A/N: Yoroshiku minna-san! :D I'm Tokyo Girl 05, I'm a regular author on the Prince of Tennis pages for Perfect Pair and Golden Pair.
Lately Hetalia has taken control of my mind and started a War of the Plot Bunnies in my mind :D I hope you give me a chance with this fandom and I hope I disappoint anyone. I'm trying hard.
Please say a big huge thank you to ZukaFujiZone for beta-ing this :D I got her to love Hetalia. Though she's a CanxUs girl :D
Oh the pairing you ask? Why it's none other than my addictive OTP UKxUS, ArthurXAlfred. This plot has been bugging me for a while, and I think this will be multi chaptered. I hope to have ConCrit please, and hope that anyone reading, can point out some things for me too in case I miss something. Domo arigatou gozaimasu!
This fic takes a look at England's time before and as, he grew into the powerful nation he is. Of course...this is all Alfred's fault as usual. Alfred's about to learn what it's like to look after a growing nation, in a way he couldn't possibly imagine.
Warnings: Slow updates, BL, Language, Over consumption of burgers, rebel England....and France....coz France is a warning himself. (Later in the fic)
Disclaimer: If Hetalia was indeed mine, England was show the world we DO have decent food -glares at Arthur- he just can't cook!
"You should consider yourself bloody lucky for the childhood you had!" snapped the infuriated nation, jumping up and slamming his hand on the fine polished desk. "Instead of bloody whining about it every damn chance you get!"
With that said, or rather shouted to the high heavens, Arthur Kirkland, embodiment of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, span around and left the conference room uncaring for the current world meeting as his anger reached over its boiling point.
Slowly, America blinked with his jaw hanging open loosely in shock. The expression seemed to be synonymous around the large table, as each nation sat with perturbed and utterly shocked features. The young nation finally closed his mouth after a few moments, thinking that by now, he really should be used to the older nation's temper and outbursts. Their fighting was endless...but something was off about it this time, something unusual that he couldn't quite place and it left an unsettling feeling in the pit of the blonde's stomach.
It didn't help having the entire room now either staring at him with disapproving gazes, or looking absently away to avoid eye contact. Regardless, all around the room the atmosphere was heavy and screamed tension, and for once, in a rare moment, the tall nation picked up on it. The air was unsettled and awkward, like on days when the young nation wanted to fly, but didn't dare head to his air craft as there was just something that didn't bode well.
"W-well I don't think that hot head will be back for a while," America spoke up, grinning broadly over the lull of the room, trying to get things back to their definition of 'normal'. "We should continue where we left off right!?"
The room once again threw the words 'tension' and 'awkwardness' at him and Alfred F. Jones could only wonder just what it was about. So he had gotten into another argument with the proud nation, there wasn't anything new there. In fact, it was a regular occurrence in meetings like these, and sometimes even outside of them on the days he'd barge into England's house and have a charcoal scone lobbed at his head.
It had escalated, as per usual, from global warming to personal matters once again, but this time, England had, well, snapped? America didn't understand, it wasn't as if he had never brought up England's parenting skills before...along with his cooking, or lack of, skills, and well...hell anything he could think of to rile up the older blonde. But it really wasn't as if...
"Amérique..." France spoke up, looking away from the window where he had been watching the blue sky, considering his words. "You've had quite the blessed childhood, no?"
"Ah, France is correct aru~" China followed, leaning forward on his hand to eye the blue eyed nation, ignoring the sweets he offered. "You haven't had a long history, consider that aru~"
America blinked, not used to this response after a usually, normal scene such as that. He opened his mouth to argue that point but was cut off.
"We are centuries your elder," Japan reprimanded next, sounding polite and docile even as his eyes seemed to travel somewhere far off in their depths. "And our pasts are long, America-san."
"There are certain things we don't touch upon," Germany's strict, authorative voice added reluctantly, after being able to bear no more of northern Italy's wide eyes and pout. "Some things are to be left as they are."
"B-But I didn't do anything wrong!" America cried, gaping in disbelief looking like a child being scolded. "Are you saying I said something the old man didn't like? 'Cause that's nothing new!"
"Think about it for a while America."
"Reflect on your actions aru~"
America blanched. What was this, gang up on the hero day? What did he do now?
Naturally, after the chaos and confusion and all that jazz, the World meeting had been canceled and rescheduled for next month, the location changing once again to France's house this time. America gave a small shudder at the thought, noting to himself to wear some impenetrable clothing for that time.
He was now walking through the rainy streets of London not that that was anything of a shocker to the blonde, England always had rain...maybe that was why he was always so grumpy. He had a burger in one hand and a...burger in the other hand. Well, he couldn't help it! He was feeling down and needed his favourite food to cheer him up. Every hero needs a pick-me-up from time to time.
America sighed, frowning lightly as he stood under the bus shelter, waiting to catch the one closest to the outer city area, feeling too lazy to search London for the nearest train station (turn right down the next turning and look to your left to see the big train station sign blaring Kings Cross....not that the lazy nation would do that), before he noticed the red bus turning into the street. He waved out a burger filled hand, flagging it down and moving back as it pulled up.
For some things in life, America was thankful he had met England...only in times like this when he had to work out how the damned city worked. Paying the bus driver -yes, he did have English money on him as he had learned from experience a few years back- he walked to the back of the bus to the nearest available space and sat down, wondering just what he should do once the bus took him as far as it could...Maybe he'd hail a taxi, one of those black cabs to drive him into the country. Then again, he bet England charged ridiculous prices, just like the tight ass he was, America thought bitterly. It was the older nation's fault he was wandering round the damned city any way. If he hadn't had gotten so worked up and blown a fuse, he could have been absolutely fine in his hotel room, playing the latest video game he had acquired.
But no, at the 'request' of his elder -old, unfair and parent like- nations, he had been barred from the area and they had unceremoniously chucked him on the streets. Well...it could have been worse, thank god England secretly loved McDonalds, otherwise America would have suffered terribly.
So what did the other nations expect him to do now, he hadn't done anything wrong as far as he was concerned, did they expect him to run to the damned country and beg for forgiveness, or make it up to him? That was beyond stupid, the guy had probably gone and got himself pissed anyway at some random bar or even at home. He was probably in doors, singing the same songs and dancing the same dances, in tears about how America was such an ungrateful child, about how much he did for the other, and how was he repaid? With a fucking revolution.
America...no wait, how could he forget, he was supposed to use his human name in public, even when thinking. "You'd stop thinking and blurt out that you're America to the world," was what had been said to him before on many occasions. He wasn't a child, he knew how to act, thought stubbornly, completely dismissing the fact he had been sulking all day after that, comfort eating and pouting every moment. The constant complaining wasn't doing much for that statement either.
Ameri..., no, Alfred glared out the window to the grey sky, it wasn't hard to wonder if the older blonde had got himself drunk enough to start wandering around in this fabulous weather, or trashing his house....or crying on the floor...or causing a pub brawl.
Alfred sweat dropped. Suddenly imagining the news headlines the next morning or the ominous figure of a hung-over Brit looming over him. Neither was a pleasant thought...maybe he should go and check on him...it was clear no one else was bothering. I wasn't like the land of the free cared as much but what sort of a hero would he be, if he let the drunkard loose on the world?
Nope, it definitely wasn't because he had done something wrong. Not at all.
Several hours previous and the door to the conference room slammed shut violently as the Briton dashed off, stalking his way down the hall with a venomous aura as he cursed and ranted to himself about the bloody yank. He didn't notice or care when a passing country dodged out of his way, looking more than a bit petrified. The last time they had seen the great nation looking so dangerous was a century or so back when he was taking ships by the dozen and ruling the waves; it sent chills down their spines.
Where did that bastard get off talking to him like that anyway? England thought darkly, cursing like no tomorrow. Talking to him in such a manner, when he certainly hadn't a bloody fucking clue what he was talking about.
England seethed, kicking the door before him open with a fury, and continuing his rampage down the hallway. Honestly, it had taken the Brit by surprise. He and America had had many arguments, spanning many lengths and random fights, but never before had England heard him say something so...so...so bloody harmful in the entirety he had known him.
"Fucking git!" England yelled, before he left the building, not noticing the pair of sky blue eyes watching him with some fear but mainly curiosity. This was Britain at his limit, temper and patience pulled tighter than ever and snapped sharper then glass. "That sodding git will regret that comment, mark my words America, I'll get you for that you bloody prat."
The rest of England rampage went the same, his rant repeatedly spouting off old grudges and issues, long running problems and his general dislike for the younger, loud mouthed, idiotic nation.
That was until England, or more known locally by Arthur, hit the pub. There, after four pints later, and several more to follow, he relayed the whole story yet again, with the added depth into the past: The ungrateful git who had grown up and left him just because his boss raised some damn taxes. The son he had raised as his own abandoned him for...for...Independence. The word always tasted so bitter in his mouth, more so than a pint of bitter in hand...now was this the sixth or the ninth? Heh heh, they were similar right?
After hearing his regulars long winded dramatics and weekly rant, the bartender, a good lad named John, very responsible....always looked after his people...always had a smile to...to...What was he talking about again? Oh yes, America the ungrateful git!
The pub landlord sighed and placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, steadying him slightly on the tilting bar stool as the nation went off on one again. He cleared away the glasses, and took the half empty one from the Englishman's hands, getting moaned at weekly by the plastered male.
He'd had enough, old John had told him. Too much booze in your system mate, time you got yourself home and got some rest. But as per usual England was a stubborn old git, and old John found himself in the usual routine of getting the Brit out of the bar and hailing him a cab to get him home.
Arthur was never best pleased by this, but there was that vague memory of the bottle of gin he kept in the cupboard, or the whiskey on the shelf, or better yet, some genuine, good for yer soul rum. He'd take a swig of that any day, he thought with a lopsided grin. Have a proper drink in yer system if you were gonna be drunk.
Arthur frowned slightly, his words were all over the place and he couldn't tell weather or not he was saying or thinking them. Either way some part of him was yelling at him for butchering his own language, just like that yank.
"Fucking America," England groaned, dropping his head forward to lean over his leg, the cabby in front praying the drunken passenger wouldn't throw up. Not that Arthur cared at that particular moment, his whole head was spinning and his anger and thoughts and words were one big tumble. It didn't help that the cab suddenly jerked, sending England bolting forwards, his seatbelt yanking him back.
"Fucking cyclists! Curse the lotta ya," the cabby yelled, sticking his head out of the window. "Bloody bastards taking up all the wrong lanes. You alright back there mate?"
England didn't answer at first, too busy grinning wildly to himself as his dazed and off-kilter mind started to turn some of the alcohol fueled wheels. "'Curse'....now why didn't I think of that?" He spoke to himself, voice sounding scarily sober in that one moment.
The older nation smirked, and once the cab pulled up his home, cab fare already paid by the pub's landlord and stuck to Arthur's infamous tab, the male unsteadily and dangerously made his way to his front door, unlocking it after some difficulty, what with remembering where your keys were, wondering why the door wasn't opening when you were holding them before finally working out how to unlock it. After about a good ten minutes of that Arthur finally made it into his home and wobbled down the hallway to the kitchen, seeking out the bottle of whiskey and grabbing it, before making his way precariously to the stairs again, where he met sky blue orbs watching him.
England blinked and looked down as the small boy, blinking some more as his mind tried to register the nation before him...no, no he wasn't a nation...he just wanted to be. Sea something....seesaw...seaman... "Sealand?"
"Hey jerk England," the child, Sealand, responded. He looked his former guardian over from top to bottom before laughing. "You look like hell!"
For Sealand, he had more or less expected the older nation to blow up at him, chase him or something. He didn't expect his once father figure to break down in front of him. But that's what happened. England's legs gave way from lack of control and the tears just kept coming, taking Sealand aback.
"A...ano j-je...England?" Sealand asked, taking a step forward. As much as he would usually enjoy anything that angered or upset the Briton....this was not something he wanted to see. Emerald green eyes so unfocused, so shattered. "Hey, England!"
Arthur blinked and stared at him for a moment before wiping his eyes with his sleeve and shakily standing up, holding the wall for support as his legs alone seemed not to want to work. "Sorry..." he answered, slowly, before haphazardly walking past the smaller boy and dragging himself up the stairs. Sealand's eyes widened every time the nation took a step, swinging backwards and forwards, always teetering on the edge of falling over.
Yet by some miracle, England made it to the top, veering off in the direction of a certain locked room with a determined gaze, the effect only marred by the pink flushing covering his face. This time however, England had a special key, and outright ignored the concerned whispers and calls by his ear as the faerie folk tried to change his mind.
With loud, ominous clunk, the key turned and the door opened, swinging back on its hinges to reveal the mother load of occult belief and usage. England grinned further, grabbing his black cloak and swinging it loosely over his shoulders. From one of the warded shelves, England pulled out an old dusty book, just a bit bigger than your average novel. Its cover held an intricate design and a language so old it had been forgotten over a millennium or more ago.
Grabbing, from the side, a box of white chalk, England began to drunkenly draw the circle in the book, slurring out the rituals chants as he went. With a cock sure grin, England stood in the circle and held up the book. This is sure to make that git pay for this, he thought, squinting to read the words clearly, before opened his mouth and began chanting...
America groaned, now seated inside the black cab he had managed to get somewhere in London, he couldn't be bothered to remember the place, not when he was so annoyed about earlier...but here he was, almost at the nation's house. He could practically see the tip of the roof from where they were.
It didn't take more than another ten minutes to reach England's house and America almost cried when he saw the cost of the cab fare, handing over the money grudgingly and a little shocked. Next time I take a cab to Iggy's house, I'm getting one closer.
Having finished off his hamburgers sometime during the journey, America found himself hungry again, but that could wait since he had a drunken Arthur to save the country from! With a resigned sigh, Alfred made his way up the front steps, knocking on the door only to have it swing open as it was unlocked, and hell, the keys were still in the door! He must be pretty out of it to forget that, Alfred reasoned, stepping inside and locking the door properly, leaving the keys on the table. Well...at least he knew the Brit was home.
"Oi, England!?" America shouted, hoping to get a response back, but none came, just silence. Until the sound of hurried footsteps came around the corner and America came face to face with a mini version of Arthur in a sailor suit, only his eyes were a familiar shade of blue.
"America right?" the kid asked, slightly haughtily, looking like this was his big break. The American just nodded slowly, looking down at this vaguely familiar person...surely if he had seen him before, he would have remembered. "I'm Sealand! England ga-"
"You saw England!? How is he?" America cut off the poor boy before he even got a chance to say his well rehearsed speech. "He hasn't uhm...Darn."
America's eyes had caught sight of the large spill by the stairs, smelling profoundly of whiskey. Sealand hadn't even noticed it spill out from his former carrier's bottle. "So he's upstairs, might as well go up there and make sure he doesn't kill himself."
"A-Ah, America?" Sealand stopped him. "Just so you know, jerk England is acting really strange."
America smiled weakly before grinning and patting him on the head. "That's why you shouldn't drink alcohol," he laughed. "I'll go check on him now, see you."
Sealand frowned as the loud-mouthed nation ran up the stairs. Honestly, were all nations so crazy?
Climbing the stairs a few at a time, America reached the landing floor quicker than ever, looking down each end of the hall to see where England might have got to. He decided it was probably smarter, --because yes, America was thinking-- to check England's bedroom and bathroom first, but as he made his way to the direction, a small creak caught his ears.
Turning around America saw a door open slightly ajar, its wood a darker, deeper colour than the other doors in the mansion. So as any curious child would, because America really was a child at heart, he peaked around, looking down the length of a tiny hall that led into an open room....full of the crazy things that only England would use. America shook his head in exasperation, and walked into the small corridor, towards the opening.
As he got closer he could hear a soft humming, before he soon made out that the sound was the slurring of complicated words that he had never even heard of before. Rounding the corner slowly, America saw Arthur in all his black magic attire, which included the cloak, the circle, the book.
Why the older nation believed in this stuff was beyond him; he always knew Arthur was a crazy old man, what with talking to his 'friends' every day, friends that only he could see! None of this was real anyway; it was all in England's head. So America did the only thing his short attention spanned mind did.
Just as England's voice grew slightly louder, in time with the tempo of his chant, and the small wind -hell of a draft, thought America- picked up around the room, just at the crucial moment as England began to call the final part.
"Oi Arthur!" America chose to call him.
England's words cut off abruptly with a choke of surprise, a curse on the very tip of his tongue before without warning, the world turned white, and everything changed...well not everything, but definitely someone.
It was ten minutes after the incident that Alfred came too, finding himself on the floor amongst a pile of papers and parchments, yet it felt like it had been hours. The tall nation stretched and looked around the room in surprise; the whole place was a mess.
"Shit England's going to kill m-- Arthur!" America cried, standing up quickly and earning a mind twisting case of dizziness. Alfred stood still for a moment, clearing his head before looking around the room in a daze. "Arthur?"
There was no reply...maybe the older nation was still unconscious, or had succumbed to the alcohol and fell asleep? But then why was England's cloak on the floor, covering that wonky circle? In fact, the American nation thought as he stepped closer: Why were England's clothes on the floor?
Alfred gulped and tried not to panic, all that magic mumbo-jumbo was not real, just a load of rubbish. England was probably completely smashed and....and...decided to run naked for a while? Well, America wouldn't have put it past him seeing some of the crazy things the supposedly 'grown up' nation had done during his times of uhm...intoxication.
In fact, the blue eyed male was almost ready to dismiss it as that, before the pile of clothes on the floor began to shift then move. Within a split second Alfred had cried blue murder and hid in the corner of the room with his hands over his head, whimpering about ghosts and such.
A small sniffle echoed through the room, only it didn't belong to him, it had come from where the 'ghost' was. America refused to look up, didn't want to see the horrible terror that awaited him, ready to scare the life from him. But soon the sniffle turned into a whimper and a shaky footstep.
Hearing this America cracked an eye open, glancing about warily until his eye rested on something white a flowing, he almost screamed again as he jumped up, both eyes wide open in fear before they calmed down, stared for a moment, then widened dramatically.
Standing before him was a baby country, dressed in a white gown type clothing, similar to that of what he had as just a baby. The child had messy blonde hair that stuck out all over the place and its tiny hands were held tight to the desk it stood by, almost hiding warily with a complete air of fear and mistrust. But the thing that startled Alfred the most, was the startling emerald orbs that stared up at him; fear and mistrust evident in them, and the small but thick eyebrows caught somewhere between a worry and a frown.
"Yoor gwoing to cwatcher me..." the child said shakily in an odd language, muffled by baby speech, voice betraying the fear even though for such a young child they were filled with such anger.
America dropped to his knees, gaping. "A-Arthur?"