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Arthur’s hands shook slightly as he tore at the edges of a scrap of newspaper, and his hands never shook. Honestly he wasn’t sure how to feel, so perhaps this was the only way his body could process his emotions. In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt invited King George VI and Queen Elizabeth to visit the United States, marking the first time a reigning British monarch set foot on American soil. The invitation was extended through diplomatic channels, as was customary for state visits. Naturally, the representative of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was urged to attend in suit. This was a large PR stunt to boost support for his people with the upcoming war. Honestly it was really inevitable, having lived for centuries this was something the Englishman was well in tune to.
The first half of the trip was well and good. To cope with the slight dread of going back to the place that had caused him so much turmoil and a blasted illness that affected him annually, he was happy to know the royal couple was to travel via the sea, traveling aboard the Canadian Pacific liner RMS Empress of Australia and docking in Canada to start. Being aboard a ship always aided in soothing him, and his relationship with Matthew was good. Yet the nagging of knowing being with Canada was not the end goal, skewed his focus just slightly.
He wasn’t nervous, no not at all. He was anxious. Over a century had passed since he had last been in Alfred’s territory. Sure he had made trips to Canada here and there as needed, but 1812 was hardly much time past 1781. A dull ache throbbed between his ribs. Things were different now of course, and he felt much a fool for being anxious in any regard.
The jostle of the traincar hardly provided the distraction he needed, neither did the beautiful scenery just out of the window passing by as a crew member alerted them that they were approaching Washington. The Queen Mother, placed her gloved hand atop Arthur’s. It stopped him from messing with the paper at least for a little while. “You look like you didn’t sleep the whole night.” She said quietly, without so much as turning her head as her husband, King George VI, took a seat across from them.
“That’s because I haven’t” Arthur clipped. Typically he had a bit softer of a tongue for authority these days, but he was on edge as of now.
“Not sleeping doesn’t change whether or not we cross the border.” The king stated as he peeled the newspaper off the table before Arthur, making a face at the torn off corner. His eyes flicked to where his wife’s hand lay atop Arthur’s and he quickly gathered that the nation was responsible for the missing corner.
The Morning was June 8th, 1939. The train rolled slower and slower still until eventually stopping with a grinding of machinery beneath their feet.
It was time. His King and Queen rose, not without Elizabeth patting Arthur’s hand once. “Stiff upper lip.” She reminded him. The couple approached the nearest exit as directed by the crew member aboard, and Arthur scooped up the scraps of paper and sprinkled them on the table before pushing himself up and following behind. For an occasion such as this there was bound to be coverage, and he did not want to be captured in any film reels or camera flashes.
The fresh air was welcoming as he approached the door, and he took a calming breath. England descended the steps onto the platform, polished leather shoes meeting American soil for the first time in over a century. Washington, D.C., stood before him, a city of stone and ambition. Yet, as his foot touched the ground, the present dissolved.
The air grew thicker, sharper, laced with the acrid bite of gunpowder and the raw stench of unwashed bodies. The sky darkened — no longer painted in soft hues of evening but choked with smoke, the orange glow of musket fire flashing through the haze. His breath caught.
He stood on this very soil once before — not as a visitor, but as a soldier of His Majesty's Army.
The cobblestones beneath his boots had been slick with blood and rain. He remembered the crack of the muskets, the screams of wounded men, and the drumbeat of retreat pounding in his ears. His coat, once a proud crimson, had been darkened with mud and ash, torn by bayonets and stained with the memories of a war that tore the world asunder.
His lungs burned with a phantom pain in memoriam to the soot filling the air as the capital burned, Alfred’s bitter cries of anguish all too fresh in his ears. It had been nearly a century, but it felt like yesterday all of a sudden.
A gust of wind stirred the hem of his coat, tugging him back to the present. The city was different now. The streets, once narrow and crude, had given way to broad avenues lined with sturdy modern buildings and iron lampposts. The cries of war had long been replaced by the distant hum of automobiles and the cheers of citizens excited for the British presence. Yet, as he stood there, the weight of history pressed heavy on his shoulders.
The ghosts of the past walked with him, silent and unseen, as they always had.
With a quiet sigh, he stepped forward, the past trailing behind him like a shadow.
He watched at a distance as America’s Secretary of State, Cordell Hull greeted the King and Queen, his eyes sharp as he assessed the surroundings and fell into stride just in time to offer a firm, albeit awkward, handshake to the man, muttering a quiet, ‘pleasure.’
His head seemed to be trudging through a marshland as they were escorted across the platform and towards vehicles that would bring them to the British Embassy located within the capitol. England registered little of it as he stepped into the roofless automobile and shuffled over to the side. Crowds lined the streets, seemingly excited to catch a glimpse of his royals, but Arthur felt like an exhibition being gawked at. It was not something he was particularly comfortable with, and was only happy his face was not one well known even by foreign aides.
Luckily, the empire was able to tune all of this out, at least to a degree as the summer breeze pushed through his hair, tussling it up further.
The British Embassy came into view a short while later, and Arthur had to make a bit of a face upon laying eyes on it. Despite being built recently, 1931 he’d read, it still held the architecture of brick similar to a century prior. Although, the bit in the front was clashing, a bit more like one of Alfred’s government buildings. (Look up the House of representatives and the embassy and tell me I am wrong). Cheeky Arthur thought, and turned away as the doors of the automobile were opened and the Royals escorted out. Arthur hesitated to take a hand as he stepped out and onto the soil again. That would take some getting used to.
It was a bit jarring to see his flag billowing above in a place like this, and he quickly cut his eyes over to King George VI who spoke here and there with Hull. Queen Elizabeth walking dutifully by his side quietly. Arthur kept his eyes forward as they entered the building, and he supposed this was probably the most level ground that could possibly be achieved during this trip. Arthur knew very little about the itinerary of this trip, just that he had to be here and he was now currently kicking himself internally for avoiding the details through now.
The Secretary of State fell back as the royals passed the threshold of the large doors, and Arthur tried not to react to being boxed in now as the Roosevelts came into view, and standing dutifully by their side was none other than Alfred.
Arthur had to suppress any sort of eyeroll. Firstly, because he didn’t think it was out of character for the lad to be so involved in his politics, but mainly because he didn’t particularly want to be here. It would be one thing if he was the one hosting, but whenever he visited any nation, he felt a bit dethroned. Secondly, he knew he was going to be in for quite a long week, and third, he didn’t want to send any wrong nonverbal messages through the gesture. He had nothing against Alfred currently, America did help with the previous war as it were, but they were nothing more than cordial really, and deep down he knew the younger was positively elated to be the one in control here- at least in concerns regarding Arthur.
To say that Alfred was experiencing a multitude of emotions was an understatement. When FDR summoned him into the oval office to speak privately with him some weeks prior, he hadn’t expected it to be in regards to the royal family’s accommodations- let alone mentioning that they would be visiting, to be the topic of discussion. The president seemed to really have his heart set on this, and had valid points for wanting to go through with it. Yet he was a little irked at the idea of knowing with them, came Arthur and the brit didn’t exactly have the best track record on his soil. Sure they had fought on the same side during the last war, which Alfred didn’t want to be a part of, and this visit was supposed to help with supporting Britain with the impending war, but Alfred also didn’t want to be a part of that either.
Another part of him was kind of excited, because this meant he could show England how much DC had grown and changed, without his influence or help. Thank you very much.
So seeing the royal family, and Arthur walking behind them looking slightly uncomfortable, brought the American a bit of pride. He shook hands with both royals, trying to shove down the anxiety that came with that. He had never met a member of the royal family, but he sure knew the wrath of one, and for that short moment, he felt his own handshake was probably slightly more awkward than usual.
Then the two nations came face to face with each other, the First Lady, the Queen, the President, and the King all beginning to depart slowly for the large doors leading to where the reception would be.
“One Hundred and fifty-eight years later and I’d say you’re closer to the monarchy than ever.” Arthur clipped.
Alfred tore his gaze away from where it had been on their bosses for a moment before grabbing Arthur’s hand tightly, pulling him closer still. “Right, and you’re going to love the room I booked for you.” He said with a tight grin.
The sudden movement nearly made the elder lurch forward, and he glared at Alfred as the taller pulled his hand away and clapped Arthur on the shoulder to sort of shove him forward towards the reception. To anyone else, it would have looked like friendly guidance.
Arthur’s face paled just slightly, and he hoped to whatever sense of mercy existed in the world, that they were not going to be staying where he thought they could possibly stay.
…..
The interior of the reception hall was a masterpiece of diplomatic elegance carrying with it the hush of history unfolding, its high ceilings and tall windows casting long shadows across the polished parquet floor. Crystal chandeliers refracted the sunlight, scattering it in delicate patterns across the walls. Attendants moved with practiced precision, balancing silver trays laden with fine china and crystal flutes filled with champagne. Soft music drifted through the air, adding a gentle undercurrent to the quiet murmur of conversation.
England was thankful there was at least alcohol, and he murmured a small, “thank you’ in response to taking a glass by the stem gently. Alfred had long since but peeled away from his side upon entering the room, going to make a bit of small talk with his bosses, and occasionally the royals. It was clear he was slightly uncomfortable by their presence, but not one person int he room could blame him. After all, Alfred and Arthur were permitted a slight bit of grace given the fact that they had first hand experiences with all anglo-american histories.
Arthur huffed quietly as he twisted the stem of his flute, watching keenly as Roosevelt moved about the room trying to break the ice and formalities. His own queen approached and gently lifted her glass to her lips. “Try to behave.” she chided.
“I am hardly the one who needs to.” Arthur said defensively.
A subtle shift swept through the crowd as the President lifted his glass, signaling for attention. The soft chime of crystal meeting crystal rang clear, and silence fell. At his side, First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt stood with quiet poise, her manner both gracious and resolute, a reflection of the nation she represented.
"Your Majesties," Roosevelt began, his voice even, deliberate, "it is an honor to welcome you to our nation’s capital. In times of change and uncertainty, let us remember that bonds of friendship, once forged, need no ocean to sustain them."
The King inclined his head, raising his own glass. His words, though measured, carried a quiet strength. "May the unity between our nations stand as a beacon of cooperation and understanding. In this pursuit, we are allies — not merely in principle, but in purpose."
The crystal rang softly as their glasses met, and the assembled guests joined in the toast. Polite applause followed, subdued but sincere, echoing through the vaulted space.
Alfred glanced between the royals and his boss, raising his glass as well. This would really take some getting used to, but an alliance with Britain was not new anyway.
Once things had quieted down a bit, Arthur approached the queen slowly, standing beside her for just a moment. “Your majesty, do forgive me for asking, but may I inquire as to where exactly we are staying for the night?” Given the growing lavender hues from outside the window, dusk was beginning to fall, and fatigue was catching up with him. However, Alfred’s commentary from earlier left him with slight restlessness.
…..
A state dinner was to follow the reception. It was all part of the formalities of course. Elizabeth did not grace him with a verbal answer earlier, and simply smiled gently. What he did know as that they would be moving to a second location, and what was worse? This time the President, the First Lady, his King and QUeen, would be sharing a vehicle, and he was stuck with Alfred in another.
He slid in first, and crossed one leg over the other as the American stepped inside and sat beside him. The door shut and the car jolted as it began to pull away from the British embassy. The quiet hum of the engine filled the strained silence.
Arthur sat rigidly with his hands folded in his lap, glancing to his side at the passing trees and bushes, where Alfred lounged back with an arm thrown over the seat to occasionally wave at the people lining the streets.
The city swept past in a blur of stone monuments and iron-lamped streets, but neither man seemed inclined to admire the view. Instead, the space between them bristled with unspoken grievances and years of thinly veiled contempt.
“Charming evening..” Arthur adjusted the cuff of his coat. “I imagine you Americans must enjoy these grand affairs, the louder the better I presume?”
Alfred raised a brow as he glanced at the Englishman and sighed slowly. “We do have a flair for making people feel welcome, though that may be lost on some.”
Arthur tongued his cheek, “Perhaps some prefer a subtler touch. CIvility is more than just volume.”
“Right, Civility. Is that what you call it?” Alfred shifted in his seat with a scoff of his own. “I thought the British preferred their diplomacy a little more… condescending.”
Arthur crossed his arms and turned to Alfred sharply. “Better that than arrogance.”
The air thickened, silence settling over them once more. The city rolled on outside, oblivious to the quiet war raging in the back of the car.
Alfred crossed his own arms and shook his head. “Well, let’s hope we can both manage a bit of ‘civility’ tonight. I’d hate for the President to think we’re not getting along.”
Arthur allowed himself a thin smile. “Perish the thought.”
As the car pulled up to the White House gates, and England felt his soul leave his body. “Blimey…” I am back in the fucking building again?!
The curse did not fall on deaf ears, and Alfred’s smirk grew. “Best place to keep an eye on ya.” He stepped out of the car as an attendant approached and he threw a thumb over his shoulder towards Arthur. “Don’t let him near any candles.”
…..
England was stewing, he could feel his blood quietly simmering as he tried his best not to curse up a storm through his teeth. No, instead both men straightened their cuffs and slipped the mask of diplomacy over their faces as they entered the house. So Alfred wanted to play games with placing Arthur here? Fine, he could play right back.
The walls here had changed, there were new portraits on the walls, but the bones of the vast building remained the same.
Alfred swallowed thickly as he pushed down the memories of when he and Arthur had last been in this place together. Normally, he would walk these halls with ease, but tonight he could hear the distant roar of flames as the British set the city alight — the crackling of burning timber, the crumbling of walls, the night sky painted orange.
His eyes drifted to a window, the moon hanging low over the Potomac. He could almost see the flicker of those ancient fires reflected in the glass, hear the distant cries of panicked men. The White House had burned that night. He had been there to see it, to feel the heat against his face. And yet, here it stood — rebuilt, renewed, unyielding. Much like the nation it represented.
There was yet another stale silence between the two as they followed their leaders down towards the grand hall. Time marched on, but it didn’t touch the nations striding across the sleek marble floors.
…
A long mahogany table stretched elegantly across the dining room set with bone china, polished silverware, and crystal goblets. The air carried the faint clink of glasses and the soft murmur of polite conversation, a veneer of civility stretched carefully over the undercurrents of diplomacy. Yet between the looks of the two nations, the table was beginning to feel more like a battlefield than that of fine dining.
President Roosevelt sat at the head of the table, his wheelchair discreetly tucked beneath the linen cloth, with King George VI to his right and Queen Elizabeth to his left. Eleanor Roosevelt sat beside the king, her calm demeanor masking her ever-observant eyes.
“Arthur is it?” The president spoke, causing England to look towards the man. “Tell me, as a national representative yourself, what do you make of the current situation in Europe?” It was clear the man was trying to get everyone to converse openly with each other, rather than have the two nations trail alongside them akin to dogs following two owners on a walk.
Arthur set his glass down and cleared his throat discreetly. “If I may speak plainly, grave.” he said softly, his accent clipped and precise. “That chap Hitler’s ambitions grow bolder with every month and appeasement has only fed his appetite. War is inevitable at this stage.” he spoke with certainty.
The President folded his fingers atop the table and sighed quietly. King George nodded quietly, his fingers tightening on his glass.
Alfred stuck a fork full of food into his mouth, savoring the intense flavors of the tender meat as it practically melted in his mouth. His blue eyes sharply assessing the britons as he took a sip from his drink before speaking. “Well..let’s hope that it can be contained before we’re dragged in again.”
Arthur arched a brow. “Dragged?” He scoffed softly. “I wasn’t aware America needed dragging into anything. I seem to recall a certain fondness for boldness and action.”
Alfred’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice measured. “Boldness and recklessness aren’t the same thing.” He glanced at Roosevelt. “We’ve barely recovered from the last war, Mr. President. Our people aren’t ready to spill blood for another European crisis.”
England’s expression darkened, his tone quiet but sharp. “And what happens when the flames reach your doorstep? Will you still stand back and watch?”
Alfred’s eyes flashed. “You talk about flames as if we didn’t live through the last inferno. We did pretty well with 1812 too, just look around. Do you know what it cost us? Do you have any idea how many young men we buried after the Great War?” He shook his head. “I won’t see us dragged into another one. Not this time.”
The table fell silent, Eleanor glanced between the two nations, her expression unreadable.
Arthur’s green eyes remained sharply pinned on Alfred, and he lifted his glass a bit to his lips, his tone as smooth as the crystal in his hand. “Ah, yes. The admirable American tradition of arriving fashionably late to global conflicts.” He set his glass down with a quiet clink. “I suppose it’s only fair. You do like to make an entrance, after all.”
Alfred picked up his glass, swirling it slowly before taking a sip. “Not bad for a country that wasn’t even part of the mess to begin with. I suppose some things are better left to the pros. You British did a fine job holding that one together... until we showed up.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening — but before he could fire back, there was a soft thud under the table. He jolted slightly, his knee knocking against the underside of the cloth. His eyes flicked toward Queen Elizabeth, who remained impeccably composed, though her gaze was sharp, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “Behave.”
King George cleared his throat softly. “Surely,” he began, his voice calm and steady, “we can agree that the world is changing. The bonds between our nations must grow stronger if we’re to weather the storm.”
Queen Elizabeth offered a gentle smile, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Old rivalries must give way to new alliances.”
“Well,” Roosevelt began, swirling the wine in his glass, “as much as I appreciate a good debate over the fate of the free world, I must say — if we keep this up, the poor orchestra may pack up and leave before we even get to dessert.”
A ripple of polite laughter spread around the table, even Alfred cracked a small smile before looking at Arthur who simply raised a brow and took a sip from his glass.
…..
Come nightfall, Arthur spent a lot of time gazing out of the window of his bedroom. The royal couple stayed in one room, and England in another. In reality, he knew deep down that Alfred was probably having his own turmoil about him sleeping under the roof of the very building that still bore scorched scars from 1812. He could only hope that this trip would be worth the trouble in the end.
…
Come Morning, the King and Queen boarded the presidential yacht, USS Potomac, accompanied by President Roosevelt and the First Lady. They cruised down the Potomac River to Mount Vernon, Virginia. Over breakfast, the itinerary was finally explained to the British nation, and he remained relatively quiet- polite and making small talk which he hated- but still quiet. He took a change to glance towards Alfred, who leaned over the railing of the yacht to glance out at the water.
Typically, all of these things planned out for the royals, would be places he would show off with pride to literally any other party. Walking Arthur into the White House? Now bringing him to Mount Vernon? A bit of guilt seeped into his veins. Elenor approached him and offered him a glass of water. “Are you holding up alright?”
Alfred shrugged a little. “Feels like I am betraying Washington a little. We kinda fought side by side to end British influence here… and now we are welcoming the royal family with open arms. I know why we are doing it… but..”
The First Lady placed a gentle hand on the nation’s upper back. “I never could hope to have ever understood the relationship you had with our first President…and I think you are much like how he would be in this time. He would have conflicting feelings, I'm sure, with the history of the British Empire.” she spoke quietly, in a soothing tone, but being sure she was not overheard by their guests. “But maybe he would have been a bit prideful to know the British are visiting as a diplomatic gesture of goodwill? You knew him better than I ever could hope to, but I am confident he was a pragmatic man Alfred, much like you. He knew the value of alliances and diplomacy, he always did good with change. You’ve come a long way, don’t let the past blind you of your progress.” She pressed the glass of water into Alfred’s hands before stepping away.
The nation stared at the glass before hesitantly lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. He glanced back at the choppy waves of the Potomac, and then back at their bosses and Arthur, who seemed to be just as deep in thought as he leaned against the railing, arms crossed, and gazing at the summer sky.
…..
Upon arrival at Mount Vernon, King George VI laid a wreath at George Washington's tomb, paying respects to the first U.S. President.
Arthur stood a respectable distance away from the grave. Part of him did so out of respect, as he would expect the same from Alfred should the lad ever be in London and near the gravesites of his rulers. It was jarring though, to see the direct descendant of the king Washington fought to liberate America from, laying flowers on the tomb of his ancestor’s enemy. The feeling was surely mutual with the way Alfred remained quiet, slightly awestruck as well.
England stood at a distance, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a quiet storm of emotions churning beneath his composed exterior. He dared not step any closer, a bitter pride stirred within him — a dark satisfaction in knowing that the man resting six feet beneath the earth had not, in the end, kept him from returning. Time had a curious sense of irony; here he stood once more on American soil, British influence at his back, a presence returned by the tide of history.
Unfair, perhaps. George Washington had been mortal — a man of flesh and blood — while Arthur was something far more enduring. Nations could not die, and maybe that alone made this moment bearable. Perhaps this was the only way Arthur could look upon this tomb without feeling the phantom weight of past failures pressing against his chest, or the taste of old blood rising in his throat.
Yet, as much as it pained him to admit, this was the man who had done what Arthur could not. George had made Alfred strong. Strong enough to stand alone. Strong enough to break away. The thought was a sharp one, but there was admiration in it — quiet and begrudging.
The afternoon sunlight painted long shadows across the stone, and in a sudden, quiet impulse, Arthur reached into his suit jacket, fingers brushing against cool petals. With a swift motion, he withdrew a single red rose, the color dark against his pale hand. Quickening his pace, he neared the tomb, hoping no one would stop him, and placed the bloom gently atop the wreath already resting there. The crimson petals stood out vividly against the muted tones of stone and greenery — a quiet offering, whispered across centuries.
Without pause, without looking back, Arthur turned on his heel and made his way towards the yacht, each step echoing softly against the earth. Let the past lie buried. The future, after all, had a war of its own to fight.
….
Alfred stood a few paces behind Arthur, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as a summer breeze swept through the site. Alfred’s thoughts drifted to the many times he had heard Arthur speak of the past—the British Empire’s glorious days, its unmatched naval power, and the wars that had shaped both of their countries. He had heard the bitterness in Arthur’s voice when he spoke of America’s independence, and he had seen the cold reserve in his eyes whenever the subject turned to the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812. But here, now, in the shadow of such a powerful symbol of sacrifice, there was something different about Arthur’s presence. Something softer, almost fragile.
He knew this had to be difficult for Arthur—visiting George Washington's tomb was a kind of pilgrimage for the United States, and it wasn’t lost on him that for someone like Arthur, it must have carried a weight. Washington, the man who had led the revolution that forever severed the ties between their two nations, the man whose name was etched into the American consciousness as the symbol of their hard-won freedom. Part of him had childishly been looking forward to making Arthur preen with discomfort.
His government had ensured that all visitors, especially foreign dignitaries like Arthur, entered Washington’s tomb without any threat of violence—no weapons, no harm. But still, there was a sense of unease in Alfred, a nervousness that twisted in his stomach as he watched Arthur make his way toward the tomb.
Alfred froze, his breath caught in his chest, as Arthur knelt down, carefully placing something at the top of the wreath. A flower—an elegant red rose, so delicate and soft, resting against the marble as if it had been placed with the utmost reverence. Alfred had to blink twice, not sure if he had seen it correctly. That wasn’t something that had been prepared beforehand. That flower didn’t come from just anywhere around here. Arthur had planned this, he had brought it himself. He had intended to pay his own kind of respect, and for a moment, Alfred’s breath seemed to freeze with the gravity of the gesture. This… this wasn’t what he expected at all. Arthur wasn’t just following orders; he was paying his own respect. He was offering something from within himself.
A warmth, unexpected and foreign, bloomed within Alfred’s chest. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, not since his own childhood, He hadn’t known it was possible to feel such a tenderness toward Arthur, the man who had always seemed like a symbol of everything Alfred had fought against, a reminder of the oppressive past.
He let his eyes linger on Arthur’s back as the British nation turned and began to walk back toward the river. Alfred took a step forward, instinctively wanting to close the distance, but he held back. He wasn’t sure if this moment was something he was meant to intrude upon.
Instead, he simply stood there, watching, feeling the warmth of the gesture settle in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, the imperialist wasn't as cold as he thought. Maybe Arthur had more of a heart than Alfred had ever been willing to admit.
….
June 10 after a train ride late the night before to New York-the royal couple visited The World's Fair, touring various pavilions and exhibitions with the President, the First Lady, and the governor of New York. After the ceremonial welcome, and dozens of formal greetings, they went about their way.
The fair was a dazzling vision of the future, a sprawling wonderland of art, technology, and ambition that unfolded across the vast expanse of Flushing Meadows–Corona Park in Queens. Billed as "The World of Tomorrow," the fair embodied the optimism of an era on the brink of global conflict, offering a glimpse into the future. At its heart stood the Trylon and Perisphere — two monumental structures that became the fair’s iconic symbols, a tall triangular spire and a large white sphere respectively. Arthur could remember the first World’s Fair, the 1851 event in the heart of his own country. It was but a century ago, yet it felt so far away now- even from the perspective of a nation. So much had changed since then… the world was advancing quicker than it had ever done so before.
The exhibitions boasted sleek trains and streamlined cars, some showcased the newest marvel — television — leaving visitors wide-eyed at the magic of moving pictures transmitted through the air.
Pavilions representing dozens of nations dotted the landscape, their unique architectural styles standing side by side. The British Pavilion, with its dignified elegance, stood in quiet contrast to the bold geometry of the Soviet Union's and highlighted the contributions of the British Empire to global progress. Arthur couldn’t resist side glancing towards Alfred, the man after all was totally against his imperialistic tendencies.
FDR adjusted his hat, his eyes twinkling behind his pince-nez as he turned to King George VI. "Quite the sight, isn’t it, Your Majesty? They say the world of tomorrow is right here before us."
The seven of them traveled leisurely across the pavement. Occasionally Arthur would hold a brochure up over his eyes, the bright greens struggling to see in the light.
The King smoothed his tie and smiled softly as Queen Elizabeth looped her arm through her husband’s. “Indeed, this place really does bring about the hopes for a brighter future… America really can make that feel rather tangible.”
The group moved forward, occasionally making commentary here and there in regards to one exhibition or another, or laughing at a little quip now and again.
“What a spectacle.” Arthur commented dryly. Sliding the brochure into the front of his coat. He didn’t feel like carrying it anymore, his shoulder was beginning to strain.
“We prefer the term, ‘inspirational.” Alfred bit back with a strained smile. "Besides, what good is the future if you can’t dazzle people into believing in it?"
Alfred bit his tongue, trying not to comment further. The night prior wasn’t bad, hell the day prior wasn’t. Sure he was slightly irritable at the condescending judgemental commentary made by Arthur throughout the beginning of the trip, but he could tell there was something else there. The Englishman was so hard to read. It seemed he’d always been hard to read, like a bite too big to swallow and causing strain on the way down. At least, this had always been the case for Alfred since he’d grown to the physical age of an adult.
Now was a perfect example, while he turned over the thoughts in his head, inspecting both sides of a coin mentally, thoroughly, he could see the fondness gracing Arthur’s face, the slow of his gait as they passed by fountains and colorful fauna. They wandered through the Lagoon of Nations, pausing to admire the dazzling fountain display. Sunlight caught the spray, casting tiny rainbows across the water. Nearby, a jazz band played a jaunty tune, its lively notes mingling with the chatter of fairgoers.
Flowers were planted with tender care, lining the walkways, adding bursts of color in neat geometric patterns. Exotic blooms from around the world mingled with native varieties, their petals catching the sunlight in shades of crimson, gold, and violet, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one to notice.
“Oh Arthur, aren’t those just the most lovely?” Queen ELizabeth remarked, glancing just over her shoulder to the nation who glanced up to meet her gaze. “Hm?” He looked at the flowerbeds once more, the backdrop of gentle water catching white trays of light once more, creating a glittering effect. “Oh yes, they’re …quite lovely indeed..” his tone was soft as the petals he gazed upon, and for a brief moment, Alfred bore witness to a gentler.. Almost more humane and tangible version of Arthur he so carefully hid from many. It was a rare moment that had him confused on how to feel. He knew growing up that the empire could be incredibly soft, but it was not something he acquainted with the man past their screaming match in the rai all those years ago. Looking up at the dozens of billowing flags, the American realized for the first time outside of a war zone, that his flag was situated right next to Britain’s.
…
As they continued their tour, Arthur found that he was really started to enjoy himself. While some technological advances were scary, they really did mark progress, and their visit was clearly meant to showcase unity being the spark to lead to such a future of amazing advancements. In the Cuban Village, he found himself entranced by the many different dances showcased on stage and the lively movement. The dancers moved in ways Arthur had not seen in a while, especially not within the confines of European borders, and they danced with such passion. Flurries of oranges and pinks caught his eyes. The crowds cheered in merry glee, so carefree.
Arthur produced a silver cigarette case and offered it to Alfred, who declined with a wave of his hand. Lighting up, England exhaled a thoughtful plume of smoke. "It’s strange, isn't it? The world gathered here, celebrating progress, while across the ocean..." He let the sentence hang, feeling the weight of it as he glanced toward the distant horizon. He was trying, perhaps too hard, to make small talk—something that had never come easily between them.
Alfred's smile dimmed, and he nodded. "Yeah. Feels like we’re all trying to outrun a storm."
For a moment, they stood silently, watching the sunlight dance on the water. It was strange, how easily the two nations struggled to converse outside of war tactics in a boardroom filled with officials from that terrible war… and their long histories. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to parade Arthur around like a token of goodwill, and knew that Arthur respectively wasn’t too elated to be here either. Still, there was some sort of unspoken understanding between them—the notion that FDR’s vision of the future had its merits, even if it wasn’t easy for Alfred to embrace it entirely. Then Alfred clapped Arthur on the back, "Come on, Art. Let me show you the Futurama exhibit. They say it’ll give us a glimpse of the world twenty years from now. Besides, I'm sure the bosses won't object to us leaving them alone for a while"
Arthur flicked ash from his cigarette and smiled. "It’s ‘Arthur’.” he corrected. “Lead the way, old chap. Perhaps they’ll have a vision of peace in store for us." he said with a slight bit of sarcasm, but there was no bite to it.
The symphonies and cheers of the Cuban Village faded into the sound of footfalls against the pavement. As they continued towards the exhibit, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the slight change in Alfred's demeanor. While Alfred had his usual playful confidence, it was clear he didn’t entirely relish being on this particular leg of their diplomatic tour. Alfred was passionate about the future of their world, constantly optimistic about the possibility of peace and progress, yet there was a sense of hesitation when it came to Arthur. Maybe it was the old grudges they carried with them, or perhaps it was the different ways they approached their shared goals. Honestly, it was probably both.
Departing from the main group was a smart idea though, the Englishman could give him that. Their bosses were hopeful for this alliance, and the least they could do was begrudgingly play along. Being in a place like this? There was plenty of distractions, and conversation wasn't necessary.
“Can’t deny it,” Alfred said as they walked past another gleaming model of the futuristic city. His hands were in his pockets, his tone light, though there was an edge to his words. “I really do enjoy this kind of thing. Political speeches, meetings, all of it. The strategy, the deals—it’s like a game. But…” his words lingered, and he spoke as if talking to himself, and not to Arthur. Maybe he was in a way.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, sensing that Alfred’s words weren’t entirely aimed at the grand politics of the moment. “You’ve always been good at playing the game as much as it pains me to admit, Alfred. I’ll give you that. You always know how to keep things moving forward.”
Alfred shrugged, the casual motion betraying the intensity in his eyes. “Yeah, but sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. You know how it is. You fight for a cause, you rally people, you make alliances... but then it feels like nothing ever really changes… I mean look, we are both here trying to show support for your impending fight and I thought 1918 was gonna be the ‘war to end all wars’” he said with air quotes as they passed by another exhibit of a car that could parallel park itself.
Arthur was quiet for a moment, processing the undercurrent in Alfred’s words. If he had it his way, there wouldn’t be another war, but … He wasn’t going to push that topic right now. If Alfred wanted to remain aloof to world affairs, he couldn’t hope to be respected by said world. So instead he simply continued with, “Our existence is strangely unique… we don’t have all of the answers, but we simply do the best for ourselves with what we have. Treaties changed like the days did merely a century ago. There were many times were myself and other nations had to put up with things we ourselves weren’t keen on.” He leaned over the railing of an exhibit and tapped some of the ash from the fag between his fingers, staring at a diorama. “I mean take Myself and Francis in 1904… I assure you I was simply beside myself to jump on that opportunity.” he said dryly and put the cigarette back up to his lips.
Alfred paused, trying to stifle a laugh. Yeah, making an alliance with one’s all time true enemy was definitely the shock of the year. Oddly enough though, while they both disagreed more often than not these days, England always had the right words to say when it mattered. This type of alliance was not new to him, it was just Alfred’s first rodeo. “Yeah, maybe. But hey, at least this stuff’s cool, right? Flying cars and cities of the future. I can get behind that.”
Arthur looked around pensively, unable to hide a chuckle himself. “Flying cars, indeed. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Alfred grinned, his earlier hesitation slipping away. “Yeah, there is. But sometimes, you just need something to look forward to. And if that’s the future, then I’ll take it.”
Despite the lingering tension between them, Arthur felt a small sense of camaraderie. Alfred might have mixed feelings about their history, but at least, for the moment, they both shared a quiet understanding of what the future could hold. And perhaps that was the first step toward truly moving forward, not just politically, but in the way they interacted with one another.
…..
The formal dinner in the evening was a grand affair, held at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City. It featured fine cuisine, with dishes selected to showcase the best of American hospitality. Speeches highlighted the friendship between the two nations and the importance of unity during a time of rising global tensions. It went swell, while definitely political, Arthur made sure not to make bitter commentary towards Alfred, and likewise the American held his own tongue. Instead, they talked of the day's events, of the future of course.
….
Cracking his eyes open, Arthur was met with the gentle voice of one of the royal attendants who had accompanied him and the royal family to the states. The soft white light stretched beyond the sheer curtains of the lavish hotel room. This was a far better sleeping place than the White House. After two days of pushing to exhaustion, he rightly couldn’t remember actually bringing himself to bed after supper. He hummed in acknowledgement to a tone of inquiry, still unable to decipher the words. Today was to mark the last of the Royal Tour in America, and he was so longing to return home, or at least cross back into Canada.
Slowly, he pushed himself up just as the door to the room shut quietly, signalling it was time to get dressed and attend the last leg of his trip. He dressed in a fine tweed suit, keeping just the waistcoat rather than take the coat since this was a day where there was to be far more leisure. Today, they were to visit Roosevelt’s private estate. The man was being incredibly hospitable, and for the first time since arriving, Arthur regretted not taking more time to get to know the man. He wasn’t Alfred, and couldn’t hope to understand the weight of Arthur’s feelings towards the land he was simply running.
Sighing quietly, he pulled his shoes on with the aid of a shoehorn and then tied them up.
…
In contrast to the more formal events of the tour, this was a rather relaxed event. President Roosevelt welcomed the royal family personally. The gardens were lush and grand, acres of grass surrounded them and provided a view of the Hudson River. The living room and library housed an extensive collection of naval paintings, literary works, and various artifacts. The music room, also known as the "Dresden Room," featured Chinese porcelain and lacquerware, highlighting the family's connections to China. It was .. sweet to see this grand American Powerhouse simply showing off his most private living quarters. It was.. Humbling. For someone to become a complete open book, took a lot of trust, something the Englishman could rightly admire.
He should have been paying better attention however, because he caught the tailend of a conversation. “I’m sorry, did you say Alfred made the menu for today’s lunch?” Arthur raised a thick brow.
“He sure did!” Alfred laughed and clapped his boss on the shoulder. Roosevelt cleared his throat. “Yes, he has created quite the selection of foods for the meal. A picnic sounds like it would be nice with the weather?”
The King smiled as he straightened the facing of his suit. “That sounds delightful.”
Arthur strode a bit forward. “Wait a tic- what exactly is on this menu?”
….
He sat perfectly still, watching with a mix of amusement and mild concern as the Queen Mother fumbled with her hot dog, clearly unsure of how to approach this distinctly American meal. Both President Roosevelt and Alfred took it upon themselves to demonstrate, Alfred eagerly leading by example.
"You have to use your hands for this kind of meal!" Alfred declared with a grin, "No fancy cutlery for this one!"
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between amusement and mortification. He was uncertain whether he wanted to be seen participating in this curious cultural exercise, but there was a flicker of curiosity deep within him. Hot dogs had become an iconic part of American culture, celebrated at baseball games and public gatherings across the globe, and he couldn’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about.
Alfred, ever the willing ambassador of American tradition, leaned in close to Elizabeth, showing her how to properly grip the hot dog without it falling apart. King George followed suit, and Arthur knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never hear the end of this moment—at least not anytime soon. He cast a fleeting glance toward Eleanor and Roosevelt, who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle as much as anyone, their smiles accompanied by the occasional chuckle. Well, at least everyone was having fun.
To his dismay, King George, after taking a hearty bite, called for another. Arthur’s heart sank, and before he could prepare himself, his name was called. "You should try one of these!" George urged.
Alfred laughed and leaned over the table a bit. “Yeah Art, you should give it a try.” He smirked, a challenge.
Bristling in his seat a little, Arthur crossed his arms and huffed after a pregnant pause. “Fine.” He snatched a bun and began to prepare the hot dog as he had seen- or rather heard- and swallowed thickly before glancing up at Alfred and Elenor before taking a bite. It was similar to the sausage that Austria had shared with him on the battlefield during the war of Austrian succession but- significantly tastier. His own eyes flickered a little as he slowly chewed.
“Ha! You totally like it!’ Alfred sat back in his chair to prepare his second hot dog.
Roosevelt smiled, “Well, I would say your menu was a success America.”
Arthur couldn’t help but crack a small smile, realizing, with a hint of reluctance, that perhaps there was something to be said for embracing the unfamiliar, even if it meant stepping far outside his usual comfort zone. This moment highlighted the blending of British royal tradition with American culture and was widely covered in the press, enhancing the public's perception of the royal family as approachable and endearing. Only, Arthur wished it wasn’t over a hot dog.
…..
As the morning sun crept over the Hudson River on June 12, 1939, the royal visit drew to a quiet close. King George VI and Queen Elizabeth stood poised, offering gracious farewells to their American hosts. Nearby, Arthur adjusted his tie, casting his gaze from the royal family and outward. The past days had been a whirlwind of receptions, ceremonies, and quiet conversations behind closed doors.
Alfred stood a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back. The two men had spent much of the trip side by side — not by choice, but by necessity. Their relationship had always been... complicated. The same bit of land, separated only by time and the wars fight in its span. Alfred could see Arthur, his clothing shifting like a phantom from a King’s Army Redcoat, to his 19th Century decorum covered in soot, and now the tweed suit he was currently wearing. They stood paces away from each other, reflecting against each other like a mirror of horrors, reflecting their shared history, and neither could tear their gazes away.
Yet somewhere between the hot dogs at Hyde Park and the quiet moments watching the King and Queen charm their American audiences at the World Fair, they had found a quiet, mutual respect outside of what was required during the Great War.
As the train hissed and lurched, signaling the impending departure, Arthur approached the American nation. "Well, Alfred," he said, voice low and measured, "I’d say this visit was... surprisingly amicable."
Alfred raised an eyebrow, then gave a slow nod. "Agreed. Even you managed to loosen up." He smirked, but there was no bite behind it. "Safe travels, Arthur."
Arthur hesitated, then extended a hand. Alfred took it, their handshake firm and brief. No more words were needed. As Arthur boarded the train with the rest of the British delegation, he glanced back to see Alfred watching the train pull away rather than turn his back. The trip had been a diplomatic success — but perhaps, more quietly, it had been a personal one as well.