I know I should be writing other things, but I got bored on a bus ride so I wrote this.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters!

"Dude, are you sure this is safe?" he called out to the other.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," England replied. He had to raise his voice some, but the point still go across. "I've done this far too many times to miss, America."

The taller blond crossed his arms over his chest and let out a "humph", which ended up being a bad idea. The shiny red apple that sat atop his head shifted a bit and threatened to fall. Without the assistance of his hands, America tried to steady the fruit on his noggin. Once stable again, the blond heard a slight giggle. His eyes targeted the Brit to see him trying to keep himself together, which wasn't working.

"I wouldn't jostle around too much, love. I can hit my mark, but moving targets have more unpredictable outcomes when it comes to aim," England said as he notched an arrow to his bow.

"Whatever, dude. But if you hit me you owe me!"

"I won't. . ." England muttered as he pulled back the string until it was align with his mouth. It had been far too long since he's done this; give or take a few years, which was longer than he would've liked.

Even from this distance, America couldn't help but notice the beauty of the bow — and by extension, the archer as well. It was a modern hunting bow that was also used in a lot of the Brit's archery events. Seeing such a weapon in the other blond's hands was such an alluring sight, America almost forgot it was being aimed at him.

England took a deep breath; in through his nose and out through his mouth. He calmed his heart rate and blinked slowly. Yes he has done this more times than he can count, but it was always at a person he didn't care about as much as America. He knew he wouldn't miss, how could a pro like him miss? But there was always that smig of doubt. . .

Without another thought, England let go of the arrow and let it fly. It cut through the wind as it rocketed to its destination in a satisfying whistle. America saw the projectile getting closer and closer, and as it did his doubt kept getting further and further away. The thought of an arrow coming towards one is a thought of a crazy person, but he supposes that he is a bit crazy. But that did t stop the bead of sweat that rolled down his face.

With a satisfying thunk, the apple fell from America's head an into the ground. The blond looked down a the fruit and picked it up with a smirk on his face. The arrow cut right through the apple and was lodged in it halfway. The most impressive part: the arrow hit the apple dead center. England managed to get a bullseye from that far away and at a fruit no less.

America yanked the arrow out and whistled towards the Brit. Pointing the arrow at him he said, "Okay. I gotta admit, that was pretty badass."

As the American talked — and tossed up apple in the air for the sheer reason of entertainment — England made his way across the lawn and towards the other blond. A smirk never left his face as he walked over and linked his arm with the taller man. The two then made their way, in a casual stroll, towards England's manor.

"Naturally," the Brit says, his ego dripping from the words. "Although," he added, "it's a shame the sport isn't as rigorous as it once was."

"What do you mean?" America asked as he raised a brow.

"Well, back in the day, archery wasn't such a stationary thing."

"Oh, you mean like shootin' from a horse? Heh, that reminds me of this one movie Pixar made . . ."

The gentleman scoffed, "Well, it's something like that. I'm referring more towards combat —"

"Oh! Like in the Avengers? Like Hawkeye? Man, that dude is so cool~!" The American sang.

With a sigh, England stopped the other nation. "That's not exactly what I meant. I'll just show you what I mean."

The smaller blond grabbed onto America's hand and lead him away from the manor and towards a shack. It wasn't anything special, in fact it was quite old, but it held many memories. The shed, although, was quite large and one can only guess all the goodies that lied inside. It was actually quite like America's storage closet (the one that England doesn't know at all. Nope, not at all!).

With a bit of effort — for the hinges were old and rusted — England opened the door and was greeted with dust, darkness, and a damp rotting smell. America didn't follow the older nation inside the shack, but he held into England's bow and quiver for him as he rummaged around the small room. Also, quite frankly, the younger didn't really want to follow the Brit. The shack was old and smelled horrible. The fact that it could be haunted didn't cross the blond's mind at all, nope, not at all (England had a track record for housing spirits, welcome or not). Plus, if the shed did collapse, then America could swoop in and totally be England's hero! It wasn't that he was afraid of the shack, not at all!

While the larger blond waited outside, England made his way towards the back of the shed. There wasn't a lot if light, but the cracks in the wood was enough for the Brit to watch his step and not trip over anything. Walking around chests, boxes, and such he found himself facing the bak wall that acted like a display for weapons. All hung up neatly on the walls were various weapons from various time periods. Just looking at all the artifacts — both in tact and falling apart — the Brit couldn't help but let his mind wonder down memory lane.

He ran his fingers over a dented and blood stained sword. The steel was quite old and could be replaced — but over England's dead body — but the hilt was the true treasure. A beautiful and intricate piece; it winded and twisted over the hilt that resembled a golden snake greatly. The leather grip was warn but the hilt still held some of its old shine. His fingers left a trail as he collected the dust onto his skin. He remembered beating France's asses with that sword, and it definitely served him well in his pirating years.

England surveyed the other antiques — he notably skipped the old, dirtied musket — and went towards his older weapons. Covering part of the left side of the wall if weapons were bows. The blond had quite the collection of archery bows that he's gathered over the years.

If England was thrown into a battle of sorts, but not a war of course, the blond would grab his bow and arrows over some silly gun any day. There was just a certain elegance behind archery that he simply loved, and he most definitely loves it when he hits his mark. That feeling will triumph over shooting a bullet any day.

Grazing his fingers over the bows, the blond settled his hand over an old, wooden bow. It was one of the first he's ever received. It was quite aged but it did the job swimmingly. The bow was made of curved, light brown wood. The material wasn't heavy in the slightest, which was good for battle, but was sturdy enough where it wouldn't break. On the sides of it, an intricate and Celtic carvings stretched down the wood. The pattern weaved in and out of itself, and in the center, a Celtic bird was engraved.

England plucked the bow off the wall and gripped the familiar weapon. He tugged on the string — which wasn't as old as the bow itself — and noted that it would need to be tightened in the future, but it will do for now.

Satisfied with his pick, England weaved his way out of the shack and back into daylight. America was patiently waiting outside with his other bow an quiver in hand. He looked a bit paler than usual, but the older ignored it.

England placed a peck on the taller's cheek and snatched his quiver from his hands. With a smirk, England motioned for the American to follow, which he did like a love sick puppy — which was an accurate description.

"Where we goin' now?" the taller blond impatiently asked as he intertwined his pressed his body towards England's.

"Into the wood," the Brit answered simply.

"To grandmother's house?" America replied cheekily.

The smaller blond couldn't help but smile at the question, but tried to fight it off his face. He nudged the other with his shoulder and all America could do was laugh.

The two ventured into the small thicket of trees that was right behind the Brit's manor. It made for a nice walking trail with its lush shrubbery and soothing stream. The two walked and and hand for a bit before they came to where a tree has fallen onto the path. The Brit then released the other's hand and put his quiver to the ground, after he took five arrows from it.

America stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, as he watched his British boyfriend take step a few paces away from him. He leaned against one of the trees, opposite of the fallen wood where England was headed straight towards.

Taking a deep breath, the Brit notched one of the arrows to the bow. His back was facing America, but he could picture the blond perfectly: arms crossed or in his pickets, probably leaning against a tree, those brilliant blues staring at his back. . .

With a sharp intake of air, England quickly turned around and pulled the string back. He didn't hesitate to aim it at the American, which gave him a worried and confused look. Without a second thought, he released the arrow. Not even a second passed when England notched the second arrow and fired it, and he did the same for the remaining arrows in his firing hand.

Unlike America's first encounter with an arrowhead, having five of them coming right at him wasn't nearly as reassuring at before. He let out a manly yelp as the five impaled the three around him. The arrows were so close to hitting him, one even grazed, but didn't cut amazingly, his jacket. As soon as the arrows were stuck in the tree, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

England, on the other hand, was laughing. He used his bow as a sort of stand to hold onto as he doubled over with giggles. However, America wasn't nearly as amused. Sure it was freakin' awesome and badass as hell, but it was also freakin' scary! He could've died! Well, not really since he couldn't die, but he could've been mortally wounded!

"Dude!" the larger blond yelled. He was angry, but when he saw that adorable smile on England's face — him leaning on his bow and those gorgeous eyes looking into his — his anger melted away. Instead of yelling more, he sighed and said with renewed energy, "Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?!"

The Brit's smirk widened as he replied, "It's how everyone arched in the old days." He picked up his bow and made his way over to America, all the while, he continued, "Over time, the art was forgotten, and archery was reduced to what it's known today. Before it was such a beautiful and quick fighting style, but now it's just a stationary hobby."

"I think it's pretty cool!" America put in. He slung his arm over England's shoulders and picked up the quiver. He placed a kiss on his temple and lead the two out of the forest. As America continued, England plucked the five arrows from the tree and they continued back to England's manor. "I mean, it was so quick! I've never seen anyone do that before!"

"I told you, it's a lost art," England said with a shrug.

America didn't like the look on his face when he said that. It was like he was accepting the fact that something he loved would never come back. It was nostalgic yet bitter. He really didn't like that look.

Squeezing his shoulders, America said in a hopeful voice, "Can you teach me?"

A smile spread onto thin lips as England replied, "Yes. O-of course I'll teach you!"

The two sealed the deal with a kiss.

if you want to more about this archery style look up Lars Andersen. He's amazing! Thanks for reading and please leave a review telling me what you think ^^