December 1st, 2017
'Snow'
America & England

"It's snowing!"

"Hm?" England looked up from his book and over the rim of his reading glasses, glancing at the American. "Are you sure it's snow and not sleet?"

Alfred shook his head as he watched the white flakes fall through the frosty window panes. "No, it's definitely snow!"

"Preposterous," the Brit said, closing his book with a sigh.

He got up from his comfortable seating by the fireplace and, book tucked under his arm, walked to Alfred's side to see for himself. Snowflakes were raining down from above, a smooth white blanket forming at a bizarrely fast rate on the grass and the trees and he let out a quiet but surprised 'oh' when he realised it was indeed snow.

"Told you," Alfred sang, nudging the other blonde gently.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Snow isn't something we often get here in the south, so sorry for being sceptical."

"Wait, you don't get snow here?" the American asked with widened eyes and utter horror. Winter wasn't complete without snow!

"Unfortunately not," and he took off his glasses, putting them down on the side with his book.

It was something Arthur had often wished wasn't the case. Over the past couple of years, snow had seldom fallen in the southern areas of his country and he had grown to miss it. The winter holidays were often spent in his country home, tucked away snuggly into the more unpopulated and tree-coated landscape close to the Jurassic Coast, and he remembered fondly the days when he was able to sit inside and watch the world turn white as he hid away with the crackling warmth of the log fire and a blanket. A sad smile came to rest on his face.

"Woah, a-are you alright?" Alfred asked when he saw the expression form, both the smile and sadness making him concerned for the wellbeing of the Brit. He put a hand to the other's forehead. "Not feeling sick, are you?"

"What? N-No, no, I'm not—" He swatted away the hand, disgruntled, and shot a glare at Alfred before looking back at outside. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it . . ."

"And you look like an idiot half the time but you don't hear me saying anything," Arthur shot back bluntly.

Alfred wasn't really sure how to respond. He could quite easily have pointed out that actually, Arthur could be quite critical, but that wasn't what the season was about. England seemed way too bah-humbug for his liking and he knew that starting an argument would only make things worse. Alfred wanted to see that frown vanish completely from Arthur's face (without resorting to shaving off those damn eyebrows) and there was only one way the both of them were truly going to embrace the spirit of the season . . .

Without a word, Alfred grabbed Arthur's hand and began to guide him ("You're using your legs, therefore it's not 'dragging', dude!") towards the conservatory doors that opened onto the outdoor patio, where the snow was already beginning to pile up. Give it a few minutes, he thought, and they might be able to build a snowman together, and then the fun would really begin. But Arthur didn't seem to share the sentiment. Neither of them were wearing coats – not even a scarf – to keep them warm and the bitterness quickly started to nip at both Arthur's fingers, ears and nerves.

The American had made the two of them stand outside and become landing platforms for the little white flecks for no more than ten seconds before the Brit had had enough. With a distant sigh, he turned and walked back towards the house, dusting off his hair as he went.

"Hey, where are you going?" Alfred asked as he was abandoned, his childish smile almost completely fading from his face.

"Somewhere where it's not cold. Join me if you want," Arthur said over his shoulder, but before he could take his first step into his home, another hand, soft and warm, grabbed his and stopped him. He didn't turn to look. "What now, Alfred?"

"Why do you always do this?" came the quiet response.

The Brit, with a fresh frown on his face, glanced back at the American. "Do what?"

"I want this Christmas to be different, Artie," Alfred said softly. "I don't want any conflict, or bad blood, o-or anything like that! . . ." He let go of Arthur's hand, sheepish, and sighed. "I just want it to be like it was before . . ."

Arthur felt a pang of guilt at that moment. He didn't what to do or what to say; what did 'before' mean; before what? There were so many things it could have been, he didn't know what to even think but before (God damn that word) he knew it a single thought had come dashing through the snow and straight into his head, and in silence, he left Alfred in the frost.

Watching him leave was hard. Harder than it used to be. Before. Alfred wasn't too sure what he had meant by 'before' before, either, but this new 'before' -  that sweet and sorrowful parting - could only be like the One and Only Before, and a part of him had been trapped in that era for some four-hundred years without any sign of budging. It was preserved in a perfect world. A perfect time. And he would continue to protect it, no matter how painful it was to look back at.

With a heavier heart, then, Alfred reentered the house and shut the door behind him. So much for lifting spirits, he thought bitterly, all he had done was make things worse! Stupid snow, stupid feelings, stupid Alfred!

'Maybe I should leave,' he wondered as he wandered warily back through to the empty living room.

There was no sign of Arthur. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He didn't know. On the one hand, he wanted to blurt out apologies and find a way to start over and avoid such a pathetic display of sentiment, but at the same time, he felt as though Arthur should be the one apologising. He'd left, just like that. No words. No expression. Nothing. How was that fair? He could have at least told Alfred to sod off or something!

He picked up his striped blue scarf that was draped lazily over the arm of the sofa. It had been a gift a few years prior after Alfred had been caught unheroically off-guard by the Russian winter during a conference week in Moscow. Arthur had given it to him. 'Death via hypothermia isn't exactly the sort of legacy I'd expect of  you,' he'd said, and Alfred had probably said something dumb in return, earning him a present somehow, some way.

But he loved that scarf, so much so that not even Russia could compete with his scarf-loving powers. Heck, if they were in the midst of a war about who loved their dear scarf more, Ivan would be totally obliterated, just like he had been back in 1989! . . . But . . . Well, if it ended up like the Cold War again then that would be much less fun, so Alfred scrapped the idea, and decided that for the time being he would keep his title as champion scarf-lover private.

Still, staying in Arthur's place didn't seem like such a good idea at that moment, and Arthur seemed to share the opinion that running from your problems was always a good idea. Alfred could run away, too. That was easy enough. Run, Alfred, run, and don't ever look back.

'Give it a couple of days, maybe,' he reassured himself. 'Things'll fix themselves, right?' Wrong, and it definitely didn't take a genius to work that out. 'OK, so, maybe a week . . .'

"Alfred?"

The blonde's grip on the scarf grew protective, and he glanced back at Arthur as he said: "I'm sorry, I . . ." But he trailed off when his eyes came to rest on the Brit.

Arthur was holding two cups. Both seemed to contain incredibly hot drinks, the steam rising at a perfect rate into the air, and the mystery liquid inside gently swishing from side to side as the momentum gradually decreased. Alfred was lost for what to say. Firstly, what on earth had instigated this, and secondly, what the fuck?

"I ought to apologise really," Arthur said meekly. "I know I'm not exactly the greatest company at this time of year, but . . ." He stopped and sighed, trying to find his point. "What you said outside, I wasn't sure how to respond."

"Artie, I—"

"No, hold on," Arthur interrupted, "let me finish."

Alfred mumbled a sorry and told the Brit to proceed with a little shrug and tug at his lips.

"I wasn't sure how to respond, and I know that my running off was probably a really bad idea, but that was because a different one came to me in that instant," he explained. Well, it was supposed to be an explanation, but to himself, it sounded like pure rubbish . . . "And I thought that perhaps I could make up for all those times before in some way, to whatever extent, so . . . I made you a hot chocolate."

Alfred blinked. "A hot chocolate."

"Well, if we both mean a mix of chocolatey powder and milk, heated up, with those marshmallows and cream you like on top, then yes," Arthur said. "Hot chocolate."

He offered a mug to Alfred, who was overflowing with different thoughts and feelings ('Oh my God, he made hot chocolate— He remembers my favourite toppings— He made me hot chocolate—!'), and was eventually relieved of it when the American pulled himself together (to an extent) and took it from him.

"Thank you," he said with a small, grateful smile, and he glanced from the sugar mountain of foam to Arthur, who gave a little smile back.

"Anytime," he responded.

But he wasn't quite finished yet. While Alfred busied himself with the cream and— Oh Lord, he'd already managed to get some on his nose, why did he have to be so Alfred— worked on finding the buried marshmallows, Arthur pulled out something from his pocket. It was a picture, and it quickly grabbed the American's attention when he noticed how his peer had become very quiet.

"What're you looking at?" he queried through a slurp of chocolate.

"Just something I found last week," Arthur replied.

He had been searching for a moment to show Alfred his discovery ever since he came across it in an old photo album in the attic. Truth was, he had had it out for over a month, but it seemed a little silly to him to pull out such a photograph in mid-October. Nevertheless, it seemed that patience was indeed a virtue, and  with his smile growing modestly, he spun the picture around between his fingers to show Alfred.

His jaw almost completely dropped. "No way," he said, holding back an amazed gasp. He took the picture carefully in his hand and closely observed it. "Holy crap, where did you find this?!"

"Let's just say I have a collection of this sort of thing in the attic," Arthur answered, "but this one's my favourite."

"God, I mean . . ." Alfred barely stifled a laugh. "I was such an artist!"

"And a pain in the backside."

"You loved me really," the American said.

Arthur hummed. "The sad truth."

"This is incredible . . ."

Alfred was in total awe at the picture. It had been forever since he had last seen it, and even then, he had been so much younger he could barely remember it: both the photo and the day it had been taken. He turned it over and read over the neat ink on the back, and gave another quiet laugh, before looking back at the two of them in the picture. Well, the three of them, technically.

"Do you reckon there's enough snow outside?"

The American was pulled from his daze and looked back at Arthur, who was in turn glancing outside through the windows. "Enough snow?" he repeated quizzically. "For what?"

"To build a snowman, of course."

"Dude . . . Are you serious?" he asked, excite growing on his face.

"Yes, 'dude', I am very serious," Arthur stated.

And no more than five minutes later, a beaming Alfred, armed with a stomach full of hot chocolate, marshmallow fluff and cream and donning his precious scarf, was back outside in the snow, starting to make a pile in the middle of the garden. Nearby, Arthur was wrapped up snug in several layers and a bobble hat that Alfred had insisted he wore, and he was listening silently to Alfred explaining what to do.

As Alfred was describing the manner in which one made the body of the snowman, however, something hit him square on the shoulder and a wave of cold breezed over him. Startled, he searched in the direction the projectile had come from, ready to stop some sort of attack, only to see Arthur barely holding back his laughter. It had been so long since he had seen Arthur laugh properly . . . But that wasn't going to stop him!

"Alright," Alfred smirked, slowly scooping a ball of snow into his hands and moulding it together, "I really didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice, Iggy . . ." He stood up and turned to face him, a determined look on his face. "I, the United States of America, hereby declare war on Great Britain!"

And as snowballs began to fly across the garden with laughter and joy, back inside the house, a single photo rested safely on a windowsill. A perfect memory preserved.

For ever and always.

~ x ~

Alfred's first British Snowfall!
Wishing you a Merry Christmas,
from Alfred, Iggy and 'Twiggy'
x x x