, someday. And that you will be looking at me by then. Really look, unlike before.
Our troops have left your New York City by now, Alfred.
From now on, you're on your own.
Just like you wanted.
I hope you do well.
Love,
Arthur Kirkland,
Kingdom of Great Britain
ps; I wonder if I'll ever be able to show you this. Knowing me, I probably never will, and it will go unread, rotting away somewhere. Or maybe I will have changed by then. I only hope my feelings for you will be the same; though I rather doubt I am capable of such radical change.
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He had to find Arthur; had to-to just talk to him. This was too big to ignore, pretend he never knew when he did. Arthur loved him; he'd said so in this diary! Said he didn't think he would ever get over him, Alfred. Surely there was still hope-
"I'm sorry I took so long, Alfred, but you really should know better-" Shit, shit shit. There was no mistaking the way Arthur's eyes widened in recognition, nor the way seconds later they were glaring icily back at him. No, you've got it all wrong he wanted to say; you're not the only one, I love you too, you bastard, I've been feeling like this since forever-
"A-Arthur, this isn't-"
"So?" Arthur inquired angrily, moving to grab the diary out of Alfred's hands, "How was it?"
"...What?"
"I said: Aren't you going to start laughing now? Laugh at stupid, pathetic England for this?"
Alfred felt his eyes go wide as Arthur continued yelling at him; anger and bitterness and were they really going to get over this-
"Come on. No need to hold back! You have never done so before, so why would it be any bloody different now?! I said, come on, Alfred."
"Y-You; what the hell are you saying!"
"Couldn't respect anything, ever; that's you alright. Laughed over how pitiful I was and still am even now? Was it a fucking good laugh, at least? You like rubbing it in my face every year on the 4th of July anyway, so this has done nothing more but give you more ammunition, hasn't it?" Arthur was-he was crying. Oh god, was this how he felt? Alfred had really just meant what he said two years ago to be taken as a joke, to break England out of his own pity party. He had been joking, he hadn't meant to hurt Arthur like this.
"Say something!"
He'd never want to hurt Arthur like this; "How can you even think- how dare you, Arthur." Arthur seemed surprised by his outburst, and Alfred took the opportunity to grab him by the shoulders and pin him back against the bookcase, holding him there despite his protests and hissed curses.
"Do you think you were the only one that had been hurting like this?! I deserved to know about this, you idiot! Why did you never tell me what you felt-"
"To accomplish what exactly?! Have you mock me?!"
"I wouldn't do that! Arthur; do you really think I'd do that?" Please say no, tell me you still believe in me-
"Why did you leave me then? If you didn't want to hurt me, why? You read the damn thing. Tell me why."
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