A Price to Pay

Don't worry, it's fine

"Dear God, Francis. What did I do to the lad that could have lead to this?" he choked out, face burried in his hands. France rubbed the Englishman's back reassuringly.

"There's no way you could have seen this coming, nor could you have prevented it. It's natural for a country to do this kind of thing, especially when they have as much power as your little Afred does."

"But I thought I'd raised him to be better than we were when we were young!" he wailed, throwing himself on the other, a sob tearing out of his throat.

"Artie, what are ye carryin' on about? Ya alright?" Scotland asked, leading two others into the room, shutting the door and shedding their coats and shoes. They all went over to the distressed nation, taking up positions on all open sides of him.

"Didn'ya hear Scotty? 'is boy almost-"

"Don't you 'ave any decency, ya numpty? Shove a cock in it, why don't ya."

"Boys," Francis cut in, "This is not helping."

"What did I do wrong?" Arthur's question was posed open. Anyone could answer. No one did. "Did I not care enough?"

"Honestly I think ya care too much, ya know?" Wales hummed, stroking his hair.

England wiped at his eyes, looking up at his younger brother. "What- what do you mean?"

"He's a nation that came from you, nitwit," the Irishman yawned, flopping on the couch. "And he beat ya when you were in your height o' power, so obviously this was gon' 'appen."

"I hate to agree wit' those two, little brother," Scotland chimed, "But I'm thinkin' they're right. You weren't exactly the most well behaved nation for a while there."

"Putting it lightly, anyways."

"But to put it realistically, you fucked the entire continents of Asia, Africa, and North America."

Allistor and Seamus snickered, while Wales just smiled and France stared at each of them in concern. England gave them all a watery smile. "I think you all might just be right."

"What, that you sleep around?"

England broke into a coughing fit that melted into quiet laugher. France sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes and carding a hand through his hair. "So, for what reason are you three blessing us with your presence?"

"Oh right!" Wales perked up, fidgeting in his seat excitedly. "We're planning on talking to Little Alfred and seeing if we can do anything to make 'im talk to you again."

"As much as I don't like you, I don't wanna watch ya sob pitifully into your tea all day like ya've been doin."

"And as your elder brother I can't just let you be miserable."

"Are you sure that'll help? What if he doesn't want to speak with him?" France was concerned about the plan. As much as he fought for peace and love among everyone, he didn't want to try to force anything like this. He thought that this time they might need something more than just a little push and a few words.

"Aye, we thought about that."

"And we figured that if Alfred didn't want t' talk, then we'd think of something else."

"That boy is forgiving; far too much for his own good. The only one we'd have trouble with is this one," Wales pointedly nodded to their blond brother.

"I'd love to talk to my boy again," England stuttered out hurriedly. He slumped over, elbows resting on his knees. "But I think I've really done it now. There's only been a few times when he wouldn't speak with me, but they lasted for years. Decades, even. I don't think that he'll just blow this off so quickly."

"Now what makes you say that? Surely it couldn't have been that bad, could it?" Seamus sounded concerned, although for whom was unclear.

"I broke him, Seamus. He had a- no, his gun, his prize revolver, to my head. His eyes, they were dead. I wasn't seeing Alfred. I don't know who that was."

The nations that hadn't been present at the time shared a collective gasp. Knowing that it had gotten so out of hand that he had summoned his weapon brought the whole exchange into a new light.

All nations have an ability to summon one weapon as a primary line of defense. It would have had to have meant something to them at some point in their lifetimes; it would have to hold it's own place in their very being. For the older countries, it is almost always a melee type. For England it was a finely made sword, crafted by his own hands as most others' were, with a worn red handle and silver cuff that he had used to take down the Spanish Armada, many years ago. For America is was an old Colt revolver with a polished wood handle, imbedded with white marble and had his initials engraved on the barrel. He treasured it more than almost anything else he owned.

And he had almost shot it.

"Oh." That was the only thing that any of them could think to say.

Wales, the first to wake from the stupor that the new information had brought on them, clapped his hands together. "Well," he said, "I still think that we can fix this if we try."

"I suppose you could. I know I've taken my blade to Angleterre before and we're quite fine still."

"I don't know what you're talking about, frog," Arthur spat irritabely.

"Artie, please. We just watched you cry on the man's shoulder."

"I'd say that there's no need to try to save face after that, but there wasn't any face to be saving before that."

"So are we gonna do this or nah?"

Arthur nodded. "It's worth a shot, I suppose."

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