Hey everyone, this is a short (and originally unplanned) prequel to 1917, which I wrote for my 10,000th Tumblr post. There is no significance to this date that I am aware of during either of the World Wars.

Next fic is once again planned for April 6th.

I had always heard stories about America. Stories from England. Stories from Canada. Even stories from the others I interacted with from my distant corner of the world.

They spoke of him like a devil sometimes, or with fondness at others.

Canada said that sometimes my behavior reminded him of America. The way I would rush to tell them things, my overeager excitement, and reckless and somewhat absentminded nature. And I knew England saw him in me as well.

It hurt Arthur when I grew faster than he had expected, shooting up from somewhere around his knees to only an inch or two shorter than him in the time he took between visits, my booming industries gifting me with the same fast growth America had once experienced. I was an ever-present reminder of something he had lost, something he could never hope to regain. It put a strange distance between us, but I remained his loyal son, trying to help him forget the pain, at least in those early days.

Japan and China spoke of that distant land in somewhat different tones.

Japan spoke in fear. Of dragon ships spewing smoke and destruction, of negotiations all but held by the sword.

China, in pain, and through the haze of opium, spoke of him in a similar manner.

"A blue-eyed demon in the body of a man. An eagle, unafraid to bare his talons and sink them in. Ambitious and young, with a lust for power. He will either fade away, as many demons do, or overthrow the king and take that mantle himself."

They were legends, pieced together and telling me of a former colony who had caused the man who raised me such great pain. A nation now strong, covering a continent from sea to shining sea.

These legends were what I knew of him when he came in 1908 at my government's invitation.

When I had learned Alfred was sailing with the "Great White Fleet", I begged for us to invite him to come to Australia. I was curious to meet this other nation, as isolated as I was from the rest of the world.

And so, it seemed, was he, for he accepted the invitation at once.

He came off that ship on that August day in all his glory, wearing the uniform of an office that would hardly befit a human so young, although he was no human. Blond hair tucked beneath a cap, a grin on his face, blue eyes sparkling like the waters off of the Great Barrier Reef.

He had not seen me yet. I suddenly felt almost small in his presence, the way I once had with England. He was tall, strong, and handsome. Something inside wanted to reach out to him in that moment, something I could not put a name too.

And then he saw me.

***

The invitation to take the fleet to Australia had delighted me more than it should have. For years, Canada had told me stories of the young colony, and often said we would get along well if we ever met.

I had doubted I would get the chance for many more years. I had considered writing letters, but I knew that England still burned any personal letters I sent to him. I doubted he would let me "corrupt his young colonies". The only reason he left Matthew and I alone before Matthew's independence was that he knew we must communicate frequently and freely due to our shared border.

So I jumped at the chance to meet these two young colonies I had heard so much about. Their invitations had surprised me, but I had welcomed this opportunity. England could no longer stop them from meeting me, and I had every reason to see them and show them what Americans could do.

New Zealand, or Avery, had been polite and calm during my visit to Auckland. They were a very quiet person, and reminded me of Matthew. We had shared a few drinks and laughed, and the conversation had been amiable, but I found myself sighing as I left. It had been a long way from Honolulu to Auckland, and while I had felt welcome, I had not felt the excitement I had hoped these voyages would fill me with.

Arriving in Sydney had felt no different at first. I had smiled at the sight of the land, and grinned at the people excitedly leaning over the edges of ropes to try and get a closer view of our ships. It was no different than the other places we had visited, and I had no reason to hope it would be.

What I had not prepared myself for, however, was my eyes meeting his. Those bright green eyes, like new leaves on a tree beneath soft brown locks, dark as the soil in the Willamette Valley, and skin tanned from the years under this harsh southern sun.

Our eyes met, and something in my heart almost lurched forward, beating in a rhythm that frightened and excited me at the same time. A feeling I had no name for filled me.

Many years later, I would read a phrase in a book that, given the future ahead of us, even unknown in that moment, described our meeting perfectly.

When eyes meet eyes, soul meets soul.

And in the time it took for us to cross the docks and introduce ourselves, I felt that phrase in my heart, body, and soul.

And I know he felt the same.

***

We walked forward to meet each other, the men of my government who had come to greet this fleet, the men his had chosen to represent it.

The introductions went around.

And then they came to us.

"This is Kyle Kirkland, a young man in our employ."

It was a term those in the know often used to speak of us when they did not know if others were in the know. It was why we were always introduced last, and so informally, almost encouraging these men to forget us. It also helped that we often blended into the background to human eyes, although we all stood out in a room with only the others of our kind.

The officers smiled. "And this is Alfred F. Jones, who represents the personal interests of our President."

He smiled at me, and I felt my heart all but leap forward in my chest. We shook hands.

His hands were warm like sandy beaches, and his grip was strong. A few seconds later, our men had looked away, our abilities to fade into the background protecting us from further notice.

"Always pleased to make my acquaintances with a Kirkland." He said with a smile once it was clear we were in no danger of being eavesdropped on.

I chuckled. "Consider yourself lucky that you got away with Jones as a last name after such an extensive history with him."

There's a faint laugh hidden on that face at that comment. "Yet somehow, Matthew also managed to escape such a fate."

"Yeah, he sure did, mate. But I expect that's more thanks to traits he has from a certain stubborn Frenchman."

Alfred chuckled. "I heard you got your stubbornness from a certain Scotsman."

"And Avery from a Welshman. You must have drained every ounce of stubbornness from the pommy bastard while he was still young."

Alfred's laughs at that had me grinning like a loon, and as we walked to where the formal dinner was to take place to greet our American visitors, I knew that this moment had been far too long in the making.

He spent eight days in Sydney, and we ran around like young children. I told him the stories I had, and he shared his. We babbled like toddlers who had just gotten enough of a grasp on English to construct understandable sentences.

There were silent moments, when recalling our histories caused us too much pain. Even now, in the 21st century, we still feel those pains.

Nowadays, they are forgotten with a kiss.

Back then, it was a hand on the shoulder and a concerned voice.

"Kyle?"

"Sorry. My memories get a little hazy after that."

"I understand."

Year later, we would share our stories with each other, or as much as we could recall from before Arthur had arrived. Our tales and myths, our joys and sorrows, our fears of losing who we once had been, and acknowledging that, to a certain extent, we already had.

But being young, we tried to spend more time as children than adults. Trading stories of England and our quiet siblings, laughing at old antics we used to annoy them. I told him how England was doing personally, something he was not apparently told, even by Canada.

"I worry about him, but he shut me out long ago. I have no idea how to let him understand that I still care."

"One day you'll get it through his thick head. I know you will." I said, and my words apparently offered some comfort if the smile he gave me was anything to go by.

We laughed and smiled, hearts young as we continued to speak of happier times.

I requested that my government let me go with him until his final stop in Albany, but my Prime Minister's response was scathing.

I won't transcribe the exact words he used, but I believe "childish" "irresponsible" and "Arthur would throw an absolute fit if he found out I'd even let you meet him once, let alone run around with him for eight days in Sydney. I don't dare imagine his response to allowing you to travel with Alfred until he leaves our homeland" all made their way into the message.

But as Alfred prepared to leave, he took my hands in his and grinned.

"Until we meet again, Kyle Kirkland."

"Until then, Alfred F. Jones."

And then he left.

We wrote letters, always friendly, although they were few and far between.

The next time we met face to face was in 1917, on a dock in France. I was no longer a boy. Gallipoli had made me a man.

He knew the moment he saw me that something had changed, but the wounds were too fresh, the pain too new. And besides, he was unsure how to approach me. Too much had changed in a mere nine years.

But then he saved Avery's life in those hellish trenches. And in doing so, he saved a part of me I had feared was lost forever.

A kiss in the middle of the war should not have left such an impression as it did. But there was something there, something that had been lingering in our minds since 1908. A small spark was fanned into a small flame by that kiss, big enough to light a candle, although we spent more time lighting cigarettes in those days of war.

However, with the letters we shared and the agreement that perhaps this was something more than either of us could name, and that we wanted to make it more...

We spent the rest of the war fanning those flames into a full-blown fire.

A fire that still consumes us today.

When eyes meet eyes, soul meets soul.

And even now, a hundred years later, I know those blue eyes as my place of rest.

As he knows my green ones as his.

PS. The line "When eyes meet eyes, soul meets soul." is directly from the ElfQuest graphic novels, if you're familiar with that series. I thought it fit my headcanons about this pairing quite well.