Chapter Text
ARTHUR KIRKLAND WAS not the type of man to think in moderation. He was intense—and he was very aware of it. Nations, and their citizens, often commented on how much his younger brother would benefit from actually thinking about his actions.
(They also muttered that England took things too seriously, and could benefit from not thinking at all, but that was neither here or there.)
To his credit, Arthur took all these sly remarks in stride. To acknowledge them would equate to accepting that he had raised Alfred Franklin Jones inadequately. And he – England – was anything but inadequate.
It had been Arthur who had raised Alfred. Arthur, who held him when he cried. Arthur, who taught him how to fashion a plane out of paper. Arthur, who arranged for him to learn and play and see the world for what it truly was. Draw a circle, that’s the Earth—they could only wish, as countries, that humankind and its natural resources were as simple as that.
It had also been Arthur who watched his little brother walk away.
Sometimes, he felt China understood. Other times, he wanted to rip Yao Wang's hair out viciously and present it to Leon. Arthur could never have a relationship that was stable, but he liked to think that Hong Kong held some fondness towards him. He actively wanted to view him as a second son—something he hadn’t quite managed to do with Peter.
But that was alright. Peter Kirkland only greeted him with scowls, and was practically the child of Sweden and Finland at this point. Arthur was certain that he had heard Sealand refer to Ladonia as his brother, more than once.
He tried to pay attention to Matthew Williams, but Arthur could never deny that the distance between them had eclipsed from a crack to a chasm overnight. The heartbreak of losing Al—America drove him to push everyone away. Loved ones became distant, allies were strict business relationships, and then he gained Hong Kong (and Sealand).
Leon Kirkland-Wang was as sarcastic as his, for lack of a better term, guardians, though he struggled greatly with China's concept of filial piety and England's manic pursuit of British Values. More than once, he had exploded at the insinuation that the Asian countries were related. The East operated much differently to the West.
(Arthur had once challenged Leon over this. "You all truly do not view one another as family?" He had questioned, baffled. He received a tremendous stink eye for his efforts.
"No." Leon replied with such conviction that he almost fell out his seat.
"But… Japan calls China ⁽¹⁾ 兄貴 and does that not mean—"
For that, he received a dull glare. It was similar to China’s signature scowl—clearly designated to make the receiver feel stupid.
"It’s like saying 'bro'. Like how America does." Hong Kong said slowly, as if he were afraid the elder nation could not keep up.
To that, England said nothing—but his heart ached fiercely.)
Instead of healing the gaping hole in Arthur's heart, he created a new wound, which only served to expand when 1997 occurred, and he had to lose another brother.
He was only mildly comforted by the fact that Leon had to leave, as per the ⁽²⁾ Anglo-Chinese agreement.
Alfred F. Jones left England behind in his pursuit for freedom, frenzy, and something that only a New World could ever hope to give him. He left behind his older brother readily, fearing that he, too, would forever be stuck in the past—if he stayed. So he didn't. Alfred moved on, reached heights that simply weren’t possible before his time, set a new standard of living, and promptly failed to reach it himself.
England still remembered nagging America for his disastrous food policies and total lack of moderation. He remembered France giggling into the palm of his hand – briefly commenting "He gets that from you, Angleterre, don't you think?" – and only taking a minute to sober up.
Arthur hated guilt. He hated feeling guilty but, above all else, he hated seeing it plastered on somebody else's face. Their pity, or sympathy, or even empathy could not do anything for him. His pragmatism was a curse at worst, as France loved to remind him, and a blessing at best. He was never as detached as he seemed, but appearances were everything. If Arthur Kirkland could keep something, then it would be his composure.
He clearly could not keep his brother.
Leon was not a loss. Leon still visited when he pleased, and sent letters and emails when he didn’t feel like leaving the house. Leon still talked about birthdays and anniversaries and small celebrations which truly meant nothing for nations, but was a nice sentiment all the same.
America did not do many of these things.
Alfred did not visit when he pleased; he sent old-fashioned telegrams, as if he was trying to impress his once-beloved brother. Alfred rarely reached out about anything other than the current political climate. Alfred was so distant, yet so relevant to Arthur's life, that he wasn’t a loss; he was akin to a ghost.
And when the 4th of July rolled around, Alfred disappeared like a paranormal apparition—or some twisted hallucination that finally ceased.
Are you happy? Are you happier? Do you miss me?
These questions tore through Arthur's mind like an incessant whirlwind, and he had long accepted that he would never receive an answer.
"I don't suppose you will get rid of hamburgers anytime soon?" He asked this of America at every world meeting. Each time, America only responded with a despondent sigh before forcing a sparkling grin on his face, and launching into a nonsensical explanation of the origin of junk food galore. And, each time, Arthur's peers hated him a little more for it.
But he found that he did not care. Not when he could hear his brother speak, uninterrupted and unsubdued in a way that he never could be in the past. Freedom suited Alfred far more than Arthur had first realised.
A part of him still refused to accept this, though. He did not know whether it was the proud remains of his bloodthirsty Empire, his possessive streaks of vicious piracy, or the remnants of his early days—when he had nothing and nobody, other than France.
(Who wanted France? Not England.)
Sometimes, he decided to question America on his foreign policies. Just to keep him on his toes. Alfred grunted and sighed and groaned, but he successfully – and dutifully – recited his laws, every single time.
"Exactly what do your politicians plan to do?!" Arthur had grumbled once, too exhausted to reign in his permanent anger and too spiteful to even care. In response, the younger nation had shrugged helplessly. "You think I know, dude?" And his voice had been bone-tired, and something fierce in Arthur's chest ignited at how wrong it sounded, and to combat the whole uncomfortableness of the situation, he had hastily blurted out–
"If you were still a colony, the Queen would be considered an American queen. In some regards. Maybe by historians. I suppose."
The chilling silence which settled in the air unnerved him to this day. Alfred had said nothing, and his lips had remained frozen in their signature heroic grin, but his eyes had gleamed with emotion. That was all Arthur needed, truly. Alarm, amusement, apprehension, and – above all – astonishment swirled in the icy-blues of America, a stark contrast to England's own eyes—an unforgiving green, as dark as menacing thistle necklaces, found only in the woods, and as deep as the life-threatening sinkholes located on his land.
His hasty thought served its purpose of thoroughly distracting America. They never spoke of it directly, but Arthur could often catch Alfred smiling lightly whenever the words 'American' and 'queen' were in the same sentence.
"This is Marilyn Monroe." He overheard America proudly telling France – frog, wanker, child stealer – once. He had been prepared to cease his ungentlemanly eavesdropping and resume with his day, when the next words flying out of Alfred's mouth made him stop dead in his tracks.
"She's the American queen."
Arthur knew he should have been righteously offended, but he could not manage such an emotion. All he truly felt was pride.
Pride in this young nation whom he had raised from ashes; pride in this young nation who managed to break away, stand on his own two feet, and work wonders. Pride in this young nation, who was still his brother.
Earth had moved on, so England had to move on too.
His phone vibrated ferociously, trying to escape his pocket. Arthur answered automatically, already knowing who it was.
"Hey, Iggy! You know, Marilyn Monroe…"