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“What the hell is this?” Arthur asks, staring up at the marquee of the Richard Rogers Theatre.
He’s been in New York City for a few days, though his fellow Nations won’t be meeting for a few days. They have a large meeting every summer—one that all the Nations of the world are invited to—and a different country hosts each time. America is in charge this year for the first time in nearly two decades, if his memory serves correctly. He has scant visited the country in the time between then and now, having little reason to do so over the years. Communication becomes exponentially more advanced as the years continue, and he has seen America’s personification in person plenty of times over the years, just never on the man’s home turf. It’s not something he’s avoided—it just hasn’t happened.
But Alfred has been talking his ear off about spending time in New York ever since their last meeting. At least, talking his ear off more than usual. Over the last year, you could hardly have a conversation with him without him mentioning something about the planning of the conference. Arthur doesn’t know that any other Nation has been so involved in the planning of the event, at least to the lengths that Alfred has.
So Arthur had been surprised when Alfred asked him about his travel plans at the beginning of the year. He’d just been so excited that he’d been able to convince Arthur to come a few days early so that they could spend time in the city. The shock had mostly come from the notion that Alfred wanted to spend time with him outside of work, which is something he’s never asked of him before. Arthur knows that, since the First World War, Alfred had rekindled his relationship with Canada, but that made more sense. Matthew was a kind soul; they were neighbors, and after the end of America’s period of isolation, it made sense that Alfred would want to reconnect with his brother.
But Arthur?
They had grown closer since the wars, as well. Their countries have been on good terms for over a century, and Arthur saw no reason why that would end anytime soon. But things have always been stilted between the two of them. Arthur can’t blame Alfred for feeling awkward about their shared history—he feels it, too. The world had been a different place 250 years ago. Arthur was a different person. England was a different person.
So he’d been surprised when Alfred proposed their little vacation before the meeting. Not unpleasantly surprised, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was an ulterior motive. America had proved, over the last century, that he could be cold and cunning. He was smart—that’s something Arthur has never doubted. He was a Superpower, for Christ’s sake. Sometimes, Arthur had a hard time recognizing the little boy he’d raised inside the man Alfred had become.
Arthur has sussed out no such motives, so far, though. Alfred had picked him up from his hotel in the late morning, and they’d gotten brunch at a restaurant Alfred raved about. Admittedly, it was very good. Others have been quick to dismiss America as the land of fast food, and Arthur has been guilty of it in the past as well. Alfred certainly didn’t help the matter when it came to his love of grease, almost playing into it. Arthur has begun to wonder if the younger Nation leads others to underestimate him on purpose so that he can get an edge on his opponents. He has learned, though, with time and experience, to never underestimate Alfred and his Americans.
Alfred was nonchalant about the food—at least, as much as a person as excitable as him could be. Of course, the food in New York was good. The city was a melting pot. Alfred took pride in that fact. He ranted about it while he waited for Arthur to finish eating—the fact that anyone who wanted to be an American could be one. They could make whatever food the mixing of culture allowed them too. They could write and sing what they wanted, they could create whatever their minds could dream up. Freedom, and all that. It’s a speech Arthur has heard countless times, but Alfred seemed especially patriotic today. Maybe because they were a month out from American Independence Day.
“It's just like Emma Lazarus wrote,” Alfred said before quoting the poem that was likely inscribed on his heart. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free—send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.” Then he paused, and tacked on, “And let them eat burritos with eggs in them for breakfast at noon.”
After that, they headed to their next destination, which Alfred was tight-lipped about. The man was incredibly excited about it, muttering things like, “I’ve been waiting months for this,” in between him shouting about traffic. Whatever it was, it was something that Alfred had obviously spent a lot of time anticipating.
That’s how Arthur ended up on Broadway in front of the Richard Rogers Theatre.
“Hamilton?” Arthur asks, gazing up at the signage as they wait in the box office line to pick up the tickets Alfred had bought ages ago.
Alfred was vibrating from the excitement, “I remember you liking musical theater, and this show came out last year. It’s about the founding father—do you remember him?”
The name is familiar, but Arthur has trouble putting a face to it. He doesn’t dwell on that period of his life much anymore. Well, he tries not to. “He worked in Washington’s camp?”
“Yes!” Alfred exclaims, grinning widely. “So, the guy who wrote this—he’s also the guy who plays Hamilton—he was invited to The White House a couple of years ago, and he performed this song about the guy, and I talked to him after. I couldn’t help it, because I-” his voice lowers, “-I was there, you know. I know we’re not supposed to tell civilians about us, you know, but I had to talk to this guy. The thing was so cool. He didn’t even think I was crazy or anything—he actually recognized me from a painting! And he told me that he had this whole musical planned, and I offered to help him out on some details. So, he had real insider knowledge about this. Not anything crazy, of course.”
Alfred speaks so quickly that Arthur can hardly keep up, but he’s able to manage.
“So, it came out last year, and I saw it, and I thought it was so crazy. But the whole time, I kinda, well-” he slows down, a little pink in the face, now. “Well, it made me think about you. And I wondered what you would think about it. I know it’s- weird.” Alfred’s speech has suddenly become stilted.
“I see,” Arthur says. He’s still not totally sure what to think. “I hope you didn’t tell this man I was coming.”
Alfred’s eyes widen, “No, of course not. Can you imagine? That would be so awkward. I mean, he wouldn’t have an issue with you, but. That would be wild.”
Well, that’s good, at least. “So, you’ve brought me to see a musical about the war?”He doesn’t mean for it to come out unkindly, but Alfred shrinks a little at his words.
“It’s not just about the war,” he says. “It’s about- I don’t know. I just figured… It’s been so long, you know. It’s not fresh anymore. We’re allies. Mattie thought it might be good for us.”
Arthur quirks a brow at him, “Matthew is playing therapist, now?”
Alfred just rolls his eyes and turns toward the ticket counter. They’ve made it to the front of the line, now, and Alfred tells the attendant his name.
This whole thing makes him nervous, now that he has the time to breathe. A show about the American Revolution? Arthur has made a point to avoid most media about the topic, and now Alfred is dragging him directly into the lion’s den. He wonders if Matthew has seen the show as well, if it was partly his idea, or if Alfred has just talked to him enough about it for his brother to be familiar. It shouldn’t be too much of a disaster if Matthew had something to do with it. The Canadian wouldn’t stir up trouble on purpose.
Alfred leads him inside the theatre and grabs a playbill for him. He flips to a page where credits are listed, and points out where his name is listed next to the words “Historical Consultant.” Alfred makes a point to say that he had nothing to do with the art or content of the show—he only provided pointers about historical aspects of the story. He answered the writer’s questions when historians hadn’t been clear and gave insight into the personalities and motivations of the men who led the rebellion. Alfred seemed proud of the show, and judging by the number of people in the building, the work had paid off.
Their seats had an incredibly good view, which must have cost a pretty penny. Alfred hands the playbill over for Arthur to look over while they wait.
“It’s hip-hop, by the way,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d mind—I know you were all about punk rock in the eighties. The music and choreography, and stage design is very good. I helped out with the accuracy of the costumes, too.”
Eventually, the lights go down, and a pit of anxiety forms in his stomach. As if he’s sensed it, Alfred leans over and whispers, “Remember, it’s just for fun.”
Just for fun.
The first thing he hears is a British voice, which is a surprise. It’s the disembodied voice of King George III’s character, warning the audience about filming and photography. He glances at Alfred, who is smiling widely when the audience laughs about the king claiming the show is his.
The first two numbers do a good job of establishing the characters and setting, and Arthur can’t help but feel impressed as he watches the production. It’s clearly a labor of love and the cast is made up of talented professionals. The first thing that stands out to him is actually the character of Hamilton, who is played as an enthusiastic young man desperate to make his place in the world. It’s a striking parallel of how he remembers Alfred at the time. Of course, he hadn’t thought of it fondly back then. The anger and betrayal—the violence—he’d felt simmered for a century after the Revolution. He didn’t think of young Alfred kindly, then. He would have used words like insolent, disobedient, senseless, to describe the boy he had thought of like a son. Traitor. Snake. The hate he’d felt was endless. Violent.
“We are meant to be a colony that runs independently. Meanwhile, Britain keeps shittin' on us endlessly. Essentially, they tax us relentlessly—then King George turns around, runs a spending spree. He ain't ever gonna set his descendants free, so there will be a revolution in this century!”
Centuries later, after the fog a war and hurt had lifted, Arthur can objectively say that the Americans hadn’t been asking for much. They had been operating as practically independent for years while being financially bled dry, and had no representation in England’s politics. They were used for their resources and manpower, and the land as a battlefield. Arthur also had a bad habit of leaving Alfred alone for months, even years, so he can hardly blame them. He hadn’t seen it like that at the time, of course, and he still has a hard time admitting to it. Honestly, it seems easy to say when you remove the Nation from the equation.
But you can’t do that, because Alfred is America. It was personal, thus it was bloody. It was a wound that festered for longer than humans even live.
After that number, Arthur is able to relax a little. Hamilton isn’t featured in the next song, so the ghost of young America leaves him alone for a while. Glances at Alfred tell him that the man is engrossed in the production as if he’s seeing it for the first time, and Arthur wonders if he can separate their personal history from the story of the rebellion. Probably not, but he’s likely come to terms with it more than Arthur has by virtue of it not being something he can easily avoid like the Brit can. Also, and Arthur is hesitant to admit it, Alfred hadn’t been totally wrong. It’s probably easier for him, as the winner.
As soon as the respite comes, it’s over. The following song introduces Samuel Seabury, a name that Arthur recognizes. He had been a clergyman and staunch loyalist. He had been an Anglican priest in New York, and Arthur remembers attending his sermons with Alfred on occasion. Alfred had never been overly fond of church, but no child is at that age. The boy had become increasingly belligerent towards the matter as they grew closer to the revolution. At the time, Arthur figured it was because he was older and simply didn’t like attending the services. Now, he realizes, it was likely because Arthur only took him to loyalist churches that preached about devotion to both God and the monarchy.
Speaking of the monarchy, King George makes his appearance in the next song, singing a ballad alone on the stage. The genre is starkly different from what has been played so far, which Arthur suspects was purposeful. Next to him, Alfred shifts in his seat. A glance tells him that the younger man is smirking at him, covering his mouth with a hand.
The King George on the stage is completely wrong, of course. He wonders if Alfred had any words about that. The whole thing is a fictionalized retelling for entertainment purposes, though, so he figures it doesn’t hurt much. That is, until the man on stage begins to sing.
“ Remember, we made an arrangement when you went away—now you're making me mad. Remember, despite our estrangement, I'm your man. You'll be back, soon you'll see—you'll remember you belong to me.”
Alfred crosses his arms next to him, but taps the beat with his foot nonetheless.
Arthur had loved Alfred. He still does, he supposes, but…
America had been property. A pawn in his Empire’s game. Yes, Arthur loved Alfred like a son. But he cannot pretend that his desire to control the land and her people hadn’t eclipsed that love at times. His fighting with the French made matters worse, and it made it easier to stop playing house with Alfred. The boy was a Nation—he wasn’t human. He didn’t need a brother or father, and there were more important matters to attend to. By the time he returned to America, Alfred had grown. He had new ideas that he had developed independently of England. America quickly became a thorn in his side that would not see reason, and Arthur was forced to put him in his place. At least, he tried to.
America had become less a son and more a disobedient dog, and Arthur treated him as such.
“And no, don't change the subject, 'cause you're my favorite subject. My sweet, submissive subject. My loyal, royal subject. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever…”
Arthur’s stomach twists at the words. His treatment of Alfred during the war has remained one of his greatest regrets. America was a thing, and Alfred was by extension. His boy, whom he had raised and then abandoned. Whom he had mistreated and fought. Who was now sitting next to him, releasing a cheer along with the rest of the audience as George Washington made his first appearance.
Alfred had always spoken of that man with reverence. Arthur remembers feeling white-hot jealousy when he caught Alfred by the man’s side.
After this point, the show is easier to watch. The story turns to reflect more on Hamilton’s personal life, which Arthur cannot relate to Alfred’s life. He finds himself relaxing and enjoying the production, almost forgetting the revolutionary setting until a song is devoted to the French, and how they had helped during the war. The music number is impressive, though, and Arthur knows Francis would brag about it if he were here.
Act I closes out with the Battle of Yorktown, which he and Alfred had both been present at. It was the last major battle of the war, and it was there that he and Alfred stood at a stalemate, guns pointed at each other. They had been isolated from the rest of the fighting, so the song doesn’t elicit much of a reaction from him. At least, not as much as the mention of Yorktown itself does. Arthur doesn’t know that shooting Alfred that day would have shut down the revolution—if killing him when he had the chance would have turned the tide. The Americans were stubborn and may have been able to win regardless, but it was that moment that Arthur decided the pain wasn’t worth it. They would continue to fight some decades later, and Alfred wouldn’t emerge from his isolationist country for over a century, but it was that day that Arthur began to let the whole thing go. It was too costly, both for England’s finances and Arthur’s heart.
No, he could not kill his boy at Yorktown, even though he had every chance to. But Alfred didn’t shoot him, either. Arthur remembers feeling the smallest inkling of hope at that—that maybe things could change one day.
After that, King George makes another appearance, but it isn’t nearly as heavy as the first. After a few short songs reflecting more on Hamilton’s personal life, and another impressive number setting up the state of America after the revolution, the production breaks for an intermission.
The lights brighten, and Alfred heaves out a sigh next to him. Not from any sort of disappointment, but exhilaration. He turns to Arthur expectantly. “So?”
Arthur isn’t sure what to say—what he should say—so he settles for, “It’s certainly well done. The music is excellent.”
Alfred grins, “I know! I got invited to one of the dress rehearsals before everything was finished, and I just couldn’t believe it. It makes me feel so-” he clenches a fist- “patriotic.”
Yes, Arthur can imagine that it does. George Washington’s army hadn’t had the numbers, experience, or financial backing that the British military did. On top of that, the winters of those years were uncharacteristically harsh. The thing that helped them win the war was the fact that so many Nations that had an issue with England helped, but also the sheer will of Alfred and the Americans. There was really no reason America should have won, and it was a turning point for the whole world. If little America could defeat the United Kingdom, what did that say about the future of the colony, and what did that say about England?
“Act II is kinda more about Hamilton, but also how the government was formed,” Alfred continues. “I don’t know how much you know about that.”
“Not much,” Arthur admits. “I didn’t pay you much mind for a while after that. More pressing things awaited at home.”
“Yeah,” Alfred says, sounding like he had expected that answer. “Well, it might be interesting for you. There’s some more France drama—I’d felt bad about that. Still do, but they gifted us Lady Liberty, so I guess they weren’t that upset about it.” He’s talking about the French Revolution, of course. Alfred’s actions in America had been an inspiration in Europe, and Arthur had been surprised when he found out America was staying neutral in the conflict. He’d expected Alfred to run in, guns blazing, but instead, he made the responsible decision to stay out of it. Even if the Americans had promised otherwise.
The show starts again, and Alfred is right—it’s more focused on the struggles in Hamilton’s personal life. It’s striking, though, the man’s commitment to the American experiment. He was just one of many who helped build the country, and it’s no wonder they have become the superpower they are today.
Arthur must admit, Hamilton’s life was much more dramatic than he would have imagined. He hadn’t known most of the details of the man’s personal life, except the fact that he had died relatively early. He’s shocked when his firstborn son is killed in a duel, having not known about that aspect of the story. The following song tugs at his heartstrings as the cast sings, “There are moments that the words don't reach. There is suffering too terrible to name. You hold your child as tight as you can and push away the unimaginable.”
Yes, Alfred hadn’t been killed, at least not directly by his hand. If he remembers correctly, he can vaguely remember Alfred mentioning that he had been killed at one point. He knows it wasn’t in battle, but rather from starvation at some point during the harsh winter. He hadn’t known this at the time, which Arthur is actually grateful for. He imagines that if he had, he wouldn’t have felt very strongly about the death of his son. In his head, he juxtaposes that with learning that Alfred had been killed in action in the Pacific Theater of the Second World War. He’d felt helpless then, Alfred halfway across the world and alone while Arthur helped manage the fight in Europe. He’d wanted to find him, but was unable to get away.
He imagines that if he’d known about Alfred’s death during the revolution while it was happening, he wouldn’t have felt at all the same, despite the fact that they were so close to each other. Even as Washington burned in 1814, he couldn’t find it in him to care about Alfred’s suffering. It was war, with no room for anything else.
The end of the musical is impressive, Hamilton offering one last soliloquy before he perishes. “Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me. America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me. You let me make a difference—a place where even orphan immigrants can leave their fingerprints.”
The words are powerful, and Alfred revels in them next to him.
Arthur cannot claim America’s legacy. Sure, he had helped to raise the young Nation—he’d had a hand in it all—but it was not his to claim. Not anymore. Alfred had taken something small and unsuspecting and made it great despite Arthur trying to stop him every step of the way. It was his hard-won victory. Sure, the country wasn’t perfect. It was far from it, but that could be said about every place in the world. But Arthur figured the American experiment was a worthy one, and something Alfred should be proud of.
Arthur wordlessly follows Alfred to the street once it’s over. The whole thing has given him much to think about, and Alfred’s words from earlier echoed in his head. Once Alfred had seen the finished product, he thought of Arthur, and seemingly not thought of him unkindly.
“Did’ya like it?” Alfred asks as they walk to the garage where they left the car. “I hope you don’t think I was, like, trying to get one over you by bringing you.”
“I did,” Arthur says truthfully. “It was a treat, thank you, lad.”
Something in Alfred relaxes—Arthur hadn’t been aware he was so nervous about it. “I just- New York City, wow,” he says, motioning to the hustle and bustle around them. “And here we are, in the middle of it, after all this time.”
Alfred doesn’t often speak freely about his feelings—a learned behavior he inherited from Arthur. So despite his words seeming superficial, Arthur understands what he’s trying to say.
Arthur sighs, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t think he’s ever apologized for all of it before.
Alfred turns to him, wide-eyed, “No, man, don’t be like that. Honestly, I’m glad it happened. Then we wouldn’t have all this, and baseball, and apple pie. Freedom. Sometimes bad things happen so better things can come after. I’m happy with how things turned out.”
“No, I mean,” Arthur pauses, unsure how to word what he wants to say. “I was unkind to you. I didn’t treat you fairly. I was cruel. I don’t just mean America.”
“Hm,” Alfred looks ahead at the pavement, biting his lip. “Yeah, that wasn’t cool. I did stuff that wasn’t cool, too.”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees. If not during the war, then definitely afterwards. The fighting in Canada comes to mind.
Alfred looks at him earnestly, and there Arthur can see a young America. “We’re good now, though. Right?”
Something in Arthur’s heart twinges. He’s reminded of all those years ago when Alfred had accepted him—adopted him as his mentor. His brother. “Yes, I would like to be,” he says. “I’ve wanted that for a long time, I think.”
The younger man smiles again, relieved. “Good. I want that. I want it for us and Mattie. He does, too.”
Yes, he’s close with Matthew, but not in the way that he and Alfred are. He sends Matthew and the rest of the Commonwealth cards at Christmas. They could be more, though. The three of them could be a family, albeit an unconventional one with a bloody history. But it seems the boys are willing to put that behind them, and Arthur would be happy to join them. Being a Nation can be lonely at times, humanity living and dying at the drop of a hat. But the three of them were constant. They could offer companionship to each other without worrying about death separating them.
Yes, this could work. They could make it work again.