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The rain over London was the same as it had always been cold, relentless, and indifferent. Arthur Kirkland stood at the window of his old townhouse, fingers tight around a porcelain teacup that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven. Alfred was late. Again.
When the knock finally came, it was too loud, too American. Arthur opened the door without a word.
Alfred F. Jones looked like hell. His bomber jacket was soaked through, blond hair plastered to his forehead, and those bright blue eyes usually so obnoxiously full of light were dull and shadowed. He didn’t smile. That alone made Arthur’s chest tighten.
“You came,” Arthur said flatly.
“You said it was important.” Alfred stepped inside, dripping on the antique rug. He didn’t apologize. He never did anymore.
They moved to the sitting room in silence. Arthur poured a second cup of tea out of habit. Alfred ignored it and dropped onto the sofa like his legs had given up. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was rain hammering the windows and the distant hum of traffic.
Finally, Alfred laughed. It was a bitter, broken sound. “This place hasn’t changed at all. Still smells like old books and resentment.”
Arthur’s grip on his cup tightened. “If you came here just to throw barbs, you can leave.”
“I came because you texted me ‘we need to talk’ at three in the morning your time.” Alfred’s voice cracked. “That’s not like you, Arthur. You don’t ask. You order. You disappear. You-” He stopped, jaw clenched. “What the hell do you want from me?”
Arthur looked away. The truth sat like lead in his throat. He had rehearsed this conversation for weeks, but now that Alfred was here, all the careful words dissolved.
“I saw the news,” Arthur said quietly. “Your… situation. The internal divisions. The exhaustion in your people’s eyes. You’re burning out, Alfred. You’re pushing yourself the way you always do smiling for the cameras while everything inside you cracks.”
Alfred’s expression hardened. “Don’t.”
“I’m trying to-”
“Don’t pretend you care now.” Alfred shot to his feet. “Not after everything. You raised me like I was some colonial project, then acted shocked when I wanted to be my own person. You fought me like I was the enemy. You-” His voice broke again. “You were supposed to be my brother.”
The word hung between them, sharp as a bayonet.
Arthur closed his eyes. Memories flooded in unbidden: tiny Alfred running through the meadows of Virginia with a wooden sword, calling him “big brother” in that awful colonial accent. Arthur bandaging his scraped knees. Teaching him to read by candlelight. Then later much later smoke and gunfire and Alfred’s young face twisted in fury across a battlefield, screaming that he wasn’t a child anymore.
“I know what I did,” Arthur whispered. “I was cruel. I was terrified of losing you. And I did lose you. Every single day since 1776 I’ve felt it.”
Alfred laughed again, but this time it sounded wet. “Yeah? Well I felt it too. Every time I looked at my flag and remembered the one I used to fight under. Every time I wondered if you were proud of me or if you still saw me as the stupid kid who needed saving.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I built the strongest nation on Earth so you couldn’t hurt me again. And it still fucking hurts, Arthur. Every single day.”
Silence.
Rain lashed harder against the glass.
Arthur set his teacup down with shaking hands. “I never stopped being your brother. Even when I was your enemy. Even when I was nothing to you.”
Alfred’s shoulders trembled. For a moment Arthur thought he might hit him. Instead, the younger nation turned away, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes like he could shove the tears back in.
“I hate you,” Alfred said, voice hoarse. “I hate how much I still need you to tell me it’s going to be okay. I hate that after all this time, I still want my big brother.”
Arthur crossed the distance before he could think better of it. He pulled Alfred into a hug that was too tight, too desperate. Alfred resisted for half a second then collapsed against him, face buried in Arthur’s shoulder, body shaking with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered into damp golden hair, over and over. “I’m so sorry, Brother.”
They stayed like that until the rain eased. Two ancient nations clinging to each other in a house full of ghosts. No fix. No neat resolution. Just the raw, aching knowledge that some wounds never fully healed they only learned how to bleed quietly.
When Alfred finally pulled away, his eyes were red but his voice was steadier. “I should go. Got a flight in the morning.”
Arthur nodded, throat too tight to speak. He walked him to the door.
On the threshold, Alfred paused. “Text me next time you can’t sleep,” he said without looking back. “Even if it’s four in the morning. I’ll answer.”
The door closed.
Arthur leaned his forehead against the wood and let himself cry for the first time in decades.
Outside, Alfred stood in the rain for a long moment, staring up at the old townhouse that still felt like home and prison at the same time.
“Love you too, old man,” he whispered to no one.
Then he walked away, shoulders squared against the weight of empires and little brothers and the terrible, endless love that refused to die no matter how much it hurt.