AN: USUK/UKUS (I think I'm going to have both in this—ooh my first time writing USUK—exciting!) Pre-relationship. Both men have what they think is 'unrequited love' for the other. So cute. Embarrassment, misunderstandings, fluffy fluff, and then SEXY TIME! Rated M for yaoi, boys love, lots of language (America has a potty mouth!), references to masturbation, hardcore boy sex. Apologies for any OOC-ness.

Characters: England (Arthur Kirkland); America (Alfred F. Jones)

Other nations are mentioned or featured such as France (Francis), Canada (Matthew), Lithuania (Toris), Germany, Russia (Ivan), Prussia, Romano, Spain and Poland.

Relationships: USUK England/America (main);

There could be slight hints of Franada (Canada/France) if you want to take it that way (I look at it more as a friendship and they're just playing match-maker to their friends, but whatever you wish). Also mentions of a possible LietPol (Lithania/Poland) relationship.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or anything else pop culture-y that is discussed in this (such as Tombstone or Star Wars)—I just own the story. (If I did own Hetalia then you know damn well that America and England would be married in canon and they would hold hands every day…)

A Series of Unfortunate Outfits

The United States of America had a problem. A snarky, green-eyed, bushy eye-browed, gorgeous problem—and his name was Arthur Kirkland. England. The United Kingdom. Great Britain. And due to the United States' landmass, it was also a rather large problem; one that could be potentially awkward.

America was in love with England.

Alfred F. Jones was in love with Arthur Kirkland. In love. With England.

Desperately, hopelessly, passionately, irrevocably in love with his close ally.

This was a huge problem. Any time that America thought of the older blonde, he would get a goofy looking grin on his face and his eyes would glaze over. Due to the fact that he had a reputation for not taking anything seriously and since Alfred was pretty much constantly thinking about Arthur, most of the other countries just took that as his natural expression. America had been obsessed with England for so long that the dopey look on his face wasn't seen as anything out of the ordinary during meetings. And while America found most world meeting discussions to be stale and boring, he didn't really enjoy being thought of as an idiot simply because he was infatuated with Arthur Bloody Kirkland.

Poor Alfred was so in love with England that he really couldn't function around the older nation. He always said the wrong thing, or laughed at the worst possible moment, or wore the wrong tie—and it had been going on for years. America wasn't sure exactly when it had all started, but he knew that he definitely had a thing for England back during the World Wars. Unfortunately for Alfred, he also discovered around the same time that he was the most awkward person in existence when he had a crush on someone.

Since realizing that he was hopelessly in love with England, America's public persona at world meetings became more ridiculous by the decade. Alfred always wanted to make the best impression that he possibly could on Arthur, but that was easier said than done. Everything that he did either pissed England off, or made America look like a complete loser. He really did try—but Arthur just made him so nervous.

In an effort to preserve what was left of his dignity, America had perfected a plan to keep from making a complete fool of himself, and for the last few years it had been working beautifully. Whenever America knew that he was going to be around England, he would spend most of the previous evening giving himself a pep talk. Not just any run-of-the-mill 'you're the awesome and powerful US of A' kind of pep talk, mind you. It was a full on performance, guaranteed to make sure that even if he did screw up in front of Arthur, he wouldn't lose all of his considerable self-esteem.

The 'pep talks' consisted of America getting all dressed up in something of his that made him feel powerful and sexy and irresistible—the way that he wanted Arthur to see him—and acting out possible English Encounters in front of his mirror. Sometimes he put on his old military uniform, sometimes it was the vintage pin stripe suit that he used to wear in the twenties, occasionally it was football gear (the awesome American kind), complete with pads and helmet. Whatever he was feeling at the time, America would dig out the whole ensemble and make sure that he looked good.

Alfred knew that he was an attractive guy, and he had spent his immortal life in some pretty great places so he had a lot of clothes to choose from each time. The only thing he required was that he was dressed to impress before he would stand in front of his full-length mirror (don't judge, it sometimes came in handy during seduction), and rehearsed how his meetings with England may unfold.

Rehearsing an imaginary conversation with the nation that he was in love with may have been a little…odd…or perhaps dorky, but America swore by the outcome. He had managed to prepare himself enough that he could usually save the situation when he did something wrong, with England being none the wiser. As long as his little ritual kept working out for Alfred, he was going to keep on keeping on.

Starting the next morning, a conference of nations was meeting in New York City and since America was the host country, he had home field advantage. He planned on spending the time that he would save on travel by making sure he was the perfect, confidant image of a hero in time for tomorrow's meeting. This was excellent, due to the fact that the last time he had seen England he had accidentally insulted Arthur's fish and chips by innocently remarking that the chips seemed 'a little soggy, dude'; a comment that had earned him a whack upside the head. While he was happy that England's skin had touched his, he wasn't thrilled about being hit—not unless there was a safe word and England was naked, of course.

That little fantasy was just a pipe dream, America knew. He was confident that no matter how he felt about Arthur, there was no way that the British man would ever feel the same way about him. Arthur was just so closed off, and to be honest, rude—Alfred was pretty sure that England hated him and only tolerated his presence for the purpose of having a superpower for an ally. That thought should have cooled his emotions regarding England, but it did no such thing. America didn't care if England never saw him as anything but an annoying kid—Alfred loved him anyway.

Luckily, due to their 'special relationship' cultivated in the political arena, the two nations were practically inseparable if they were in the same time zone. England always said it was "to keep up appearances for the people" but America always indulged in the fantasy that it was really because England wanted to be around him. That was why he did it—nothing to do with the people and one hundred percent to do with how those big green eyes made him melt. The best part of having a 'special relationship' with England was that whenever the meetings were held in their respective countries, the two men stayed at each others home.

This was fantastic because it meant extra time to hang out with England, but it was also horrible because it meant that England would be in his house taking showers and sleeping and wandering around in his flannel pajama bottoms. Whenever Alfred knew that he would be sharing such close space with the love of his life, he had to step up his game to prepare himself for his inevitable awkwardness.

Armed with the advance knowledge that England would be there in the morning at seven am sharp and expecting tea and hospitality, America knew that tonight he would have to bring out the big guns—figuratively speaking—in order to make sure that he didn't do something horrifically embarrassing before Arthur had time to unpack.

America made the rounds to each room of his house to make sure that things were at least acceptable for company. He always took care to straighten up for England when the older man would visit, but he didn't wish to make it look as though he were trying too hard. In order to keep up the façade of not caring what Arthur thought of him, he would intentionally leave some things around the house messy—he knew that England loved to criticize him, so it worked out for the best. After artfully crumpling some fast food wrappers on the kitchen table and countering that action by making sure that the guest room had clean sheets, Alfred hurried upstairs to his room.

Flinging open his closet doors, America pulled a large army issue trunk out of the back and began digging through the contents. He knew exactly what he was looking for tonight. The past few weeks, he had been catching a lot of old westerns on the movie channels and the likes of Eastwood or the Duke were heavily influencing the young nation's thoughts at the moment. No one was more bad-ass than a cowboy. America should know—he cut quite a figure back in the eighteen hundreds chumming around with the likes of Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sometimes he missed those days. He didn't get much opportunity to play cards and drink like a fish for no reason, six-shooter strapped to his thigh, now a days. The last time he had tried to organize a poker party with some of the other nations just so he could break out the old cowboy hat, the night ended with quite a few bloody noses and for some reason Poland refused to speak to him for a few months afterward. No matter—tonight was just for America.

Hands grasping what he had been looking for, America pulled his old hat, vest and other assorted western accoutrements out of the trunk. Shaking the dust off of the fabric, he carefully laid the clothes out on his bed. Stripping off his usual worn t-shirt and jeans, America got down to his patriotic boxer briefs and placed the faded cowboy hat on his head. Spinning quickly toward the mirror, he stuck his fingers out in an imitation of a gun and growled "Fastest hands in the West" to his reflection.

Yeah, he still had it.

Arthur Kirkland was positively exhausted. He hadn't slept for over 36 hours and the fatigue was beginning to show on his pale face. Normally he had no trouble sleeping on planes, however, tonight, England had been busy going over his speech for the next day and re-checking his painstakingly researched note-cards. Plus, the fact that he was going to be in America's house within a few hours had the normally composed nation on edge.

England knew that the time was fast approaching when his secret would be out in the open. For god's sake, France knew. In fact, England was pretty sure that all of the nations knew—all of them except America. Poor, oblivious, ridiculous, beautiful America had no idea that England was in love with him; and had been for some time. England couldn't put an exact date on the moment when he realized that he loved America in that way, but he did know that during the nineteen forties, just about the only thing that kept him sane was admiring how nicely Alfred filled out his uniform.

Just thinking about the boy in dog tags, saluting was enough to send England running for his room and a little 'personal time.' Although, he did look dashing in a suit as well—the roaring twenties were testament to that. And even if he hadn't thought of America in a romantic sense in the eighteen hundreds, England couldn't deny that the Western Expansion and the ensuing 'cowboy-up' persona the young nation had adopted during that time, wasn't delicious. Something about Alfred in spurs was just too much to handle.

Remembering that fateful poker night a few years ago and how damn fine America had looked in his cowboy hat, had a rush of heat spreading across the blonde's face. Fanning himself with his notecards, England shifted uncomfortably in his small airplane seat and hummed low in his throat. Everyone at the party had been a little bit in lust with Alfred that evening, England was sure of that. Between the lewd comments from France regarding America "being ridden like a stallion" and Lithuania outright staring, causing a jealous Poland to throw all the cards on the floor and storm out—Arthur knew that none of the other nations saw America as a child after that night.

Shaking his head and blinking harshly, Arthur knew that he had to stop his fantasizing in so public a place or he would find himself in a rather ungentlemanly predicament. And there was no way that he was going to hop in an airplane loo for a quick wank. Not when they were sitting at the gate, waiting to disembark. He could most certainly wait until later tonight, make some excuse to Alfred about needing to shower off his travels and indulge himself in the American's shower. Simple. Elegant. Didn't involve having an erection in public.

The passenger next to him stood and grabbed their bag, allowing England to shimmy out of his seat and take his place in line for the exit. Pulling out his phone, Arthur checked to see if he had received any messages during his flight. There was one from his boss, reminding him to check in when he landed—couldn't have the personification of England going missing from the Prime Minister, now could we? There was also a voicemail from France detailing a rather disturbing dream he had about Spain, tomato paste, and a bull-fighter's costume. England pressed the delete button on that one quickly; he didn't need to hear about Francis' perverted fantasies.

The text messages were more of the same. Two from France adding more unwanted details about his dream and a third asking if Arthur thought the nocturnal adventures with Spain meant that France was beginning to like the brunette man once again. Unfortunately, there was nothing from Alfred. England was a bit worried about the young nation's silence, especially since he had called and left him multiple voicemails informing Alfred that he would be taking an earlier flight and arriving tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Usually the American was glued to his phone, so England was a bit curious as to why he hadn't received any acknowledgment about the change in plans. Well, he trusted that it wasn't too much of an inconvenience. What would Alfred be doing tonight anyway? They had a meeting in the morning. Surely the boy was preparing his presentations or picking out a suit or…at least just trying to get a good night's sleep. Doubtful as all of those scenarios were, England could still hope.

Making his way toward the baggage claim, England decided to send a quick reply to France in regards to his disturbing dream recollection. Dear lord, Arthur hoped that Francis wasn't rekindling his feelings for Antonio. They were a disaster to everyone around them—as proven by the Portuguese Restoration War. Plus, England had a pretty good idea that Spain's possessive boyfriend, Romano wouldn't be too excited to hear that France had designs on the Spaniard. At the very least, he would make sure to spend some time talking with Francis at the meeting tomorrow and making sure that the 'baguette stayed inside the cloak,' so to speak.

Gathering his luggage off of the baggage carousel in record time, England wandered out front of the airport, and waited in the queue for a taxi. He used the few minutes of downtime to send a text to America inquiring if the younger nation was at home and expecting him. When his turn arrived, Arthur handed his bags to the driver and slid in the backseat, allowing himself to collapse against the sticky leather, overcome with the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He didn't want to admit it, but he was getting older. Not as old as the Frog, mind you, but he was beginning to feel the weight of the centuries.

Arthur gave Alfred's address to the cab driver and felt his eyes begin to flutter shut as the taxi pulled onto the interstate. He still hadn't heard from America. No matter, if he arrived and Alfred wasn't there to meet him, Arthur wasn't worried. It couldn't be that hard to find a spare key if push came to shove. He knew that Alfred left one out for him in case he ever decided to drop by. And knowing America, he probably hid it in the most obvious spot possible—under a flower pot or the welcome mat most likely. England rested his head against the cool glass of the window and let sleep overtake him. He just hoped that he didn't dream about America during his taxi nap—explaining to the driver about any unconscious moans would be most embarrassing.

AN: Setting the stage for awkward-reviews are appreciated (let me know what you think)!

:) I adore these two dorks WAY too much!