Title: Listen to your heart, stupid.

Shippings: USUK ;)

Rating: T for…paranoia

Summary: "Well, Iggy, do you love me or not?"

Note: A fluffy one-shot for my buddy!

Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING!

America could not stand it: one minute, Britain seemed care about him, the next minute he hated his guts! Iggy's emotions about him were like a yo-yo. They could be the highest affections, then down to something close to pure hatred.

Why can't Britain just make up his mind? America thought. Does he, or doesn't he, love me? He glanced at the shorter nation sitting beside him on the couch. Right now Britain liked him, seeing as the American somehow convinced the other country to watch a new movie with him. If Britain was in his 'I hate America' mood, he would not have been there.

The other country currently slouched over with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on the heels of his hands. He murmured criticisms every so often about the bad graphics, the awful writing, and atrocious portrayal of eighteenth century London.

"Hollywood has really gone down hill," Britain grumbled. "What is that?" He pointed to the screen.

"A werewolf." America responded. The Brit rolled his eyes, muttering about the ignorance of normal people to the supernatural. The Briton turned his green orbs back to the screen.

Unlike the other nation, America kept his eyes off the overly graphic sex scene between the main character, a Catholic priest from Wales, and the possible witch, the duchess of Sussex. His own blue eyes never left the British man.

"No way are those real." Britain snorted. "All American actresses are such fakes." The sex scene was interrupted by the werewolf bursting through the door, sending pieces of wood all around the stone floor.

"Not all." America corrected absentmindedly.

The Briton snorted.

The duchess screamed. The priest put on pants.

"Hey, Iggy."

The werewolf pounced from the door onto the woman. It trapped her under its massive paws.

"Don't call me that, wanker." The green eyes remained on the screen.

The priest scrambled to grab his weapon, a blessed sword with a cross-shaped handle. He found it and ran at the wolf.

"Can I ask you something?"

The werewolf snarled, baring its fangs as the priest raised the sword and swung it down.

"What?"

The beast cried in pain. The holy blade cut deep into the flesh on its shoulder. It lunged at the priest. The holy man tried to dodge. He failed.

"You should look at people when they talk to you."

A lump of blood and flesh landed on the priest, seemingly crushing him. There was quiet then the wolf howled. The tip of the sword stuck out of the werewolf's back. It was dead.

"I taught you that." The Brit didn't look at the American. "Just ask me."

The priest tried to push the wolf off. It was too heavy, and then its body glowed and shrunk. The wolf was the kind groundskeeper. The priest pushed him off and called to the woman. She didn't respond.

"Do you like me?"

The priest held the woman close to his chest. He pushed the hair from her face, whimpering.

"What kind of question is that? If I didn't like you, I won't be sitting through this God awful movie!"

The duchess smiled weakly. She was dieing. The woman told him she was a witch and her only wish is to be allowed in Heaven. She wanted him to pierce her heart with his holy cross.

"That's not what I mean, Britain."

The priest gave in to her request. With tears in his eyes, the man raised the cross-shaped stake.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you love me?"

The priest shoved the stake into her heart, but Britain didn't see that.

His head had whipped around towards the American. Their noses were inches from each other. America had inched closer and closer with every question.

The Briton gasped and jerked backwards. He tumbled off the side of the couch and landed on the floor, swearing. America watched with a smile as Britain scrambled to his feet.

"W-what kind of question is that?" The older man asked.

"A legitimate one." The American stated. "Well, Iggy, do you love me or not?"

"D-don't call me 'Iggy'!" The Briton snapped. He avoided the question.

"Okay." America changed tactics. "Arthur, do you love me or not?" Britain blushed. Changing 'Iggy' to his human name did not change a thing. The country turned on his heels and darted out of the house.

America sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, I think I messed that one up."

The priest walked into the sunrise as the credits started to roll.

Britain slumped over the bar. He had a drink in front of him, but he hadn't touched it. It was comforting just to know it was there should he need it.

The bartender paused. "You okay, Arthur?" Arthur was a regulate at that tavern, even if no one knew he was their country, and even if he wasn't sure what the bartender's name was.

"Headache."

"Alcohol is the best thing for those nasty headaches." The bartender laughed.

"You'll lose customers talking like that." The country stated, propping up on his elbows.

"I've have clean restrooms, a four-star rating, and a steady stream of tourists; I'll be fine." The tender patted the other man on the back and went to tend a group of people speaking Norwegian at the other end of the table.

"At least I don't have to worry about the other countries her—"

"Bonjour, Angleterre!" A chin with a thin bread rubbed against the nape of Britain's neck. The Brit stiffened.

"Bloody Hell?" He jerked away from the beard and rubbed his neck. A man with blonde hair smiled brightly at him. "France, uh…Francis." Britain grabbed the other country and shook him.

"Oh, Britain, I knew that was you when I saw your eyebrows." France giggled, tapping the eyebrows with his finger. The bartender sent Britain a glance. The nation forced France into a seat and whispered into his ear.

"Are you drunk?"

"Not really. I just like embarrassing you."

"Why are you here?"

"I am déguster la cuisine locale, sampling the local cuisine." The Frenchman laughed, eyeing some girls at a nearby table. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't get a drink in my home?" Britain growled.

France snickered, pushing Britain's hands off his arms. "You only drink when you're depressed." The older country threw his arm around the other's shoulder. "Tell big brother what's wrong with your love life, Angleterre."

"Wha—human names, Francis! We are in public." The Briton snapped in a hushed voice.

"Alright, tell big brother what's wrong with your love life, Arthur." Francis smirked as Britain blushed. That is what America did only a short time ago. It still was not make it any better.

"There is nothing wrong." Britain reached for his drink, but France grabbed his hand, stopping him. Both countries knew how he got when he was drunk.

"So it is your love life? Well, I am la nation de l'amour {the nation of love}. I know it when I see it, believe me, Angleterre."

While the nation of love spoke, the land of angles scooted down three seats. The first nation moved closer.

Can't France just leave him alone? It was none of his business whether there were problems in his love life…Not that there were! Britain was perfect happy with his love life…or lack there of.

He hadn't been on an actually date in years, not that he wasn't asked. Plenty of woman, and France, asked him on multiple occasions. He just didn't say yes (he would never say yes to France).

Britain was not sure why he hadn't ever agreed to the date, although his usual excuses were 'sorry, I'm busy,' 'I'm not looking for a relationship right now,' or 'France, get the fuck out of my room—and censor yourself before going out side!'

They all seemed so…pathetic looking back on it.

His stomach turning, Britain set the drink aside. "Okay, Mr. Relationships, maybe I am having a problem." France grinned and ordered a glass of wine.

The bartender set the glass in front of the Frenchmen.

"So, the problem's with Alfred?" France took a sip.

"Who's Alfred, Arthur?" The tender asked.

Francis took it upon himself to answer. "Oy, he is just Arthur's lov—"

"He's my little brother." Arthur corrected sharply, probably too sharply. The Briton blushed and looked his glass. "Just my little brother."

The bartender eyed the two men and opened his mouth to speak when a cry echoed from the other end of the room. Two drunken women were dancing on the tables, disrobing. He swore and darted off.

France looked at the younger country and set a hand on his back. He took a breath, held it for a few second then let it out. "Je vois le problème. {I see the problem}." France grabbed Britain by the shoulders and turned him.

"You, mon cher, are an idiot." The Frenchmen raised a hand and jabbed a finger against Britain's head. "You are trying to love with your head, Angleterre! You love with your heart!"

"What does that even mean?" Britain snapped. "It sounds clichéd."

"In your head, you think Amérique as a little brother because you raised him, correct?" Blue eyes met green.

Britain blushed. "I did raise him, and he…is." The 'is' did not sound sure. France rolled his eyes.

"Your head say yes, but your heart say no~." France said in a singsong voice. Before Britain could respond, a woman let out a whoop. A bra landed on the bar a meter away.

Britain never did finish his conversation with France, mostly because he disappeared in the crowd of men around the striping women.

America sighed. Normally, he would never call himself an idiot. He was a hero, but today, he had done something so idiotic he couldn't stop himself.

He, The personification United States of America, was an idiot. The American still wasn't sure what possessed him to ask Britain if he love him. He only thoughts those things in his head, where Iggy couldn't hear them.

But that wasn't the worse part. The worse part was that Britain didn't answer. No answer was much worse than a 'no'! Maybe if he had said how he felt first, maybe that would have help.

It was probably because they'd known each other so long. Britain had pretty much been his adoptive brother. The closest thing to a 'father figure' America ever had. It was just weird he felt like that towards the Briton.

"Damn," The American sighed, propping himself on the tabletop. "He'll avoid me like the plague now."

The front door slammed open, shaking pictures. America scooted his chair back when a certain blond Brit came into the kitchen. Sweat rolled down his face, and he was panting. It looked like Britain ran there.

That wasn't too far from the truth.

After leaving the tavern, his drink unpaid for, he booked a plane. The second he arrive on American soil, the Brit was off.

America furrowed his brow. "Dude, what's up? Is everything o—"

"Ask…me…again." Britain demanded.

"Ask what? Dude, are you okay?" America pressed his lips into a line. What was going on? Maybe Britain was sick or something.

"Ask me…" Britain swallowed. A blush crept on his face. "If I love you or not."

America was taken back. He swallowed and rumbled, "I swear if you're planning to play with my emotions, I'm declaring war."

"Ask." The Brit was closer to America now, barely six inches between their noses. America had to ask before Britain lost his nerve, which would be soon.

"Um, okay…? Ig—Britain, do you love me or not?" America asked seriously.

The Briton's heart pounded in his head. Quiet down! I'm listening to you aren't I?

America stared Britain in the eye, waiting for his answer. Britain forced down the lump in his throat and did it before he could talk himself out of it: He pressed his lips against America's.

The American's mouth fell open. The Brit spun and around and started out of the kitchen, blushing deep red.

"There, that's my answer." He was almost out of door when America grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a crushing hug.

"Great! A yes!" The American turned and started dragging Britain towards the living room.

"What are you doing, you git?" Britain demanded.

"Dude, I got the squeal to that movie we watch, and it's super scary." America smiled back at him.

"What? You asked that question and made me go through a big eye-opening, hearting-listening thing so you could make me watch a squeal? You stupid, wanker, git, Amer—" Britain's voice dripped with malice.

"What? No!" America rolled his eyes. "It just going a whole lot less awkward when I beg you to stay the night with me after the scary movie." The younger nation started the movie as Britain watched, slowly shaking off the shock.

His brain told him to leave right then; his heart told him to just sit down and enjoy the show.

Sequels were always worse than the originals.

Anyway, my second completed Hetalia fic, wrote for/inspired by my friend Ms. Ali-chan (YOU NEVER TOLD ME WHAT YOU WANT YOUR FAKE NAME TO BE, SO I MADE IT UPPPPP!) and the first posted.

My buddy said she wasn't going to the same school as me, then said she was, now she's not, so I made this up (mostly the first part) based on that…Wave-senpai will miss her little pupil in manga Ali-chan!

Also, this counts as your b-day gift, Ms. Ali-chan! XD