Details/Notes: I was inspired by the prompt for this over at the LJ community, but man I so would have written it anyway. Did I mention the part where I'm a dweeb about the American Revolution? Cough. Cough. I almost feel sorry for Arthur, he obviously isn't used to Alfred being such a bad ass.

Victory or Death:

Alfred gives Arthur something very special for Christmas. Arthur doesn't appreciate it like he should.

He spent most of the day jumping at loud noises, which were many and varied enough in the midst of the camp to leave him with a headache after only an hour, and trying not to think about all the various ways the battle planned for the next day could go very, very badly for himself and his young army.

He had it all planned, of course, and his generals were brilliant, and all the soldiers wanted, needed, to win.

It was a surprise attack, too!

Arthur had always loved telling him stories about when he sprung those on Francis during their wars together, and Alfred was beginning to understand the beauty of irony.

He tapped his fingers in a happy-nervous-excited pattern across his thigh, and let himself wander to that time after his brother's inevitable defeat, when he would have the upper hand in negotiations, and trades, and allegiances.

He wouldn't fail. Tomorrow was going to be something for the history books.

He was soaked to the bone, two of his planned attacks were failing utterly, and the one he was stuck it was behind schedule, which was something Alfred wasn't even aware was possible until it started happening to him personally.

Arthur's tales never involved time lines, or, for that matter, money.

Which was just another thing for Alfred to be bitter over now that he was crouched in a boat, inhaled as much rain as he did air. The weather was horrible, and a nervous dread was collecting in the pit of his stomach (Arthur would probably stab him there first, just to be helpful), but he bit his tongue because he knew with the howling wind there was no way Arthur's soldiers would hear them.

He was cold and running mostly on adrenaline as he was finally able to jump from the boat onto dry land. Well, technically it was rain-soaked land, but at least it was mostly solid.

It still looked like the dead of night, but he knew it was too late, and organising the troops was taking too long. His nerves were jagged and he couldn't see through the rain, but he kept going.

He would make this work.

His motto for the night was victory or death, and no matter how much it began to look like the latter would rule, he would make sure the former was achieved.

He began the final march to attack with spirits as high as they could be.

He had gone to bed late in the evening, but with the cheerful knowledge that his Christmas lodging were far superior to whatever muddy hole Alfred was having to hide in.

That stupid still couldn't get it through his head that this quote-unquote revolution of his was ridiculous.

Yes, brother, he thought with a chuckle as he drifted off, you and your merry band of miscreants are going to defeat my army of thousands.

He woke up at eight in the morning to the sounds of fighting.

"AH!"

He rolled out of bed and hit the floor with a smack, which was understandable because that bloody wanker Alfred was standing over him while he slept.

"Happy Christmas, brother," Alfred said with a huge, self-satisfied smile on his face.

"What the hell is going on, you troublesome brat?!"

"Oh, I just thought I'd deliver this year's present in person." He didn't think the teenager's smile could get any wider, it stretched his chapped lips, every perfect, white tooth showing.

Arthur felt anger beginning to boil in his chest. "If you think you can win –"

"I already have," Alfred interrupted, and punched him in the face hard enough to make his head bounce against the wall.

He stumbled, moaning.

Alfred stepped forward, catching him in a way that was almost gentle before he kicked Arthur in the shin, forcing his hands above his head, and pining them even as Arthur struggled and fought against him.

Their lips touched, a gentle peck, teasing, before Alfred forced him harder against the wall and proceeded to ravish his mouth in anger.

He continued to fight it, fight everything about this kiss. Alfred's anger, and pain, and betrayal leaked around the edges of it, poured into the desperate way he scraped their tongues together.

Arthur shouted, struggling more heavily, and finally managing to break free from Alfred's vice-like grip.

"Bastard," he accused.

Alfred clenched his jaw, tightening his mouth, and Arthur noticed that his lower lip had been split and was dripping blood onto his chin. Arthur wanted to feel proud that he had managed to hurt him even during that assault, but the truth of it was that the red of that blood only reinforced Alfred's lack of injuries.

This was truly a one-sided battle.

"Run away, brother," Alfred ordered him, "Your soldiers are dead or imprisoned by mine, but we both know this hasn't won the war."

"This isn't a war," he snapped, but it felt like even more of a lie than usual.

"Get out," Alfred ordered again, with more force, "Or I might decide to keep you shackled here until your boss gives into my demands."

Arthur struggled to swallow every horrible reply to that, but couldn't stop himself from saying as he left the room, "Damn you, Alfred. You'll wish differently a year from now."

But in his heart he was beginning to realise this brotherly squabble would be much harder to fix than he liked to imply. Alfred was a stubborn bastard if nothing else, and now he was determined.

Arthur shouted to the sky in anger, and limped away from their devastated camp with little more than his clothing. This wasn't the first time Alfred forced his retreat, but he vowed to himself it would be the last.

He recovered as quickly as possible, despite the losses he sustained during Alfred's surprise attack, and the heavier battle the next day, and now yesterday's battle at Trenton, which was another stunning victory for the fledgling democracy.

Arthur despised the revolutionaries that seemed to flood the streets, spewing their backwards philosophy in every creative way known to mankind. The letters and newspapers were the worst.

He vowed decisively that he would re-take Trenton as soon as was possible.

Alfred's victories were nothing but luck, and he refused to accept anything else.

His eyes widened when he saw the force of his brother's regiment, but any doubt was quickly done away with when he caught sight of the soppy grin Alfred was giving that damned leader of his, General Washington. The man was much too sharp, in Arthur's opinion, and a horrible influence.

Or, he thought as the battle commenced, perhaps he meant the man was much too good an influence, when it came to military strategy.

Alfred hadn't even known how to form up ranks when Arthur last saw him as a child, rather than this dramatic, overbearing, free-thinking, rebellious teenager.

How long had that been?

"We have to stop meeting like this! What will the newspapers say?" Alfred, smiling fiercely, as he often did during the height of battle.

Arthur's anger got the best of him, and rather than reply, he flew straight to throwing punches. He managed to catch Alfred in the stomach before the lanky boy spun the assault back on him.

He was getting solely tired of tasting blood in his mouth.

His retreat was forced again, but at least this time he was able to leave Alfred limping and bloodied as well. The boy was still far too happy about the outcome, but Arthur would catch him soon.

The inevitability of his brother's defeat was enough to keep him marching proudly.

Even with the cold of winter and the confinement of camp life wearing at Alfred's enthusiasm, he couldn't be anything other than happy with the way he and his army had sent Arthur running to and fro, blocking them at every turn.

He sipped warm cocoa, his head dancing with victorious thoughts and snide remarks about Arthur's precious tea, and was for once content to fade into the background as his generals discussed the war, their next moves, and on and on.

There were still problems to work out, there always would be, something told him, but even that was gratifying. These were things he had never been privy to, matters of state that Arthur had locked him out of ever since the man brought him under his wing.

That was his message in a sentence: don't worry, brother, I'm taking care of everything.

He still couldn't accept the fact that Alfred didn't want him to take care of everything, that his brother's controlling nature was stifling everything good about his land and his resources.

Alfred turned away from the bitter-sweet memories, and back to excitement.

It didn't matter how close they once were.

This was war.

Victory or death.

End.

End Notes: Please review with any comments or criticisms. Arthur voice needs work? I missed something important/historic/canonical? Tell me!