❝you better pledge your allegiance, you're not the only one❞

[eugenides]

listen up forefathers, i'm not your son | hetalia | france, america | 1000 words | g | in progress

July 4th, 1886 – Liberty Island, New York

Construction won’t technically be complete for another few months, but Alfred’s never really been one for patience anyway. Plus, he’s sure that there’s some rule or other that says it’s okay to have a party in a statue that’s ninety-six percent complete, as long as it’s your birthday.

Plus, as the sun sets over the island, the statue really does look beautiful—copper dyed orange and green as the light shifts over the ocean. Alfred leans back in the grass, arms stretched behind his head as he sighs in contentment. This year is definitely going to be the best yet.

“I see you’ve finally finished work on the good mademoiselle,” a voice says from somewhere above him. Alfred doesn’t bother craning his neck to look at Francis, just chuckles.

“Yeah, well—next time you give me an awesome present, maybe you could put it together first?” He doesn’t mention that New York had almost given up on the statue, the cost of it draining the state’s resources far quicker than more could be raised.

Francis tuts, and then shifts to sit beside Alfred. He’s holding a bottle of wine, two goblets. “Would you have come to Paris and carried her across the Atlantic, then?”

That doesn’t seem like a particularly fun concept, so Alfred just shrugs—which requires a bit of maneuvering, given the position of his arms. Eventually he hoists himself up into a seated position, and glances at Francis with a sly grin.

“I think you’re missing the point of giving gifts. You’re supposed to put it together, drop it off… y’know, all of it.”

Francis laughs, deep and rich. Like the other nations America had invited over, he’d arrived early this morning, but somehow looks no worse for wear—he’s always flawlessly elegant, wears waistcoats and silk ties like he was born in them. Alfred has a lot of opinions about Francis, and France, and the French—but a part of him always feels hopelessly young next to the other man.

“So, one hundred and ten,” Francis says, as if he’s testing out the idea. He pauses to pour the wine, hands Alfred a glass. “That’s quite an accomplishment, mon grand.”

Or maybe it’s just the pet names, Alfred thinks. He quirks a grin, tilts his hands to let the wine move around in his goblet. “Yeah, I like to think so,” he says, with typical brashness. But then, a moment later—“But I bet it doesn’t seem like much, to you geezers over in Europe.”

Francis feigns offense, blue eyes wide and the angle of his eyebrows severe. “I can’t speak for others,” he says, he even though he often does, “but I prefer to stay young. I’m not even one hundred yet, myself.”

Now Alfred laughs openly. “But you’re getting there—gotta think of something special to celebrate, don’t you?”

“Oh, I have a few things in mind,” Francis replies. He takes a long sip of his drink, the sunset filtering through the red of the wine. “But today is your day, cher. We should talk about you.”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but Alfred appreciates the attention. Even though his relations with Arthur are improving, July 4th is always a bad day for them. Matt’s caught in between, and though he helps Alfred celebrate there’s a staleness there. There are others, of course—his boss, his people—but sometimes he feels like anyone he’s known for any real length of time eventually starts to resent him.

So Alfred sips his wine, swallows his small smile. “Thanks, Francis,” he says, sincerely.

Francis stops sipping at his wine, tilts his head and gives Alfred a searching look. “Of course.” He’s quiet a moment, then says, “Of course, I could reminisce about many of your birthdays—but you may not appreciate that.”

“Why not?” Alfred says, maybe a bit too quickly. “I’m the best, I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Francis licks the wine from his lips, lifts his head and arches a brow at Alfred. “Mm-hmm,” he says, noncommittally. “Shall we speak of 1778, then?”

“What about it?” Alfred says, wracking his memory. It was the Revolution, of course, but he’d spent so much time going back and forth from the battlefield, to Philadelphia, to…

“You were in Paris, remember? With those ambassadors of yours—Benjamin, and the other?”

“John. John Adams.” It’s not lost on Alfred that he’d lost John on July 4th, too. But it’s depressing to dwell on, so he doesn’t.

“Ah, of course!” Francis says, like he’s had an epiphany. “And the lovely Abigail.”

Alfred smiles crookedly. Francis loads every remark with something suggestive, and though the Adams had never been great favorites in Paris, no one was immune to Abigail’s particular brand of New England charm.

“So we were in Paris,” Alfred says, waving a hand and sloshing wine onto the grass. “And…?”

“Well, you were so young,” Francis says, as though that explains everything. “Usually, when I entertain someone in Paris for the first time, there is… a certain ritual.”

Alfred has a feeling he knows what that ritual is, and he feels the heat rise in his cheeks. “Oh my god, Francis, I was fighting a war— I wouldn’t have even been in Europe if I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t needed my money and guns and ships so terribly, no?” His voice is only lightly teasing, but Alfred still stiffens. He hates relying on people, has never really gotten over the fact that it was French guns and Hessian soldiers and Dutch coin that helped him win his first war. He knows the truth of it, beyond that—the help from other nations was material, but it was really George and John and the others who’d won him his freedom. (And himself, of course. He could be his own hero, too.)

But Francis is still speaking, remembering idly—“Anyhow, there you were. Certainly bigger than the last time I’d see you, but still so terribly young. And then there was your John, and Madame Abigail, looking at me like I was going to defile you if they left us alone together. Like they were your overprotective parents.”

Francis laughs, at that—but Alfred just smiles, because he remembers feeling like he had a family, that was absolute and unqualified and his.