Hidden In Plain Sight

Chapter 3

UnluckyWriter: Oh dear lord…I screwed up so BAD on the last chap! *inaudible sob* I shame myself…that's it, no more writing late into the night!…But if I don't…then I won't find inspiration to type…what is with me and no win situations…?

Thanks for the lovely reviews, dear readers! I love you people! X3 143~!

And I promise, ONE day, I WILL fix all the darn mistakes in every chapter! I will! It won't be now…or tomorrow…and possibly not a month…since I get uninspired easily…I'll do it later. 8D

Rating: M

Warnings: Only this. You don't like, just hit the back button several times, okay? Oh, and bad writing ahead! And an unoriginal idea-plot. That, too.

Disclaimer: See reference to CHAPTER ONE.

Pairings: USUK, past America/World, and various others…

"I haven't been back here since what? 1990-something?" Alfred said, laughing as he shifted the paper bag items better in his arms. "And this place still looks the same! Jeez, Iggy, you gotta spruce your house up a bit, yeah?" He nudged an elbow against a wall. "This place is so tiny!"

Arthur's house was made of red brick, two-stories tall, and quite humble, inside and out, consisting of soft colors, comfortable chairs, large libraries, and the like. Alfred's house was completely the opposite. It was basically a mansion, filled with the most modern technology, games, and styles known to mankind today, and other various things that teenagers enjoy having in a spoiled like fantasy.

Needless to say, Alfred would think Arthur's house was small and boring.

England glared at the oblivious American that had just insulted his house, quite miffed. "Quit your yakking and go put the bloody groceries in the kitchen." And adding as a side note, muttered. "Insensitive git."

America cocked his head slightly. "What was that, Iggy?"

"Never you mind," Arthur replied, slipping his shoes off and setting them on their respective rack. "And don't call me that."

"Yeah, yeah, you know you love it when I call you by your nicknames," America called back teasingly, already accommodating the Briton's kitchen area and sorting through various meats and vegetables.

The American paused when, all of a sudden, he heard England…addressing someone else that wasn't him, in the house.

"Flying Ming Bunny!" The Englishman's voice was warm and familiar at the name. "Be a friend and turn on the radio, will you please?"

'Flying Mint Bunny?' The bespectacled nation thought incredulously. 'Who the heck's Flying Mint- oh. That guy. England's imaginary friend.' America had to shake his head sadly, pitying his elder companion. 'Poor guy, old and senile, and doesn't even know that his imaginary friends just aren't real.'

"Sorry to break it to you, Iggy," America said, sticking his blonde head outside the kitchen door and staring at England in a morose sort of way.

"Sorry to break it to me what…?" Arthur questioned suspiciously, disliking the American's look of pity.

Alfred sighed, not sure if telling England the real truth of his 'imaginary friends' was safe for the elder's sanity…and promptly dismissed the thought and decided to tell the other anyway.

"Well, I'm really sorry to say that your 'Flying Mint Bunny' character, isn't real-" America started to say when he was interrupted by the radio playing.

'I turn my music up,

I got my records on

I shut the world outside

Until the light comes on

Maybe the streets alight,

Maybe the trees are gone-'

America gaped wordlessly at England.

Arthur merely nodded. "This isn't such a bad song," the Briton admitted, right foot subconsciously tapping to the beat. "Very catchy, if I do say so myself."

"No! Not that!" Alfred burst out, waving his arms in a fidgety fashion. "I mean, Artie, you were the one that turned on the radio…right?"

The rainy island nation gave him a deadpanned sort of glare. "You clot. Did you see me going to the radio that's in the kitchen, and turning it on?"

The bright nation gave the Brit a baffled look. "Then who turned the radio on?"

"Flying Mint Bunny, of course," Arthur said, frowning. "That was who I was calling to, yes."

Another baffled look. "Babe…Flying Mint Bunny is not real. This makes it so that said nonexistent person can not turn on the radio." With that word, the American poked his head back in the kitchen.

Arthur followed, seething. "You idiotic git! Flying Mint Bunny is too, real! You're just not pure enough to see him! And he's a flying rabbit, not a person!" He stepped foot into his food preparation area and stopped short. "…What the hell are you doing…?"

Alfred smirked, pointing accusingly at the ancient-looking radio. "I know your secret, Iggy!" The glasses-wearing nation announced triumphantly.

England felt a headache coming on. "And what is that?"

"It's voice-activated," the younger country said simply, gleeful. "And the password's 'Flying Mint Bunny'." He turned his attention to the radio. "Flying Mint Bunny! Turn off the radio."

The radio continued its singing.

Alfred's face fell. "But-" A light bulb seemed to ding above his head. "Artie! You say it! Only your voice works with the password!"

"Really, Alfred…" England said dryly. "What makes you think my old radio is voice-activated?"

"'Cause no one turned it on, that's why!" America said determinedly. "I bet the reason why it looks like an old dino is because you're hiding how high tech it is!"

"And why would I hide that fact…?"

"Because you're scared that I would make my own voice-activated radio and become rich off of it. You're jealous of my awesomeness."

"…You're an idiot."

"No, I'm brilliantly amazing," America retorted, then his lower lip jutted out in a pout of sorts, and he widened his eyes, making the blue shine. "Come oooonnn, Iggy~!" He begged, tone seductive, fluttering his light lashes coyly. "Don't you think I'm the most hottest, gorgeous hunk of smexyness ever?" Before his one audience could put in a word, he answered instead. "And since I am the most hottest, gorgeous hunk of smexyness ever, you have to listen to me. And so, saying that, I command you to turn off the radio for your hero!"

If the American had used his 'sexy-pout' on anyone else, they would have agreed that yes, yes the blonde was the most hottest, gorgeous hunk of smexyness ever, and would've gladly done anything the latter asked.

Frankly, Arthur thought Alfred just looked highly ridiculous. But since the American had insulted him, the house, and his sanity, he might as well pay back in full… And what better way than by playing along with the younger nation's 'wooing' games for a little while? His way, of course.

England strode over to America, lips pursed.

America halted his 'heroism' and stood still, feeling unreasonably nervous as he watched the Briton traipse slowly over before stopping in front of him, emerald eyes glittering mischievously.

Arthur leaned up, putting his lips directly close to the American's ear, whispering, "My hero, hmm?" To add to the sudden change of mood, he placed a light hand on the taller's rain-soaked chest, pressing down gently, insistently.

Alfred's mouth quickly dried at the feel of Arthur's warm, moist breath flowing against his ear, the heated hand on his shirt-covered skin pushing down, and holy fuck- this was definitely not the England he knew, this new person was- was-

England leaned back, eyes hooded slightly, the green that peeked out darkened in almost a sinfully appraising way, and America felt the latter's breath over his lips as the elder said, tone coming out in a cat-like hiss, "Command me, will you…?"

Alfred shivered at the latter's words, speechless, baffled. This wasn't the stuffy old England he remembered, for God's sake! So who the hell was this?

Arthur smirked at his former colony's shocked look, inwardly laughing at the turned tables. The Brit than decided to step it up a notch, moving closer and practically invading the taller nation's bubble space even more, if possible, green eyes locked onto bright blue, lips a few millimeters apart as the two breathed in each other's air. "Alfred…"

America gulped, gaze shifting down to the advancing Englishman's lips, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable outcome…

What he didn't expect was hearing an almost inaudible 'click', the music from the radio cutting abruptly off, and England stepping back, arm swinging back from behind America's form hiding the radio to his side, change of mood saying, "There. I turned it off."

Alfred felt his eyelids snap up as he stared in a wordless way at the elder. "What…you…"

England raised a dark eyebrow. "Hmm? Why so shocked, America? I did what you asked and turned off the radio, did I not?" With that answered, the Briton promptly pivot on heel and began striding away, whistling a soft, jaunty tune.

America felt his cheeks warming up, and he brought a gloved hand to his lips, watching his ex-guardian's receding back with wide eyes.

What the hell just happened?

For one moment, Alfred had thought that England was-

The American shook his blonde head furiously.

No! England was not hot, no matter how dark and glittering his eyes were, or his playful smirk, or his different attitude, England was still England. The old, stuffy, stubborn, boring, and bi-polar nation that America had always known…

Or thought he knew.

Years has passed since he and Arthur had spent quality time together, people change over time, so how well did he know England now…?

Thinking that, America suddenly remembered how close the smaller country was, how warm he had felt, how close he was to his lips, which he had expected England to- the flush on the bespectacled nation's cheeks grew more pronounced. Why the heck was he embarrassed? Well, he was trying to woo the old guy, and kissing's involved in said wooing, so that's the reason why he's embarrassed! That he didn't grab the elusive chance and leaned forward to kiss England! Duh.

A pang went through his chest, and for a split second, Alfred wondered somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of his mind if that truly was the reason why and not because of a different reason, but he merely dismissed the forgettable thought. It wasn't like he had a crush on England or whatever, even if the other was somehow surprisingly slightly attractive.

America nodded triumphantly at his thought process, blush now nonexistent. To successfully woo England and get into his pants, Alfred must take every single chance to kiss him! The incident of 5 minutes ago was an epic fail, but he learned from his mistakes and it won't happen again. He will win, because really, all heroes always win, right? Right.

So with that mental pep talk, American turned, determined to woo England like a boss and get him into bed, when he saw said nation shift, setting something down on the dining table.

Curious and 'heroic goal' temporarily forgotten, the bright blonde went over to said table to investigate the mystery object. Seeing it up close, he froze, staring.

"Hey, Artie…" America said, frowning a little in confusion. "Why is there dog crap on a plate…?"

Arthur, who was still smug from tricking Alfred, was currently putting some cans in the pantry. "Hmm? What do you mean?"

"There's dog shit on the plate," America told him, eyeing the plate distrustfully.

He swore on all the hamburgers he owned that the dog shit was speaking to him with a nasty brown mouth, and call him insane, but it was true.

"I'm not dog shit!" The dog crap screeched, sounding quite angry, "You want to die, git?"

Okay, he was seriously getting a little scared, since the supposedly inanimate dog feces could talk, and in a British accent, too? Now that he thought about it, the dog crap voice sounded suspiciously like-

"That's not dog shit, you idiotic Yank!" England all but roared a second time, the first time being after he heard America calling something 'dog shit on a plate'. "You uncultured wanker!"

"What?" Alfred protested, holding up his hands defensively. "It looks like dog shit! Okay, sure, I can't smell it, but I'm 100% sure that that thing would smell like dog shit!"

"It's not!"

"Fine! Than what is it, old man?"

Arthur glared at him frostily. "It's dinner."

Alfred made a face. "You lie."

The bushy-browed nation scowled. "Fine. It's actually leftovers. But I refuse to let good food go to waste, so we're eating it."

Alfred gaped at him in horror. "No! That thing can't possibly be food! I refuse to eat it!"

"Then starve for all I care," England retorted, already beginning to set spoons and forks on the table. "But I assure you, that 'thing' you affectionately named it, is food."

America crossed his arms, squaring his shoulders challengingly. "Oh yeah? Well, what is the food, then? Since I'm blind to the sight before me, you can tell me what it is."

The Englishman had to falter, because honestly, after the things that happened today, he had forgotten the daily routines from yesterday. "Well," he began, looking at the 'food' contemplatively. "I'm quite sure that that piece right there is a bit of roast beef."

His younger counterpart gave him an unimpressed look. "Which piece? Because everything on the plate looks the same, Artie."

England bristled at the nickname. "Don't call me that, you twat!" he snapped, grabbing a fork and stabbing it viciously into the 'roast beef'. "That's roast beef! It's not my fault that you're legally blind!"

"Uh huh, right," America fake agreed before snatching up a spoon and pointing it accusingly at another section of the plate. "Then what's that?"

Arthur faltered once again, just wondering at what the hell he ate yesterday. "Er…I'm quite sure that that's potatoes."

"'Quite sure,'" Alfred quoted snottily, "That makes it all better. If you can't even tell what kind of food that is, then it's no longer food! We're not eating it."

"Who's asking for your opinion!" England exclaimed heatedly, "You're in my house, without permission, so saying that, you have no right to tell me what to do or not to do! No objections!"

"Objection!" Alfred piped up, clearly ignoring Arthur's demands. "And you invited me into your house! That's permission right there! So I do, too, have a right! And I say we don't eat that shit, since you can't even discern it from feces to real food!"

"That is real food," England growled, feeling like he was about to go insane.

"You can't cook, Artie," America told the latter sadly, shaking his head. "That's why you can't see the light, the meaning of real food." He fixed the other a determined blue-eyed look. "That's why I'll help lead you down the road of good cooking so that you can finally eat your grub without dying."

"Oh, screw you," Arthur said disgustedly. "I can too cook! And I'll prove it to you by eating the potatoes and not dying!"

With that declaration, the Briton therefore proceeded to yank the fork out of the roast beef with a sickening 'squich', and scoop up some potatoes, bringing the 'food' laden dining utensil to his mouth to eat said 'food'.

Alfred's eyes bugged out and he almost hyperventilated when, once again, he swore he saw the shit that was on the Brit's fork jeering at him, "Mwahahaha! We won! Your England will eat us and die! Mwahahahahaha~!"

In horror, America shrieked, "NO!", lunged over the dining table, and with another wild cry, slapped the fork out of Arthur's hand.

"What the bleeding fuck?" England hollered, leaping to his feet as his fork and potatoes flew elsewhere. "What the hell, America?" His stopped short, eyes wide. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Put that plate down!"

"Saving you," Alfred answered calmly, holding the cause of the elder's distress. "And to do that, I have to dispose of this." To finish up his promise, the blonde walked over the Brit's rubbish bin and primly dumped the leftovers in, feeling great satisfaction well up in him at the sound of the 'food' hitting the bottom.

Arthur twitched at the noise, eyebrows furrowed. "…You stupid git…" he began, and then he combusted. "You wasteful, revolting, gormless, son of a-"

"You'll thank me later," America simply said, setting the plate down on a counter.

"Thank you? This was payback for tricking you earlier, wasn't it?" Arthur accused, shaking a fist at the glasses-wearing country. "It is!"

Alfred paused to think the accusation over. "Well…maybe. Either way, I'm cooking."

England twitched again. "Fuck. You. Go ahead and starve!"

Alfred rolled his eyes like he was a sane genius. "I don't mind starving, Iggy, but since that was the last of your…'cooking'…you have nothing else to eat, either."

England lifted his chin defiantly. "Who says I don't have any more food, twat?"

Instead of answering the Briton verbally, America merely opened the refrigerator. Emptiness yawned before them.

"…"

"…Well…" Alfred broke the silence.

Arthur deflated. "…Damn you…" was all the Englishman could say.

America gave a victorious grin. "Ha! See what I mean? The hero is awesome!" He fist pumped the air. "And since it's getting late, there's nothing else in the house that's edible, and your cooking sucks, I'm cooking."

England bared his teeth in a snarl, blazing green eyes narrowed. "Not a chance," came the hiss. "I'm cooking."

Alfred just smirked in response.

And then the chaos truly began, as, with a 'gentlemanly' curse, England practically flew and opened the pantry, a spoon hitting the Brit's rear as America retaliated the best he could, and more cursing, crashing, and food items thrown around ensued in the next few seconds.

Needless to say, it was 'cooking' to the extreme.

An hour and a half later, the two sat down to a table filled with pasta salad, rolls, grilled chicken, and glasses of water.

"There we go~!" America exclaimed happily, looking a bit sooty and dusty. "Dinner's finally done!"

England glowered moodily at him, looking also sooty, except with colorful smears over his green sweater vest. "You had barely let me cook…"

"That's a lie," Alfred replied, holding a burnt roll. "Just look at this! I feel like I'm about to choke and die just looking at it!"

"That was an accident!" England snapped, tearing a piece of chicken with his fork.

"Oh, so burning the pasta salad wasn't an accident?" The American asked deceptively sweetly, a spoonful of said slightly charcoaled food item. "I see."

"At least I'm not the one that decided to make rainbows all over the place using food coloring," the Brit bit out snarkily before proceeding to stick pieces of bright pink chicken in his mouth. "That was highly idiotic."

"I was just trying to help," America pouted, sipping some water. "You were talking to your imaginary fairy friends, and I thought that they were associated with rainbows and stuff, so I decided to make my own rainbow to help you regain your sanity."

"I am sane!" The island nation defended. "It's not my fault that you're not pure, now is it? And you idiot, rainbows are associated with unicorns mostly!"

"Unicorns. Right. I'll remember that next time I go rainbow-loving," the Patriotic country laughed. Than a sly smirk slid over his face. "So…pure…huh? Does that mean if I-"

"Finish that statement and I will stuff the rest of this bastardization of chicken down your throat," England said pleasantly.

"Just saying, Artie, no need to get all pissy," America said breezily, smirk still in place.

The two nations continued eating, and in some time all the food was gone, minus crumbs and whatnot, signifying that they were done.

"Dear god, no," England suddenly heard America say as he set his plates and silverware down in the sink.

"What is it now…?" The elder country sighed, fixing a tired, green gaze on the younger.

Alfred gave him a mortified glare. "How could you, Iggy?"

England was beginning to get irritated at being accused out of the blue like that. "What is it, you prat?"

"You don't have a dishwasher!" America exclaimed hotly, gesturing around the general vicinity of the kitchen. "What the heck, old man? Are you that old-fashioned that you can't even bother to install a dishwasher around here?"

"Are you so lazy that you can't wash dishes by hand?" Arthur mimicked the other's tone perfectly. "What? Gotten so soft that you can't wash a couple of spoons without breaking a nail?"

Alfred puffed his cheeks childishly. "Who says I'm going to wash the dishes?"

"And who says that I'm not going to shove this spatula up your arse because you're lazy? Let's see, no one," England shot back, holding said utensil threateningly.

America felt a grin dance onto his kisser. "Oh, yeah, you would like that…" He wriggled his eyebrows to prove the underlying innuendo. "But no thanks. I would prefer to use my spatula on you, if you can understand."

The British nation shot him a repulsed look. "You are the most sickeningly disgusting wanker I've ever cared to meet, almost more so than the bleeding Frog. I suppose you're proud of that fact."

"Nah," America disagreed, moving to stand next to the shorter personification. "I'm more awesome than that pervert, like, by a gazillion times. Infinity, even."

"Lies," England scoffed, shifting to let the American accommodate the right side of the sink. Leaning a little, the Brit turned on the water, handing the sponge to his taller companion. "Now wash, git."

"Why do I have to wash?" Alfred protested, taking the sponge. "I'm the guest around here!"

"That's the reason why," Arthur answered wryly, putting some bowls in the sink. "You're an uninvited guest. An annoying, uninvited guest. So work to earn your keep, you lazy clot."

"Artie, you keep on forgetting that you did, in fact, invited me inside your home," the Superpower nation whined, scrubbing a defenseless platter roughly. "And you're such a slave driver!" He paused. "But I guess that's not such a bad thing after all…you commanding me to go faster and-" The American's fantasizing speech was interrupted with an irritated British elbow in his gut.

"Shut the fuck up and wash," England ordered crossly, silently relishing in the younger's pained choking as he dried some spoons and settled them in the rack.

"Come on, seriously," America gasped, body in a strange leaning position from the elbow attack. "Why don't you have a dishwasher?"

"It'll be a bother to install those infernal contraptions," the Briton told him, wiping some cups. "And besides, washing and drying by hand keeps me busy. Unlike some lazy people." He gave a pointed look at the sunnier nation.

America glared. "You don't know how much you sound like a crotchety old man, right now. And busy…? You know, there is another way to stay busy." He leered closer to the Englishman. "How about we go upstairs to your room and I could show you the various ways…?"

England shot him the bird. "How about we forget all about that shite and you continue working to save your life? Trust me, you should follow my advice."

Alfred merely stuck out his tongue playfully, blue eyes shining. "You know you love my ways."

"I would love it more if you don't talk as much," the Brit responded, not looking at the other.

For the next couple of minutes, the two nations worked jointly in washing and drying, when all of a sudden, America said, "Hey, I just realize that we fight over the most stupid things."

England raised an impressive eyebrow. "You just realize that? How sad. But your point…?"

"That's mean, Artie," the bespectacled country said dryly, "I just wanted to comment on the fact."

"Why?"

America shrugged. "It seems to be that in all the times we talk one on one, we always have to fight. Take a look at the radio, kitchen, and cooking fights, for example! I mean, I always thought you hate trivial fights, so why fight like that with me?"

Silence.

Alfred turned to peek at the other and saw some kind of unknown emotion swirling in green depths. Somehow, it made his own heart beat faster, his lungs contracting painfully, and his mind's voice whispering inaudible words that made him feel regretful at his choice of words, making him wanting to take it all back, but he didn't and couldn't.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" England finally managed out, voice strange and strangled sounding. The Briton tore his gaze away from blue eyes, quiet.

And Alfred let that silence hang, uncomfortable, and the feeling of remorse still lying in his chest, the cause, he didn't know.

Finally, the last cup was washed and dried, and England placed his rag down, sighing in relief. "There. All done. Now, time to-"

"Movie time!" Alfred exclaimed excitedly, flinging the hapless sponge into the sink.

Arthur gave him a deadpan sort of glare. "What?"

"Movie time!" His younger companion insisted.

The English nation scowled. "Why in the Queen's name are we going to have 'movie time'? Don't you know what time it is? It's 10:30! At night!"

"And it's 4:30 in the afternoon at my place!" America said, clamping a slightly damp hand onto the Brit's wrist, dragging said nation over to the living room. "I can't sleep yet!"

"So why don't you go watch the blasted movie by yourself?" England yowled, trying to break the iron-clad grip. The he stopped. "No, wait. Don't tell me. You have another of those horror movies."

America snickered. "Don't worry, Iggy~! If you're scared, I'll protect you! That's what heroes do!"

The elder man gave him a sour glare. " Shouldn't I be asking you that? You know how you always react to them, so why rent them in the first place? And I don't want to watch said movies anyhow, so let me go to bed!"

"We can both go to bed and have sexy time later, but now, since you're the host, you have to help entertain the guest by watching a movie with said awesome guest!" Alfred said, grinning an ear-splitting grin as he dragged the Brit successfully in the living room.

"Screw you and your ideals!" England snarled, dragging his heels into the wooden floors. "But the thing is, America, I have no horror movies in my house, so we can't watch it."

"Oh, it's okay," the sunny nation said breezily. "I brought some myself."

England froze, stopping the American in his tracks. "The movies are in your jacket…? Shouldn't they be ruined from the rain by now?"

"Silly England," America laughed, turning to pat the stupefied Brit on the back. "I'm not stupid enough to store 'em in a place where they could get ruined! They're in my bags!"

Arthur began to get a bad feeling. "And where are the bags…?"

"In your room!" his ex-charge answered happily.

England gave the latter a mortified stare. "What the bloody hell do you mean 'in my room'?" he raged, smacking the American's arm angrily.

America winced at the blows, but still replied, "Like I said! They're in your room!"

"And how did they get there?" The hysterical bushy-browed man screeched. "I clearly remember you not carrying anything but some flowers and candy and groceries today!"

America rolled his eyes. "I put them in your room before this morning, duh. And I wonder why people call you smart…"

"But I lock my doors and windows!" England burst out.

"Well, the hero does have his ways…" America trailed off.

"You bastard," Arthur seethed darkly, "I should report you to the police!"

"You wouldn't do that, Iggy," Alfred assured the elder. "Now sit! The movie's already in the DVD player."

"I hate you," England finally stated after being manhandled on the couch. "I irrevocably, unconditionally hate you."

"No you don't~!" The glasses-wearing 'git' chortled, taking his seat after turning off the lights and the DVD player on. "You love me."

The island nation merely huffed, settling more comfortably down into the couch as he resigned himself to his fate. "Damn you. What are we watching anyway…?"

"'Dead Silence'," Alfred answered, tone dropping in a Hollywood rendition of a scary voice.

"What is with you and picking scary movies to keep you up at night?" England groaned, hand massaging his temples. "Why must you do this to me?"

"Scary movies do not scare me!" America argued, slinging an arm around his smaller companion. He winked. "But hey, if you get scared, don't be. 'Cause the hero is here!" He snapped a thumb up for emphasis.

"Stop defiling the Queen's English, you git," Arthur weakly snarled. "And it's not me that's going to be frightened. It's you."

"Yeah, right," America snootily retorted, "That's not going to happen."

At that particular moment, lighting and thunder decided to make it's presence known.

America squealed and jumped at the sudden noise, arms going around England like a boa constrictor.

"My point exactly," Arthur said matter-of-factly.

Alfred glared, hands unwinding themselves from the Brit's form. "Shut up! I got surprised! It won't happen again! I'll prove it to you that I totally won't get scared after watching the movie!"

"I'll believe you when Canada gets famous."

"Who? Never mind! I will prove it!"

Several stormy hours later…

"Oh my god-NOOO!" America sobbed, arms choking the life out of England as he sat in the latter's lap. "Help!"

"L-let go!" Arthur wheezed, hand struggling to turn the movie off by using the remote. "It's not real! Look! I turned it off! The movie's over!"

"Oh, it is?" America looked up, letting go of the irate British man and climbing out of his lap. "Haha! You should've seen the look on your face! You were totally scared, old man!"

England felt an irritated headache coming on. "Really now. Who was in who's lap?"

Alfred blew a raspberry. "I was just acting scared to comfort you! That's all."

"Umm hmm."

"It's true!" The Patriotic country insisted. "I wasn't scared! So if you get lonely and frightened during the middle of the night, just tell me and I'll go and sleep in your room with you, okay?" A sly wink.

Wanting to wipe the stupid smirk off the American's face and knock his pride down a few pegs, England slowly intoned, "If you scream, if you cry, Mary Shaw will come and rip your tongue out."

Big mistake.

Which was why America was huddled on the Englishman's bed, arms wrapped around knees tightly as the Brit took a good, long, shower.

"I'm just here to get me some ass tonight," Alfred muttered, shuddering a little as another peal of thunder roared out. "Hey, Artie!" he called out hopefully at the closed bathroom door. "You want me to take a shower with you?"

"Not a chance," Arthur replied, opening the door and walking out, clad only in sweat pants, chest bare.

America stiffened, staring at the naked, pale flesh. Holy hell, if England's chest area was that sexy, then he just had to wonder what all of the Brit looked like…

As if sensing how the American's eyes roved over his skin and scars, Arthur stomped over to the dresser and took out a white T-shirt, slipping it over his head and letting it lie against his form.

America pouted. "Aww, come on, Iggy! I was having such a great time looking at you…but I suppose you wearing your 'un-snobby, un-high-and-almighty, un-fancy' American-style clothes can do just fine."

England scowled. "Screw you. And aren't you supposed to be in the guest room? This is obviously my room."

America laughed nervously, hands fisting the sheets harder. "Haha, I'm just here to help comfort you! I mean, that movie was scary, even to me, so-"

"Get out." The Briton said stonily.

"But-"

Thunder crashed and Alfred leaped, taking refuge by sticking his head underneath England's pillow. "Alshimt! I'mscared!"

Arthur raised an amused eyebrow. "What was that, America? I couldn't hear you."

Alfred mumbled something, voice muffled.

"If you don't want to say, then you might as well get out," England warned, stepping closer. "All right. Get going-"

"I said I was scared!" The younger nation burst out, picking the pillow up and glaring moodily at the island country. "Happy, now?"

"Hmm," England thought it over. "Yes. But you still have to go back to your own room."

"No!" Alfred pleaded, "Please, Artie! Have mercy on this smexylicious American! Please." The last word was quietly whispered.

Hearing how pathetic the younger sounded, England gave in, sighing. "Fine." He fixed the brighter nation a pointed glare. "But do anything perverted and you are gone, do you understand?"

America nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Thanks, Artie!"

"Don't call me that," Arthur grit out, feeling like he was going to regret his decision later.

The Englishman strode over and turned off the light, bathing the bedroom in darkness that was only illuminated by flashes of lighting.

America froze. "England…?"

"Here," came the British voice, and Alfred felt the owner's bed dip slightly, indicating the new body.

He immediately lunged forward. "Artie!"

"You git, let me lie down at least," came the muffled growl, and America complied, waiting for the elder nation to lie before scooting closer and wrapping long arms around said nation.

Arthur sighed. "Let go, America." He felt the younger male instead move closer, chest touching his back, hands rubbing circles into his waist.

England was freakishly warm, Alfred just realized, and it felt wonderfully nice. He felt the firm, thin Englishman's back touching his Superman logo T-shirt-clad chest, and he shivered slightly, just wanting to feel a lot more than a back. His circling hand began to drift downwards.

Arthur, feeling the American's hand beginning to wonder, frowned angrily at how the latter just didn't like to listen to his warnings.

"Alfred."

"Hmm?" America questioned, left hand still going lower.

"In the table right next to my head is a pistol. Which is loaded." England waited for the reaction. Right on cue, he felt the Superpower stiffen and the hand stopping.

"If you continue what you're doing and ignore my warnings, don't think I won't use said pistol on you," Arthur said lowly, "And if it indeed happens, and I somehow miss, there's always that cutlass I have in the closet…" He let the threat trailed off mysteriously, letting it be placed in effect.

Alfred swallowed. "You…you wouldn't do that," he said, trying to see through the ex-pirate's bluff.

"Try me," England simply answered. "Now let go."

"But- come on, Artie! I don't want to let go!" America protested, tightening his grip.

"So?" The island nation bit out, a little bitterly. "You let go once before, how is this time any different?"

Awkward silence.

Alfred somehow knew that the elder wasn't talking about mere physical contact anymore.

Thunder once again interrupted their moment, and America squeaked, feeling his body involuntarily shaking.

Feeling how the younger's form shook, England felt himself soften a little. "You're still scared of thunder, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

"N-no…" Alfred whispered, eyes closed tightly, hands covering his ears after having left the Englishman's form some time ago. "I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm not…"

It was a little funny, England thought, thinking how America went through wars, seen death, pain, horror, had killed, and even though all those things were frightening, the American was still scared of thunder. Just like when he was younger…

Arthur turned into the younger nation's direction, wrapping warm arms around him and moving the blonde head underneath his chin.

America froze at the contact, eyes opened as, with a soft sigh, England took his glasses and placed it elsewhere before returning to hug his form.

"Arthur…?"

"Shush, now." Came the low command. "Go to sleep, America…"

Unwillingly, Alfred felt his eyes beginning to shut against his will, feeling England's soothing hand petting his hair, and he figured that with the elder nation like this with him, he wasn't as scared anymore…

The two slept through the stormy night, clinging to each other as closely and intimately as possible.

UnluckyWriter: Oh, ugh. *Looks back at writing* Oh, dear god. This….is…..horrible. I'm ashamed. *sob* I know, it's ugly! I haven't had as much internet, so if some of the information in here is all screwed up WRONG, then blame my utter lack of ignorance! *goes off to die*

So yeah, totally unoriginal plot. I'm sorry. But that was just my idea…and yes, I know in some parts its so choppy, the grammar's horrible, and everything else is just plain revolting, but I have the older version of Microsoft Word Processor, so the spell check is outdated on here! So all I'm relying on is my own knowledge of spelling…and yeah, the British-ness in this fic is plain EPIC FAIL. *chokes* No internet= fail attempt at research. No library time= fail attempt of even TRYING to research.

Yeah…Also, I know this is listed under the 'Romance' genre, and I know, you people are probably wondering (not) about why it isn't listed as a 'Romance/Humor' thing. Well, that's because…I have big plans for this fic. Yeah. :3

So…Reviews, anyone?