Love Is War

Summary: When America was asked by England's boss to pick him up from a bar, he expected to be lugging a drunken Brit back to his house, not have to fight his way through a pit of punks and drag him off stage. Includes Punk!Iggy. USUK short one-shot.

A/N: Just a little one-shot to give me a break... Up next to be completed are chapter six of Soul Mate, and Lady Scribetracker's request. =3

Song used is my English dub of Love is War from the Vocaloid fan dub; I'm planning on doing a cover of it and posting it on YouTube sometime... What do you think?

America scratched the back of his head, wondering if he had the address of the place wrong. Wandering in and out of the door were the strangest assortment of people he had ever seen - a man with a purple Mohawk that had to be two feet tall (it hit the door frame when he walked into the club), a girl with so many piercings in her ears, you could barely see the outer rim of the body part.

Why the heck would Arthur be in a place like this?

America sighed, feeling slightly square next to these outrageously-dressed punks. The closest thing to 'punk' on his person were the holes in the knees of his jeans, worn there by frequent wear and tear. Granted, he wasn't wearing a suit and tie or something like that, so he supposed he could blend in all right with the crowd, if he had to.

England's boss had to be senile or something, though - what would stick-in-the-mud, boring, plain little Arthur being doing in a place like this? Arthur wasn't one for places like this, from what Alfred had seen - rather than going out on the town when Alfred came to town, he seemed to prefer to stay home and do other... "activities". They'd been officially dating since the early nineties, and Alfred was rather sure he knew his lover by now.

Alfred managed to get to the door and slip into the slightly run-down building with little trouble, other than a few raised eyebrows and a girl with a half shaved head wearing a choker with scary-looking spikes on it chuckling into a hand and asking if he was lost.

He glanced around, looking for Arthur along the bar. Knowing the Brit, he would be hugging a glass of whatever alcohol found him first, crying into it and sobbing over how America had left him two hundred and thirty-odd years ago.

Rolling his eyes when he didn't find him, Alfred continued to search around, wondering where the hell he could be hiding.

On stage (which was really just a separated-off area of floor), someone was tuning an electric guitar, testing out the strings with a quick chorus from 'Stairway to Heaven'. Seemingly satisfied with the tuning, the player began plucking out a few notes as Alfred continued to search for his big-brother-turned-lover.

The performer on stage began singing softly, their voice a low tenor, smooth and surprisingly pleasant.

"There is nowhere left for me to run, nowhere to escape from these feelings..."

Alfred jumped when the signer screamed into the microphone, holding the note surprisingly long. He looked towards the stage, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Arthur?" he managed to choke out.

"Gray clouds cover everything, dulling the monochrome clamor.

The sun casts its long shadows, and twilight begins to fade into the night sky.

Ah, as the world begins to blur.

Even then, is it okay to love you?

I know it, but... What am I supposed to do?

What can I do, how can I act...

What a fool... I am...!"

America's mind was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that England was in the punk bar after all. On top of that, his mind was about to short-circuit after seeing England doing at least three things he never would have thought of the Brit: playing guitar (and singing, he supposed), having fun doing something other than needlepoint, and wearing skinny jeans.

"Let's get this started! Love is a battle!

Just seeing you so happy makes me sick to my stomach!

Love based on selfish whims, it has to be a sin!

I'll make you understand these painful emotions of mine...!"

America ran a hand through his hair, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He couldn't help it. Seeing England like this - looking like a delinquent, his skinny jeans ripped strategically to show off small patches of alabaster skin, his hair arranged messy with streaks of red dye throughout it... Was that a piercing he saw in England's tongue? The thought made his cheeks light up like a Christmas tree.

"The megaphone that I screamed into is battered and broken now.

No matter what I do, you never bother to look my way anymore.

Ah, the sky is beautiful, though my emotions haven't become that yet.

I can't keep telling lies to myself about this--

What can I do, what should I say...?

I will not cry, I refuse, I cannot...

I LOVE YOU!"

Arthur's hands moved faster than Alfred could really keep track of, playing off the chords of the song flawlessly and easily, as if they were made to do this work. Alfred watched, transfixed, as Arthur entered the chorus once again.

"Into battle I go! Aiming for the heart!

Just remember that you are the one who decided this!

I show you just how I have no need for you anymore!

I'll show you that I'm much better off without you!

Get ready and attack!

Though I know it's clearly no use in the end, after all.

Love is nothing if not blind.

As I lie to myself I find your lips upon mine!"

Listening to the words was a little depressing, truth be told. He had no idea what England would sing a song like this for. He stepped forward, squeezing his way between the people packed into the tiny bar (honestly, didn't they have fire safety laws here? There was barely enough room to move in here). Eventually, he managed to get up to the front, where England was setting aside the abused and battered guitar the bar allowed patrons to use. England smiled a bit, devilishly. America counted nine piercings total - three in each ear, one on his right eyebrow, one on his tongue, and one on his lip. A girl shouted something at him, though America couldn't really make it out from the speakers, which were now blasting a punk-rock CD so loudly he was wondering how anyone could think in here.

England stuck his tongue out at her, a familiar expression falling onto his face - a smirk that always made Spain crouch into a ball in the corner of the room, crying about his lost Armada. America couldn't help but find this new side - the delinquent, slightly dangerous, "I'm-trouble-and-I-know-it" side - of England enticingly sexy.

He strode towards England, reaching the island nation in three strides, grabbed his wrist, and promptly dragged him out of the club, using the back exit on the other side of the stage. He heard a few complaints from some of the other bar patrons, but they soon went back to their own business, knowing some new entertainment would go up soon, anyways. He pushed the door open, tugging England into the back alley.

"What the bloody hell--Let go of me, you fucking--"

Alfred turned, pinning England against a nearby brick wall, and kissed him roughly, a hand wrapping around his lover, tangling his fingers in England's already messed-up hair.

England started at first, but eventually leaned into the kiss, wrapping his own arms around America's neck. America bit at England's lower lip a bit, and the smaller nation granted him entrance. America had to admit, the tongue piercing definitely was a turn-on, though he'd have to get used to it...

England pulled back for air. "Alfred, you're early," he said, flushed and slightly out of breath. "You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow night..."

America kissed the corner of England's mouth, and then leaned their foreheads together. "I couldn't wait. And your boss called me up. He said something about you going off with the Anarchists."

England chuckled. "That's rich, considering who I am."

America smirked a bit, pinching England's behind through the rough denim of his jeans. "Why don't you wear these around me?"

England slapped his hand away, faking irritation. "Hands off the merchandise," he replied teasingly. "And if you like these, you should see the leather ones."