A/N: This is another request drabble, non- pairing. Haha sorry it's kind of sad.

Words: 940


" Damnit Peter Kirkland! You are not a nation, and never will be!"

Arthur was furious. Normally he wouldn't be so angry at the boy. Frustrated? Yes. Snappy? Of course. But it was very, very rarely when he was truly angry at the small micronation that ran around his house from time to time. That day was different though.

It had all started with Peter barging into his house early that morning. Which wasn't unusual within itself, but that morning Arthur had a particularly nasty hangover. So after begrudgingly dealing with the boy and feeding him (all the while dealing with his complaints) he went out into the garden with his tea to relax. That went well, until he heard a crash in the house. Storming back in, he found that Peter had broken one of his vases, and it only went downhill from there. The rest of the day his mood worsened and worsened at everything the boy did, and they bickered and squabbled, until one of the spats finally exploded after Arthur found Peter making a mess of his kitchen.

"You will never be a nation! You are barely a proper boy! You are rude and inconsiderate and a spoilt brat that doesn't know when to stop! I don't even know why you come over here, you are simply a nuisance, and I would rather you live with Sweden and Finland any day than see you here another second!" The words were spat out, in a fit of pure anger, but he soon regretted it as he saw tears well up in the twelve year olds sea blue eyes, and the silver tray in his hands wobble.

"I… I…" the boy choked on his words and sniffled, "What am I then Arthur! If I am not a nation, why am I alive like you Arthur! Why can't I be like you!" tears began to roll down those round cheeks and the boy bit back sobs. "And happy father's day you bloody git!" with that, the boy threw the tray at the older nation, and ran off into the house.

Arthur stood stupefied, a feeling of guilt gathering in his gut. He couldn't answer the other boys question at all. If he wasn't a nation, why was he alive? Who was he to truly judge him? The feeling only got worse as he looked down at what the boy threw at him. What he found was a small burnt cake smashed on the floor.

Biting his lip, he turned and sighed, going to look for the boy.

It didn't take him long for him to find him. Walking quietly into the library, he listened carefully. He was rewarded with small sounds of sniffling, and soft hiccups echoing through the large room. So walking quietly, he looked about until he came across one oh so familiar cupboard. It was too fitting.

" You know, Alfred used to hide in that same cupboard when I brought him here on holiday." he spoke softly as he sat down on the floor, his old joints creaking in pain.

" G-go away you bloody wank'a!" he could hear Peter sniffle again and hiccup, and he sighed.

" Look Peter… I'm sorry…. I didn't mean all those things I sa-"

" But you do! You hate me Arthur! And so does e'ery un else! " he hiccupped loudly, the boys voice hoarse from yelling. " You always act like it, and yuh didn't e'en care when I went off to live with Papa Swe and Mama Finny… you hate me…"

Arthur sighed again. He really screwed this one up, and he couldn't say he didn't deserve it. But… he couldn't give up now. Not when this one boy came back for him in a time he was so alone. So much more alone then he ever had been before.

Slowly, he leaned forward and pulled open the cabinet, giving a sad smile to the upset and heartbroken face he found in it. He chuckled a bit and wiped away the tears that had made their way through trails of flour left on his cheeks, and with comforting arms, he pulled the twelve year old micronation into his lap.

"Peter… I'm sorry. I know I've been a bad brother… father… whatever I am to you." he rubbed the boys back as he still hiccupped, his chest heaving small sobs still. " But I'm sorry, really. I just get all worked up sometimes and…" it was so hard to say all of these things, especially to a brat whom he was aggravated with so often, but he owed it to the child. Because after all, he was still a child.

"Peter, I am wrong a lot. And I'm sorry I hurt you…" he wrapped the boy in a warm hug, pressing the child's tea stained into his freshly pressed shirt.

At first the boy didn't respond, but slowly, two small hands found their way to the older man's shirt and the balled themselves into the fabric. Nuzzling his snotty face into his shoulder, the boy clung to his brother, father, the man who brought him into the world, with a desperate sadness the older man never knew he could possess. But what Arthur heard next really broke him the most.

" A-Arthur… I love you… " the child's thin voice wasn't above a whisper, and as was natural was followed with a quiet "bloody wanker."

All Arthur could do was burry his head in the fluffy yellow hair, hiding the tears that began to roll down his own cheeks.

" Love you too boy…love you too. "