Author's Note: This is just me delving into the world of mental illness. I'm by no means an expert, and I did my research beforehand, but I probably (most definitely) made mistakes. I'm in no way trying to offend anybody with this! I'm just trying to expand my skills as a writer by taking on a variety of different situations.

Warnings: Implied childhood sexual abuse and mental health issues

"Hey, England?"

Hands completely submerged in soapy water, Arthur looks over his shoulder to find America standing in the doorway, hair mused and glasses askew, having likely just woken up. "What is it, America?"

The poor boy appears to be terribly confused as he glances about the kitchen, trying to stifle a yawn by pressing the back of one hand to his mouth. "Don't we have a meeting today? Why didn't you wake me up?"

"That's hardly my job." Arthur says, turning back to the dishes. It's a little past noon, and the man doubts America would have budged even if he had tried to wake him up. "You're a grown nation, as you like to remind me. You can take care of yourself."

"Don't you think Germany's gonna be mad if we don't show up?"

"Oh, he'll get over it." Arthur says dismissively, more than a little concerned. Usually America doesn't think twice when Arthur makes up some excuse as to why they don't go to any meetings. "I doubt anyone will even notice we aren't there."

"Hey, it's no skin off my back. Like I care what the Kraut thinks." America laughs, and Arthur hears the fridge opening, followed by the sounds of the other man rummaging through its contents, searching for something to eat. "I bet France will realize you aren't there, though. He catalogs every move you make."

"Say that he wants to take me to bed and I'll shove this fork up your arse." Arthur growls. "You really are delusional, America."

"Maybe I am." America says in reply, thoughtfully, and Arthur nearly drops the plate he's holding. "But hey. Everyone's a little fucked up in the head. Right, England?" Arthur doesn't say anything, and America closes the refrigerator, sighing to himself. "You have jack to eat around here, dude."

"I'll take you somewhere once I'm finished with these dishes. Go play with Ace in the meantime, would you?"

America leaves the kitchen without a fuss, calling out for Ace in that ridiculous voice he saves for the cats, and once he's gone, Arthur breathes out a sigh and forces himself to relax.

It's kind of funny, really. Sometimes Arthur actually has to remind himself to breathe.

What should be an involuntary function doesn't come easy to a man who has spent the last four or so years taking care of his younger brother.

Arthur's parents grew tired of their youngest son. No, that's… not quite right. They just simply grew tired. They couldn't take it anymore. Arthur's biological father died when Arthur was three or so, and his mother remarried soon after. With four kids of her own, another child was the last thing she had wanted, but it would be her first with her new husband, so she opted to keep the baby.

She once told Arthur that she regretted her decision.

Alfred hadn't been born different. At one point, he'd been the sweetest, gentlest, most enthusiastic person Arthur knew. No matter what happened, Alfred always bounced back, and even when things took a turn for the worse, Arthur had believed his precious brother would somehow pull through.

The boy was sent off to summer camp the same year he was supposed to start eighth grade and came back different. He was never quite right after that. Alfred had been disturbed, volatile, and inappropriate. For lack of a better term, the boy was a downright monster, someone Arthur didn't recognize.

Their parents, along with dozens of other parents whose sons came back less than themselves after that summer, wanted an investigation, some explanation as to why Alfred had returned home at the end of the summer a completely different person. Furious and jilted, Arthur had wanted the same, sixteen and utterly naive when it came to understanding the atrocities of the world.

It was when news of the photos and videotapes found in the home of the man who headed the camp reached the Kirkland-Jones household that Alfred cracked and first started calling himself "America."

Horrific didn't even begin to describe the situation. Alfred was almost back to his normal self, and if it weren't for the talk of nations and wars long before their time, Arthur would have been convinced that his brother made a miraculous recovery.

Whatever traumas Alfred had endured that summer damaged him far beyond repair, though it wasn't until nearly a year after it all happened that Alfred was diagnosed. Dissociative Identity Disorder. That was what they tentatively called it, because the disorder was highly controversial and not all specialists even believed it existed.

So many people accused Alfred of faking it, and it both saddened and infuriated Arthur, because they had no fucking idea. They weren't the ones that had to deal with Alfred's nightmares, his constant shift between moods and personalities; but to be fair, Arthur probably wouldn't have believed it either if it weren't his own life, his own blood.

Alfred's doctors distinguished three distinct personalities dwelling within Alfred's mind when he was just fourteen years old.

There was, of course, Alfred Foster Jones, the original mind and Arthur's half-brother. He was quiet and subdued, a bit on the timid side, but in the rare moments that he did shine through, he was every bit as sweet as his family remembered. Arthur had gotten used to the other personalities over the years, but Alfred was still his favorite by far.

The second personality was the United States of America. He was loud and energetic, just like Al had been in his childhood. He seemed to be the most powerful and dominant of the personalities, though unlike Alfred, America had no idea that he was anything other than the personification of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He wasn't aware of Alfred or even the other personality, and he was the one the specialists were most interested in.

They couldn't believe that Alfred, as a fourteen-year-old child, had the mental capability to create such an intellectual persona. America seemed to retain everything Alfred had heard in passing or learned in history class down to the last preposition, and he spoke of the many wars he'd fought in, the lands he'd conquered, and which President had been his favorite.

The final personality simply called himself Allen. He was the vicious, inappropriate side of Alfred that Arthur and his family had become well acquainted with after Alfred came back from summer camp, though at the time, they hadn't realized he was almost a separate entity.

Allen was overtly sexual in almost every aspect of his behavior, and Arthur couldn't count on both of his hands how many times that personality had tried to come on to him and the rest of their siblings in the years since his creation. Allen was the one the doctors said to watch out for, but most of the time he was just extremely passive-aggressive. Sometimes, however, Allen would take control in a rage. He was the only side of Alfred that remembered everything about that summer, and while he refused to say anything – You fuck-wads should just mind your own business – it was obvious that the memories tormented him.

With the identification of Alfred's personalities, Arthur had believed that with medicine and proper care, his brother might someday recover from everything that had happened to him. His parents had once shared in his enthusiasm and were prepared to do whatever it took to help their youngest son, but it all proved to be too much for them.

The breaking point came when Alfred was fifteen. It was their mother's birthday, and Arthur and all of his siblings had returned from school to celebrate. Alfred had been himself at the beginning of the night, tired and shaky but still excited to see his siblings again. He'd hugged Arthur around the middle so tightly that Arthur's bones ached for nearly an hour afterward, and the two brothers, as the youngest of their brood, stuck close together through the night.

Arthur still isn't sure what happened, if anything could have been done to prevent the snap. Alfred went to the bathroom after dinner and returned as Allen, toting his dad's old baseball bat with liquid rage in his eyes. "Let's have some fun." He'd shouted before proceeding to destroy nearly everything in their parents' living room.

It was utter chaos. Arthur doesn't remember most of what happened, recalls screaming and broken glass and watching one of his older brothers – Owen, he was later told – wrestle the baseball bat from Allen's hands and pin him to the floor. "Be gentle with me, brother dearest. I'm a virgin." Allen had seethed, laughing bitterly at his own joke.

His mom had been in complete hysterics, clutching at Arthur's stepfather as she cried and begged. His sister Annie was sitting on the couch, clutching at her head while his brother Scott sat dutifully at her side, holding her hand. Blood was oozing between her fingers. "Call the doctors." His mother cried. "Call the police, call somebody, Robert, he can't stay here!"

"No!" Arthur hadn't realized he'd spoken until he noticed that everyone was staring at him, even Allen, who at that point had calmed down a tad and was simply observing everyone with a bored expression on his face. "No, Dad, don't – don't call anybody. I'll take him. He can come live with me."

"Arthur." Annie had said, crying herself.

"He'll kill you!" His mother had shrieked, and Arthur stared at her in astonishment.

"Like I'd harm my favorite brother." Allen scoffed, rolling his eyes. He wasn't the least bit apologetic, and the blank look on his face shook Arthur horribly. "Give me some credit, Mommy."

"We'll be fine." Arthur insisted, mostly because he was terrified that if he didn't take Alfred with him now, he'd never see his brother again. He knew that Alfred would be confused and scared when he managed to take back control. He didn't deserve to suffer for something that one of his alters had done. "Trust me."

They trusted Arthur, just not Alfred, but his parents were too exhausted to do anything other than let Arthur take Alfred home with him that night.

The first few months were difficult. Alfred shifted among his alters so periodically that it was difficult to catch him in a mood when he was willing to take his medicine. There were so many pills Arthur had to familiarize himself with, antidepressants and anti-psychotics, medications for anxiety and a variety of stimulants. Arthur learned more about his younger brother by going through his prescriptions than he did by actually talking to him.

Alfred was appalled by what had happened the night of their mother's birthday, even if he couldn't remember it. He'd pestered Arthur until the older teen broke and recounted what had occurred, being mindful to leave out the fact that Annie had been struck with the baseball bat and had suffered from a pretty nasty concussion.

Afterward, things only got worse. Alfred began to disappear, spent more and more time in the mindset of Allen than anyone else, and since it was impossible to catch the boy in a good mood, things were difficult for a time. Arthur had to stop working for a bit to take care of Alfred and eventually dropped out of college altogether, though it all worked out for the best.

Having always wanted to do so but previously unable to find the time and reason to actually go through with it, Arthur tried his hand at writing. Everything fell into place surprisingly fast, and in nearly two years, Arthur had found himself a New York Times bestselling author of teen-fiction novels at only twenty.

Alfred thought it was the coolest thing, America rambled on and on about how he would always remember Arthur as one of the greatest American authors even if he was technically a limey since both his biological parents had been born in London, and Allen shrugged and said that it seemed as if every author was a New York Times bestseller.

Arthur couldn't have been happier. Not for himself so much as his brother. With his success as a writer, Arthur ultimately decided to leave the crowded city and move out into the country, where Alfred could be himself without worrying about hurting anybody.

After the move, things got a little better; or at least from Arthur's perspective. Allen's appearances started to dwindle, but in turn, America began to flourish and grow as an alter, wasn't plagued by random bouts of confusion so much if he suddenly took over for Alfred or Allen.

He started interacting with Arthur on a more personal level, and by the time America started calling him "England," Arthur was endeared to America almost as much as he was to his actual brother. Before, Arthur was just some citizen that America thought himself to be shacking up with. One day, he just woke up and started talking to Arthur as if he were like America – the personification of a landmass.

It was like America had forgotten that his name was Arthur, or that he'd chosen to forget about it in order to have someone he felt close to and treat as an equal. The doctors weren't sure what to make of it and discouraged Arthur from playing along, but the man just couldn't do it.

When he didn't go along with Alfred's fantasies as America, the boy became upset and withdrawn, and oftentimes, Allen was forced to take over. Arthur couldn't stand seeing his younger brother upset, especially not after everything he was forced to endure as a child, and so he indulged his brother's alters despite what the doctors said.

Arthur studied up. He listened to America and learned what it was that he expected from his "England." Having grown up in the States, Arthur didn't have much of a British inflection, but he practiced for months until America stopped commenting on how "totally un-British" he sounded.

Arthur learned that England was strong. He'd raised America as a boy and fought tooth and nail to keep him during the Revolutionary War, and Arthur still remembers how distraught America had been when he recounted how in the end, England hadn't been able rule over him with an iron fist, that he'd loved him too much to deny him his freedom, even if England couldn't admit it to anyone, least of all himself.

The England in America's head was fierce and proud. His words were like venom and his gaze acidic. He was a former empire that hid years of loneliness behind his temper and a scowl, but beneath all that, he was the kindest, most loving person America had ever known, and it was obvious to Arthur that America adored England a great deal.

Frankly, England did sound a little bit like Arthur, though Arthur wasn't nearly as hostile as America sometimes expected him to be. It took a great deal of irritation for the author to be worked up that much on a regular day. He often had to fake it for America's sake, otherwise the nation was just confused, but it wasn't particularly hard to be England.

In a way, Arthur has another distinct personality of his own to match up with Alfred's. It is rather exhausting to pretend to be someone he's not, but it has to be ten times as worse for Alfred, who shares his head with two other separate beings.

To this day, his mother, stepfather and siblings tell him he's doing more harm than good by encouraging Alfred's alters, but Arthur can't see another option. After all these years, Arthur understands that Alfred isn't likely to recover from his disorder, and aside from ensuring that he takes his medications, what else can he do?

As little as Arthur sees of him, Alfred seems to be content. America is impossible to bring down. Allen is still as abrasive as ever, but he shows himself almost as often as Alfred does. It's manageable, and that's all Arthur can ask for.

The phone rings, shaking Arthur out of his thoughts, and the man dries his hands on a dishtowel before moving into the adjacent living room. Crumpet – their second cat that America had insisted on naming – is lying on the sofa, and Arthur sits down beside him, dragging the dozing feline onto his lap while he reaches for the wireless phone on the coffee table with the other.

"Kirkland residence, this is Arthur speaking." Arthur says, unsure if this is a business call or not. Crumpet stretches across his thighs, purring softly as Arthur strokes along his spine.

"You gotta stop being so formal, Artie."

"Shut up." Arthur says while Owen's laughter sounds in his ear. "Anyway, what do you want?"

"Just checking up on you and Al." Owen is the only one who really checks up on Alfred after all these years, even though he was one of the few people to have any physical encounters with one of Alfred's alters. Annie and Scott care but are just scared of and for their brother. Their parents seem to want to forget that Alfred exists altogether. "I don't get to see much of you since you live out in the middle of nowhere."

"We're twenty minutes away from town, Owen." Arthur says tonelessly. "You can visit whenever you want."

"Would Al like that?"

"He spends most of his time as America these days." Arthur sighs, glancing out the window when he notices movement. Alfred is outside in the yard, carrying Ace back toward the house. The large, white-furred feline isn't much of an indoor cat like Crumpet, and he spends most of his time out in the gardens. The only time Arthur really sees him is if the dumb thing brings a dead bird or a rabbit to the porch. "But America loves everybody. I'm sure he'd be glad to see you."

"Yeah, well," there's a bit of rustling on Owen's end, the sound of a door closing, "if it's all the same to you, I'd much rather see Al."

"You know, I do see a lot of Alfred in America. It would be easy to forget that they're different people if America wasn't always calling me England."

"I don't see how you do it. I feel exhausted just listening to you."

"He's my brother. I'll do anything to protect him." Arthur says simply, continuing to stroke Crumpet's fur. "Even if it means I spend most of my time pretending to be an ancient deity with a foul temper."

Owen doesn't laugh, doesn't make a single sound, and Arthur suddenly knows what this is about. "You're calling because of Al's birthday, aren't you?"

"Scott and Annie want to do something." Owen admits, and Arthur closes his eyes, can't wait to hear what his brother has to say this year. "He's going to be nineteen, and we haven't celebrated his birthday together since he was fifteen."

There's no accusation in his older brother's tone, but Arthur knows that his siblings think that he's keeping Alfred away from them on purpose. In fact, it's the opposite. Alfred is the one who doesn't want to go anywhere near their family. In the past year or so, Alfred has made a few appearances, most of which to beg Arthur to not take him back home to see their brothers and sister.

The thought scares Alfred so much that he manages to forcibly take back control from America, and while the moments don't last long, Alfred's panic is enough to make Arthur change his mind in a split second. Anything for Alfred.

"The thought of seeing you all at the same time scares him. And when that happens, Allen usually takes over. I don't think it's a good idea."

"At least talk to him about it. I know that… Mom and Dad act stupid about this, and Annie still remembers what happened at Mom's birthday, and Scott's a pussy. But I miss Al, and I miss you, too. You guys can't hide out forever."

Arthur would like to argue, but the front door slams open before he can get another word out. He's slightly concerned that Allen has made an appearance, but Alfred's face, still round with the last remaining traces of boyhood, is smiling. America is still in control, just as he's been for months. Ace is cuddled in his arms, his fur a dirty, matted mess, and Arthur scowls.

"Who is it?" America asks curiously, looking at the phone held up to Arthur's ear. "Is it Germany? Tell him I'm not here."

"It's Wales, you imbecile." Arthur says, and he can almost feel Owen's confusion. He's yet to inform any of his siblings, but America saw their pictures and assigned them countries as well a few years back. Arthur had to learn how to be England, but he also had to learn the personalities and identities of all the other nations that America likes to talk about.

Owen is Wales, Annie is Northern Ireland, and Scott is – unsurprisingly – Scotland. They're the only ones who Arthur personally knows that have other identities. The others are in America's world, Germany and Italy and France and all the rest. Arthur has to talk of them so much that he feels as if he knows them personally.

"Oh, okay." America says, perking up instantly. "If he's mean to you, tell me and I'll beat his ass."

"I can fight my own battles, America." Arthur says loudly, if only to give Owen some idea as to what's happening on his end. "Go give Ace a bath, would you? I can smell him from here."

"What are you going on about?" America huffs as he turns to head for the stairs. "Ace smells like a man."

Arthur waits until America has reached the top step before speaking again. "Sorry about that. Alfred just came back inside."

"Is he… "

"Still America." Arthur confirms. "That isn't likely to change soon. Listen, Owen, I can't make any promises about Al's birth– "

A terrible yowl is heard, and Crumpet's fur stands on end as Ace comes barreling down the stairs and into the living room, dashing toward Arthur and crawling underneath the couch. Arthur is immediately on edge, pushing Crumpet out of his lap and getting to his feet, ignoring Owen's urgent, "What the hell was that?"

"I have to go." Arthur says shortly before hanging up, and Crumpet joins Ace under the couch as someone – it really could be anybody – stomps down the stares.

America's smile is gone, along with the bright look in his eyes, and even before the teenager opens his mouth, Arthur knows that it's Allen. "I fucking hate cats."

"I'm surprised Ace still tolerates you." Arthur sighs, falling back onto the couch as Allen stalks into the room, rubbing at the back of his neck. "You treat the poor thing horribly."

"I fucking hate cats." Allen says again, eyeing Arthur critically. "You told the idiot you were talking to Wales. I know better. What did Owen want?"

Arthur stifles a groan. He really doesn't understand why Allen seems to hate America so much. The excitable alter is a bit much sometimes, but he does mean well. "The same thing he wants every year."

"You'd think they'd stop asking." Allen says, sitting down heavily in the rocking chair across from Arthur. Over the years, Allen and Arthur have come to understand one another, and while Arthur isn't nearly as comfortable around this alter as he is America, he still sees him as a part of his brother that he's come to accept. "I don't want to see their faces. Neither does Alfred."

"Is that really how Alfred feels?"

"Alfred doesn't know how he feels." Allen says, crossing his arms and legs and turning his gaze to glare out the window. "He wants to see them, but he doesn't want to face what I did to Annie all those years ago."

Arthur knows better than to ask why Allen did what he did. They've been down that road before, and Arthur never likes what he hears. Allen describes himself as Alfred's pain, his anger and rage. He remembers so Alfred and "The Idiot" don't have to, and he's surprisingly not bothered by that.

"It might help him move on." Arthur says, watching Allen carefully. "To see them again. Maybe not our parents, but at least Owen, Scott, and Annie."

"Because any meeting between us will go over so well." Allen scoffs. "Use your imagination, Mr. Author. Al sees them, he panics, in comes Allen the Terrible, and the whole day is ruined. I can't control myself very well and you know it."

"You seem perfectly calm to me."

"You should see me up here." Allen says with a wicked smile, reaching up to tap at his right temple. "It's a fuckin' shit-storm. Contains things you couldn't even imagine." Arthur can imagine. He was in that courtroom when the prosecution played one of the tapes. It wasn't Alfred's since he refused to testify, but it might as well have been. "And besides. I like you enough to control the crazy. You've been through enough."

"Where was that restraint when you tried to climb into bed with me when we were younger?"

"Hey, I totally apologized for that! You can't exactly blame me though. You may be my brother, but you're not hard to look at." Arthur actually laughs, and he's so unfazed by Allen's words that he almost feels like crying. Allen watches him critically, a thoughtful look on his face. "You really think it'll be good for us to go back home?"

"I do. Alfred needs to hear that Annie isn't angry with him, straight from her mouth. We can't isolate ourselves out here for all eternity."

"We easily could. You just don't want to."

"There's also that."

"Did we move out here because I try to fuck everything that moves?" Allen demands, suddenly confrontational. "Or that Doofus thinks his dick is the state of Florida and calls himself a hero all the time?"

Arthur is at a loss. "Is… that why you think we moved out here?"

"It's what Alfred thinks." Allen snarls, and he's on his feet in an instant, blue eyes blazing with hate and anger and so much pain that it takes Arthur's breath away. This is what living with Alfred is about, dealing with fights that have nothing to do with what they were talking about, but in the years he's spent taking care of his brother, never has Allen yelled at Arthur like this, not even once. "That's why America is in charge all the damn time. Alfred's scared that you're embarrassed of him, of us. You are, aren't you? You want to hide us as much as possible."

Arthur isn't exactly sure why Alfred's alter thinks this way, why Alfred himself thinks that way. Arthur literally just said that he doesn't want either of them to be isolated out here, for Christ's sake! He takes America out all the time, drives him to the city and takes him to see movies. America knows when they're in good company and when they aren't. He keeps his mouth shut and acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary, and Arthur hardly ever worries about him causing a scene.

Allen would be the most likely suspect, but Arthur won't say so, not with Allen looking so murderous.

But then, Alfred hasn't been capable of rationalizing since he was thirteen; and after everything that's happened in the past couple of years, it's no wonder that Alfred is insecure about his condition. That being said, Al has no reason to worry where Arthur is concerned. Perhaps the young man sees each of his brother's personalities as a different person and he treats each one differently, but they're apart of Alfred, and he loves them all in some way, shape, or form.

America cares for England so much that it's almost sickening. Arthur can't really tell how America feels for the England in his head, if it's friendship, familial, or even romantic love. He supposes it's a bit of all three, and it's difficult for Arthur to understand; but to America, it's completely natural. He doesn't think about it, doesn't need to, and that rubs off on Arthur a bit, even if it isn't technically real.

Allen is terrifying. He's ominous, cold, apathetic, and most likely a sociopath. Arthur knows without a shadow of a doubt that Allen could very easily tear his throat out and feel absolutely nothing, but he'd also protect Arthur to the death, even if he doesn't understand why. Allen is the person Alfred would have been had he not split up into three different identities, and it's for that reason Arthur can't be completely scared of Allen. He's the only person aside from Arthur who has Alfred's best interests at heart, which is strange, because even Allen has said he doesn't feel attachment, nor does he truly care about anything or anyone.

And then there's Alfred. He was dealt a terrible hand, and Arthur will never forget that he couldn't protect his younger brother when Alfred had needed him most. They used to ride their bikes to and from school together. They would hide in Arthur's closet together whenever their parents got into a fight. Alfred had looked up to him, and Arthur strove to be a person his brother could look up to in return.

That summer, Alfred hadn't wanted to go to camp. He'd wanted to stay home and be with Arthur and their siblings, go to the pool every afternoon and eat popsicles out on their deck. Arthur thought it would do his younger brother some good to get out of their town for a while, and so he'd encouraged him to at least give the camp a try. If he didn't like it, Arthur would tell their parents not to make him go back the next year.

Alfred had reluctantly agreed, and he'd promised to take lots of pictures to show Arthur when he got back.

Arthur doesn't think he'll ever stop blaming himself. It's not healthy to live the rest of his life festering in his own guilt, but all his time is spent ensuring Alfred's happiness, never his own.

"I am not nor have I ever been ashamed of you." Arthur says eventually, and his brother's body stiffens. "It wasn't your fault. You were only thirteen, you couldn't have known what was happening to you. I'm not ashamed of how you chose to cope, and I'm not ashamed of Allen or America. If anything, they make my life interesting. So, you don't have to worry. I took you home that night, didn't I? Even if our family doesn't know what to say to you, I always will."

Arthur isn't sure who he's talking to, who he's looking at. It could still be Allen, or it could be America, finally facing the atrocities that preceded his creation. Arthur isn't entirely certain until the eighteen-year-old's shoulders sag and tears spill down red-tinted cheeks.

It's the first time Arthur has had contact with Alfred in months, and he pushes himself to his feet again as Alfred stumbles forward, latching onto him and refusing to let go. "I hate this!" Alfred sobs, and he's shaking so badly Arthur is surprised he has the concentration and energy necessary to maintain control over his body. "I hate it, Arthur!"

"I know you do." Arthur murmurs, struggling not to cry himself as he rubs his younger brother's back. "I wish more than anything that I could turn back the clock and ensure that this had never happened to you."

"Please, don't beat yourself up over it." Alfred says, still hugging Arthur tightly. "I do that enough for the both of us. It wasn't your fault. You just wanted me to have fun."

Arthur shakes his head. "I wanted you to be happy. And I've made a right mess out of that."

Alfred pulls away, face red and shining with tears, but he somehow still manages to smile. "Yeah, right. You got me out of there. Mom and Dad's house, I mean. It was awful there. They never let me leave the house."

"What? You never told me that."

"I didn't want you to get mad. They just wanted to help me. They didn't know what to do! I would've hurt people, Arthur. He would've hurt people. He hurt Annie."

By "He," Alfred probably means Allen, and Arthur can't help but agree. It's a wonder Allen hasn't done anything to hurt Arthur yet. Maybe he really does care more than he likes to let on. "He's a part of you, Al." Arthur says fondly. "I don't think he can really do much harm to the ones you care about. At least, not intentionally."

Alfred sighs, letting go of Arthur and running a hand through his hair restlessly. "He's such a pain. Honestly, I'm glad you spend more time with America than him."

"I'd prefer it if you showed up every once in a while, you know."

"It's not that easy." Alfred says tiredly, and Arthur can see the strain in his eyes. "I can't control it. I don't expect you to understand, but it's not something I can just… turn off."

"I know that." Arthur says, vaguely annoyed. "I just want to see more of you, is all. I miss my baby brother."

He's teasing, and Alfred knows it, too. "I wish we could talk more." Alfred says wistfully. "I have so much I think I'm ready to tell you."

"Move at your own pace. America is decent company. He doesn't look at me like he wants to eat me, anyway."

Alfred laughs, and while it's nowhere near the boisterous, gasping thing that Arthur is used to after spending so much time with America, it still manages to warm his heart. "Allen would never do anything to you, you know. I mean, he might hurt other people if he loses himself but… he'd never hurt you."

"Good to know." Arthur says, distressed by the faraway look in Alfred's eyes. He's seen it many times before, knows that someone else is knocking at the edges of Alfred's mind, wanting to take over. "Take care, Al."

Alfred nods slightly, blinks a few times, and then America is staring down at Arthur, slightly confused as he glances around the room. "Um, where did Ace go?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere." Arthur says, throat tight. "His bath can wait."

"Thank God, I'm – " America pauses, mouth going slack slightly. "England, are you crying?"

Arthur laughs slightly, reaching up to wipe away the few tears that have managed to escape with the back of his hand. It was foolish of him to think that this was some sort of breakthrough with Alfred. He told Alfred after all these years that he isn't ashamed of him, but even that wasn't enough to keep Al from disappearing again. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"You sure?" America presses, tilting his head slightly as he stares worriedly down at the older man. "Was it Wales? I told you I'd kick his ass for you!"

"And I said I can fight my own battles, you stupid man-child." Arthur says, but he's laughing, thinks that it's something Allen would say. "Oh, it doesn't even matter. You're still hungry, yes? Let's get going."

"We don't have to go anywhere if you're not feeling too hot. It's not that big a deal."

Arthur wants so badly to throttle the man standing before him. He's so genuine it's almost frustrating. Arthur reaches up to pat America's cheek gently. The nation still hasn't noticed that his face is littered with Alfred's drying tears. "Why don't you think about yourself for once, okay?"

America quirks an eyebrow. "I thought all I ever did was think about myself?"

Arthur shakes his head, stepping around Ace and Crumpet as he goes to search for his car keys. They always seem to know when it's safe to come out, when Allen is once more in his cage. They adore America, but like Arthur, Alfred has always been their favorite.

"That was a lifetime ago, America."