Chapter Text
Alfred adjusted the cuffs of his coat, exhaling slowly as he stepped further into the ballroom.
This was supposed to be a fresh start. A new year, a new beginning—hell, that’s what everyone had been telling him, anyway. The war was over, the world was settling, and it was high time he stopped acting like he had something to prove.
And yet, standing here, surrounded by the swirling silks and measured laughter of those who had ruled long before he even existed, Alfred felt as out of place as ever.
The party was extravagant, of course. Francis wouldn’t have it any other way. Gilded chandeliers stretched across the high, domed ceiling, their candlelight gleaming off marble floors and gold-trimmed walls. The music was lively but refined, the scent of expensive wine and fresh wax lingering in the air. It was a world Alfred had never quite fit into, no matter how well he dressed.
Not that he looked bad.
He had put effort into this—more than he would ever admit. A navy-blue tailcoat, deep as the Atlantic, embroidered with gold at the cuffs. A crisp white cravat, neatly tied, and boots polished until they shone. His hair, stubborn as it was, had been combed back just enough to pass as presentable. He knew how they saw him: young, brash, untamed. And maybe they weren’t wrong, but if he had to be here, then he was damn well going to look the part.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Alfred turned slightly, watching as a familiar figure approached—tall, lean, dressed in rich, dark green. Matthew.
Alfred smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t expect to be here.”
Matthew gave him a look. “You could have just said no.”
“Yeah, well.” Alfred rolled his shoulders, scanning the room. “Figured I’d give this whole ‘moving forward’ thing a shot.”
Matthew sighed but didn’t argue. He was used to Alfred’s bravado by now. Instead, he glanced around the ballroom, his expression thoughtful.
“They’re watching you.”
Alfred huffed a quiet laugh. “Let ‘em.”
He knew it already—had felt it the moment he arrived. The weight of too many glances, the silent, unspoken judgments. He wasn’t the same as them. He hadn’t been born into this world of quiet power and centuries-old alliances. He had forced his way in, fists swinging and teeth bared. And now, even with his independence solidified, even with his seat at the table, there were those who would never see him as more than a rebellious child playing at being a nation.
“Let them talk,” he muttered, reaching for a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “I’m here to enjoy myself.”
Matthew hummed, unconvinced. But before he could say anything else, the murmur of conversation shifted. A ripple of awareness moved through the room, subtle but unmistakable.
Alfred stilled.
He didn’t have to look. He didn’t want to look. But his body betrayed him, his gaze flickering toward the grand entrance just in time to see—
No.
His stomach turned to ice.
The British Empire stepped through the doorway, clad in a deep red coat embroidered with gold, the color rich against the stark white of his cravat. His boots struck the floor with quiet precision, his posture sharp as ever, his expression unreadable.
Alfred forced himself to breathe.
Arthur wasn’t supposed to be here.
He had asked. He had been assured.
His grip tightened around the glass in his hand. He willed himself to look away, to pretend he hadn’t noticed, to keep his expression neutral.
But then, across the ballroom, Arthur turned. Their eyes met.
And in that single, fleeting second, Alfred saw it—the way Arthur’s posture went rigid, the flicker of something sharp in his gaze before he turned on his heel and made for the door.
Alfred exhaled, setting his glass down with a quiet clink.
Well.
So much for a fresh start.
Alfred didn’t move right away.
He stood there, watching Arthur’s retreating form, something sharp and hot curling in his chest.
It shouldn’t have bothered him. He shouldn’t have cared. Hell, wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? Arthur leaving meant he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of that gaze, the tightly wound tension that always settled between them whenever they were forced into the same space.
And yet.
Alfred clenched his jaw, willing the irritation away. His knuckles ached where his fingers had curled into fists, so he flexed them, turning his focus elsewhere. The party hadn’t stopped, hadn’t slowed—not for this. The others had noticed, of course, but nations were good at pretending. The music played on, the conversation carried, and no one addressed the way the great British Empire had turned on his heel like he’d been personally offended by America’s mere presence.
Except Matthew.
His brother was still beside him, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with quiet scrutiny. He sighed, shaking his head. “I should go after him.”
Alfred scoffed. “Let him leave.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Alfred let out a short, dry laugh. “Like hell, I don’t.”
Matthew shot him a pointed look, but Alfred refused to meet it.
He did mean it.
Didn’t he?
Arthur’s presence here was a mistake—a lie. Someone had promised Alfred that he wouldn’t be here, and yet, the moment he’d stepped into this damn ballroom, there he was. Just like always. Just like nothing had changed.
Alfred turned sharply, grabbing another glass of champagne off a passing tray and knocking it back without thinking. It still tasted like soap.
Matthew sighed. “Alfred.”
“What?”
His brother hesitated, then lowered his voice. “You could at least try.”
“Try what, Mattie?” He gritted his teeth. “You know how he is. You know how he was.”
Matthew’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That was five years ago.”
Alfred huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah? Feels like yesterday.”
He could still see it sometimes—smoke and gunfire, the storm-churned sea, Arthur’s coat soaked through as he stood on the deck of a ship that wasn’t his anymore.
He could still hear it. The way Arthur had shouted at him, voice raw with something that wasn’t just anger, but something deeper. Something bitter and broken.
The same way his voice had sounded the night Alfred left for good.
“Five years,” Alfred muttered, staring into his empty glass. “And he still can’t stand the sight of me.”
Matthew didn’t answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
Arthur wasn’t leaving because he couldn’t stand Alfred.
He was leaving because he couldn’t face him.
Alfred exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with a little too much force. He needed air. He needed to move. He needed—
“Are you going after him?” Matthew’s voice was quiet.
Alfred barked out a laugh. “Not a chance.”
And yet, even as he said it, he was already glancing toward the door.