Welcome back to my story. I'm sorry I've been gone so long. Like I said last time - this final semester of college is absolute hell. This may not be the best chapter ever written. I'm not entirely sure it's cohesive considering I wrote it over like a month. But enjoy it anyway. Who knows? I may decide I hate it and take it down and redo. But for now, this is what we got. So enjoy it for what it's worth and if I decide to scrap it at least you got to see my thought process! Enjoy.

Chapter Six: An Evening

Arthur heard Alfred's heavy footsteps and the soft opening and closing of the bedroom door as he disappeared inside of it. Damn Yankee. Alfred hated him. That was fine. He knew that. He had known that for a long time. How many times would they have to discuss this? When they got back to the present, Arthur would leave the boy alone. He would stop bothering him after meetings and around holidays. Alfred didn't need him? Fine. He didn't need Alfred either.

He took a long drink of the brandy he had grabbed. Alfred didn't need him. Fine. It was fine. Finefinefinefine fine. Alfred hated him. Not fine. Not fine at all. Not even a little bit fine. But it had to be, and so it would be. He had watched Alfred struggle on his own before, he could do it again.

He took another long drink off the bottle, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. Sometimes he wished he had never met Alfred at all. No, that's not true the logical voice in his head said. You don't wish that at all. "What do you know?" Arthur whispered aloud in response to his thoughts before laying down and trying to sleep, not drunk enough to pass out.

Alfred was leaning against the doorframe. He hadn't brought a candle with him but in the moonlight he could still make out the distinct shapes of the room. Drawers for his clothes, a chest full of toys, a large bed pressed in the back corner against a window. Alfred looked around for a moment before becoming startlingly overwhelmed. He slid down the door frame until he was sitting on the ground next to the door, staring around the darkened room. Tears began to run silently down his face. He didn't want to be here.

The door began to open slowly. Alfred was sure it was Arthur, drunk. He was either coming to apologize or to yell at him. Alfred rubbed his face quickly, not wanting Arthur to see him crying either way.

"Hey, England-" Alfred started to say, turning and looking up before stopping because no one was standing there. He brought his eyes slowly down and found himself looking into identical blue ones. "Uh, hey, little dude. What's up?" America walked into the room and shut the door behind him. "Did you forget something? Do you need something?"

America shook his head and sat down next to Alfred on the floor, crossing his legs in front of him and looking down at the ground. His fists were clenched tightly and he looked both angry and sad.

"What's… what's up?" Alfred repeated, unsure of how to handle children.

"Why did you talk to Arthur like that?" America whispered, voice angry and scared.

Alfred sat up straighter. "You heard that?"

America nodded, still not looking up from the floor. "I heard. I heard you say some really mean words to him. I heard you say you hated him. I heard him call you mean names. So tell me why would you say that?" With each word, America got a little bit louder and his voice got a little bit shakier until he was crying. With tears running down his face, America threw himself against Alfred and wrapped his arms around him. Alfred sat surprised and uncomfortable for a moment before putting his arm around the younger boy in a half-hug.

Now Alfred really didn't know what to do. He was still so much of a kid himself that anytime he dealt with children it seemed like he was missing the mark. His first thought was to go get England. But then he realized he would have to talk to England about what went down between him and Arthur. His second thought was to go get Arthur, but he really didn't want to admit he needed help. So he settled on Plan C. He would take care of this himself like he always took care of everything.

"It's all good, little dude," he said, awkwardly patting the boy's back.

"No!" America yelled, pulling back. "No, it isn't!"

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred said, looking up at the door. "Be quiet! Do you want them to hear us?" he hissed, feeling similar to the way he felt when Arthur used to catch him up late. He supposed it was similar actually.

Big fat tears were rolling down America's cheeks. "How could you hate Iggy?"

Alfred sighed. "I don't."

"You said you did!"

Alfred shook his head and leaned back against the door frame. He pulled the hand that wasn't wrapped around America down across his face. It reminded America of something he saw England do when he was upset. "I know I said it, but I don't hate him."

"Then why would you say it?" America whispered back.

"I don't know. I wanted to make him mad."

"Why would you want to make him mad?"

Alfred looked down at the boy. "You ask a lot of questions, don't you?" America frowned at him. Alfred sighed again. "I don't know. I think maybe if he's mad I feel like he cares? Like, little dude, things are not the same between me and him as they are between like you and him. He did some stuff to me, and I did some stuff back to him, and then he did some more stuff, and then I saved his ass. But that's not important. Not really. What I'm saying is, now he doesn't care about me anymore. But if I can make him mad enough, I can pretend he still cares."

Outside the door, Arthur paused. He had been planning to tell Alfred to shut the hell up and go to sleep. Maybe across the hall England couldn't hear him, but Arthur could next door. He hadn't realized America was in there with him. He definitely didn't know what they were talking about. Did Alfred really think he didn't care anymore?

Arthur sank to where his back was against the wall and his ear against the door and listened to what Alfred had to say.

"Of course he still cares about you," America said with a yawn. "It's Iggy. So he has to love you."

"No, he really doesn't have to," Alfred said, sounding empty. Arthur heard him backtrack. "I mean like, of course, your Iggy loves you. Like no worries there, bro, he thinks you're the bomb. But uh, no, I don't think Iggy cares about me at all. Honestly," Alfred was starting to get choked up. "He probably wishes he never found me, or that I was never born at all. Or that I would just dissolve and-"

He was interrupted by the door opening. They both looked up, shocked to see Arthur. Alfred felt his stomach drop. How much had he heard? Arthur looked between the two before settling on America. He crouched down in front of the boy. "Hello, Alfred," he said, smiling even though he was still a little drunk.

America bowed at him and looked at him through his eyelashes. "Hi," he said, knowing he had been caught.

"Alfred, what time is it?"

"Late."

"And where should you be?"

"In bed," the little boy answered, knowing what answers he was supposed to be providing. This was a conversation he had had with England on several occasions before, and as he watched, Alfred realized that. He remembered having a conversation just like this one many a time.

"You should probably go then," Arthur said, smiling gently. "You wouldn't want him to wake up and find you missing, would you?" he asked with a gesture towards the bedroom across the hall.

America shook his head. "No, sir."

"There's a good lad," he said with a small smile. "Go on, then."

America nodded. "Okay," he said and looked over at Alfred. "Good night," he said, his eyes almost sympathetic because they had both been caught after all.

"Good night, little dude," Alfred said.

"Good night," America said again, this time to Arthur before he slipped out the door and across the hall.

"Good night, Alfred," Arthur responded, watching him go.

For a moment, the two from the future sat in a heavy silence. Alfred was staring at Arthur, but Arthur continued to stare across the hallway. Alfred thought Arthur might not even talk about it. He was drunk, he was just annoyed to hear talking. He didn't actually hear anything specific. He would go back to bed.

Then slowly Arthur closed the door and turned to Alfred, who was still sitting on the floor. "Now you," he said, voice harsh and raw. "Alfred Foster Kir- Jones, whatever the hell you call yourself." Alfred stiffened, it had been a long long time since Arthur had used his full name on him. "You and I are going to talk."

"What?" Alfred asked, confused.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "You. And I. Are going. To. Talk," he repeated, emphasizing what he said. "How dare you talk about our history with that little boy? And furthermore, how dar-"

"England, he heard-" Alfred started, but was cut off.

"I wasn't finished," Arthur hissed. "How dare you try to say I don't care about you."

Alfred paused for a moment. Arthur was seething. His nostrils were flaring and his face was flushed. "You're going to try to tell me you do...?" Alfred asked, trailing off, looking at Arthur like he was crazy.

"Of course I do, you arrogant yank."

Alfred looked at him again. "You're drunk," he said, rising to his feet. "Go back to bed, England." He turned towards the bed but was shocked when Arthur grabbed his arm.

"I said I wasn't finished," Arthur said, calmer this time. "Alfred, sit down and listen to me."

Alfred began to feel flustered. Why was Arthur trying to have this conversation with him here and now while he was drunk? Arthur was either going to get angry or weepy. It would get Alfred all up in his feelings either way, and Arthur wouldn't remember it in the morning.

"Why should I?" he demanded. He was clenching his fists and trying not to get more upset. He hated it when Arthur drank. He hated it. Why couldn't he leave him alone?

"You think I hate you."

"I know you hate me."

"You don't know anything!" Arthur yelled, getting louder. So angry drunk Arthur it was then.

"Hey!" Alfred frantically whispered, walking closer to the other man. "Do you want to wake them up? You get mad at me for fucking talking to little me, but you're going to yell and wake them up? For real?" He had started now and he wasn't going to stop. "And you know what, Arthur," he said, letting the name pass between his lips for the first time since the early 1770s, "you've been calling me Alfred a hell of a lot lately for someone who really doesn't have the right to."

"I gave you that na-"

"I wasn't finished yet! Mattie calls me Alfred, that's it. You know Mattie - Matthew - Canada. My brother who you took from France and then made fight me." Alfred really was on a roll now. He didn't care about the noise, he didn't care about anything. "And you have the fucking nerve to come tell me you don't hate me? I know you hate me! You can't stand that I'm able to handle things myself! You can't stand that I'm actually doing okay!" Oh no, he had accidentally crossed a tipping point and now he was tearing up. "And would it kill you to be a little fucking proud of me? Would it? God, Arthur, I know we fought in a war, I know that! Okay! Did that really make me so dead to you? You said like last fucking week that you used to think of me as a son, right? Did the Revolution change that much for you? Why can't you be even the littlest bit proud of me, huh?"

Alfred had to stop and turn away because he felt that he was about to cry, and he didn't want Arthur to see that. It was quiet for so long that Alfred thought Arthur had left or passed out one. "I am proud of you." Alfred's head jerked up and he turned around but only saw the bedroom door closing as Arthur left.

The next morning, Alfred sat at the dining room table with England and America, head down as he stared at his plate. He had been in a mood since last night and he hadn't slept well. America kept looking across the table at him, and Alfred didn't want to and wouldn't meet his gaze. The silence around the table was deafening and Alfred could feel England looking at him as well.

Alfred cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about England. I don't know what would cause him to sleep in like this." Although he did know. Of course.

"It's hardly your fault," England said, returning to his meal, satisfied that Alfred had spoken.

It is my fault though. Alfred thought, beginning to eat.

There was a creaking from the next room and then a squeaking as the door to the dining room opened. Arthur walked into the room, holding his head. He sat down at the table. "I apologize for my absence," he said.

After breakfast, Alfred kept staring at him trying to gauge if he remembered anything. "Did you mean what you said last night?" Alfred asked.

"When I said to stay out of my way?"

"No, later."

"Oh. America, I was drunk, I don't even remember what I said," he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sorry if I said something out of line, lad."

So he doesn't remember then. Alfred just nodded and turned to walk away. "It's all good, bro, don't worry," he said, walking out of the room.

Arthur watched him walk away before slowly setting himself down in a chair. "Of course I'm proud of you, you idiot," he whispered.