April 19th, 1775
This was so ridiculous that Arthur could barely believe it. The boy couldn't possibly be serious.
And yet, Alfred stood before him, musket in hand, and judging by the hard, unwavering expression on his young—God, he's so young—face, the ridiculousness of the situation clearly had not dawned on him.
"Disperse you rebels!" Major John Pitcairn ordered to the colonists, but no one moved. Arthur didn't understand what they were doing, what the thought process of this rebellion had been. They were going to kill themselves. Alfred was going to kill himself.
Idiot boy. What on earth does he think he's doing?
But Arthur knew exactly what Alfred thought he was doing. He thought this was his right, to fight, to protest at the top of his lungs, to think that he could outwit the elder country and win. He was issuing his own death sentence. Arthur briefly wondered why he wasn't more surprised. After all, he was at that age.
"Damn you, throw down your arms and disperse!" The major shouted, but once again, Alfred never moved. He and the British country locked eyes, and all Arthur could see in the lad's piercing blue orbs was rage. He could see the yearning of freedom and the knowledge of what he was going to risk whilst getting it. Arthur almost lowered his own weapon in astonishment. It dawned on him: maybe Alfred wasn't a child anymore.
This only made him grip his musket harder.
"Put. It. Down." He spoke clearly through gritted teeth, wondering what Alfred saw when he stared into his eyes. Was it the same loathing that Arthur saw so clearly? Or did Alfred see truth in Arthur's green eyes, the truth that he didn't want to do this, to be pointing a loaded gun at the boy he'd raised with all the love that he, an old country of scars and pride, could offer?
"Never." Alfred's voice was low, but Arthur heard it as if the world had fallen away from them and it was only the two of them in a pit of silent darkness.
Arthur couldn't believe just how utterly ridiculous this was. Had all he done for the boy been for nothing? Had the boy not chosen him over France of his own will? And there he was now, waiting to fire straight at the British man's head.
Where did I go wrong? Arthur thought. What happened to the little boy, the laughing child of only so few years, who fawned over Arthur's affections and always cried when the elder country had to leave him? Where was that little child now?
He was here, Arthur realized. He was pointing a musket to his head. He was ready to declare his independence, or die trying.
Arthur swallowed hard, fighting back tears. Pitcairn was screaming at Alfred's men to drop their weapons. All Arthur wanted to do was tell the man to stop yelling at his boy like that.
There was silence in Lexington for a few moments. No one moved. Arthur's spirits lifted slightly. Maybe we could avoid it all. Maybe he'll still back out. Maybe—
There was a shot. Arthur's heart stopped, and he looked around frantically to see who'd made the wretched sound. Even Alfred looked stunned.
But now there were more bangs, coming from both sides of the attack. Arthur could do nothing but shoot blindly at everything in front of him. It all had happened so fast. He caught a glimpse of Alfred screaming, shooting back in the name of his people.
It felt like hours that they were out there, although Arthur knew it was nothing of the sort. He watched both sides shoot at each other, some of Alfred's men dying, as well as some of his own men. He watched the look on Alfred's face when he came to the conclusion that he had to get the hell out. He watched as Alfred and his men fled the scene in favor of the woods. None of them looked back.
Arthur stood there in shock. Rage toward Alfred boiled up inside of him, as well as dread for what was to come. The largest emotion he felt well up inside of him, however, was complete heartbreak.
And so, the War began.
My first Hetalia fic! Hope you all enjoyed it! :)