Author's Note: Okay, here is another fic that I wrote a long, long time ago (probably back when I vowed never to write smut (just hint at it) and when I did a bit more shipping of AmeCan, so over two years ago. I'm feeling a huge wave of nostalgia, because I've shipped USUK for a really long time now. It's been edited, but not significantly altered. I pulled this out of the catacombs of my Hetalia fanfiction folder as a birthday present for the North American brothers. So, since Canada Day is 1 July and American Independence Day is 4 July, what better day than in the middle! (Well, that's only because I was feeling under the weather yesterday.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. I just want to wish Canada and America a Happy Birthday.

Now, without further ado...

The Act

Matthew Williams was not only the anthropomorphic personification of Canada, but he could possibly be considered the personification of Passive Aggression as well. He even had a passive method of flirting, and it was certainly aggressive. No one seemed able to refuse. Alfred F. Jones noticed it first after a few trips to a particular bar one week the World Conference convened in Toronto, because his brother abandoned him after only one drink each night.

At another bar, in New York City, a quiet little family owned hole in the wall, out of the way of the normal night clubbing traffic, there weren't booths. Rather than sit at the bar, they sat at one of the pub tables in the middle of the room that had high backed chairs so they could lean back and act more nonchalant. America always chose the bar; Canada always chose their table. At this bar, Alfred took measures to watch the whole act for the first time, staying just out of eyeshot, observing Canada in action. He confirmed it over and again by inviting him to drink after each meeting that they both attended in other cities. He would always find a place to hide. How Matthew managed to remain so visible at meetings and so invisible at bars was anyone's guess.

Matthew would lean back in the chair, his hands carefully folded—fingertips to fingertips and thumb to thumb—around the glass filled with the evening's drink of choice. They would converse on whatever happened to cross their minds at the time: politics, music, sports, Arthur and Francis's latest hilarious meeting room fights, anything. Alfred would usually finish his drink first, and excuse himself from the table for a quick trip to the toilet. Once Matthew finished his first drink, he would flip his hair with one hand and wave over toward the bartender with the other, brandishing his empty glass, knowing the bartender had just begun serving another patron, because he had waited for that. And then, out came that rosy bottom lip in a pout. All movements were graceful with well-practiced ease.

"Oh," Matthew would exclaim, cue the sigh. "Not again." Dark blue eyes widened. His voice somehow always rose above the bar music and dull murmur of chattering people, still quiet and low, fragile. Alfred had observed and learned better, knew better than to think that Canada would cry over such a perfectly timed oversight—he knew, and had personally experienced, Canada in hockey-mode, after all. It sounded like the perfect bedroom voice. And that usually caused Alfred to blush and bite his own lip in earnest.

Matthew Williams, lad-in-distress of remaining without libation, would catch the eye of some patron lazing his or her back against the granite, marble or wood—Alfred could never remember. Canada always ordered their drinks. Pink tongue would slip across parted lips. Snowy white teeth would sneak their way out to bite the protruding lower lip, kneading at it in desperation, turning the lip a darker red. How Canada managed to garner attention at bars and not at meetings, was any one's guess.

Another sigh accompanied a stealthy glance toward the unsuspecting new object of the Canadian's attention, and, as usual, he would half turn away and rest his glass down on the table. Alfred always watched his table mate's gaze, which would target the patron at the bar from the corner of his eye. One blink, two blinks. If the patron signaled to the bar tender, Matthew's eyes—and seemingly his whole attention—stole back to the bar, even though Alfred knew his attention had never left it. He would stare until the patron looked back at him again, and smile—a slight inclination of one side of his mouth with his hair veiling his eyes. A small, demure smile meant to speak of either shallowness or modesty, as though its owner were a sweet young man new to the whole bar scene. Alfred knew better, for he knew intimately how long his counterpart to the North had been of drinking age, which was centuries now. The two reached it together; or, Matthew might have reached it first, he couldn't remember. Matthew would never ask Alfred to order drinks for him. Matthew always ordered their drinks.

The smile would linger. That smile was disgusting. It always made Alfred's stomach churn, hop up into his throat or twist itself inside out and make his head—or heart—pause a moment. A few good deep breaths cleared his head again. It didn't help the rending feeling in his heart when Matthew hooked those filthy bar patrons with that smile. No attempts at swallowing would push his stomach and heart back down where they belonged.

The very first time Alfred saw Matthew's flirtations, he was returning from the toilet one evening, and caught that smile as it formed. His Northern neighbor was sitting at the table alone. Matthew had just caught the eye of a gentleman in an Armani suit so fine Francis would have been jealous. All Alfred could do was stop at the end of the short hallway and stare. He had an unobstructed view of that smile. It could stop a freight train (if a locomotive had eyes) as easily as Alfred could stop it with his bare hands. It could make Alfred stop too.

Canada would watch the patron speak to the bartender, turn back to him, and lowered his gaze to the table. One blink, two blinks. The passive aggressive bastard flirter batted his big, deep blue eyes too damn much for his own good. He would look back to the bar and that poor, random patron who would smile warmly in return awaiting the drink order. That poor, random patron would get a full on Canadian blush upon personally delivering the drink. Beverage proffered with a friendly smile, Matthew would darken the blush at the attention and look down at the table—always the table—before he allowed the other side of his mouth to complete the dangerous, enticing smile. His eyes would steal over toward the direction he knew the restrooms to be, and Alfred would merely raise his chin and an eyebrow in response. Alfred was never sure what that smile meant.

Though, he knew that he was completely out of sight, behind a wall, half-wall, or some sort of plant, the Canadian would flash a quick leer in the direction of the restrooms—he wasn't sure what that meant either—and would turn back to the newcomer who would sit in Alfred's seat and start chatting. Matthew would always inquire upon the other's state of intoxication: 'so what have you been drinking this evening?' The two would leave together shortly after that. His brother's arm draped languidly over the other's shoulder, nose treacherously close to their ear, leading them who knew where: probably the stranger's place, maybe Matthew's hotel room. Alfred never knew; he would never follow or intercept them en course.

It seemed Canada would reject neither liquor nor lover. Clearly, he learned from France, though put his own spin on the process. Such a shy act, played in such a commanding way. America wasn't sure what France would think of the methods, but he wasn't sure if he would disapprove of them altogether. Mostly, Alfred wondered what happened to them all, because it was always someone different.

Why did it have to be someone different? He would often wonder, but would never ask. Why couldn't Matthew ask Alfred to order his drinks? He always wondered. After several years of this, constantly wondering, he wondered, why couldn't they leave together…? After that thought a couple World Meetings went by when Alfred didn't ask Matthew out for drinks at all.

Eventually, Alfred had enough, and the next time that he hosted the World Conference he asked again. They met again in New York City they went to the same bar. Alfred always chose where they went drinking. It took a while for him to wonder about that. But, he didn't ask; he didn't even ask himself.

Alfred finished his drink faster than usual, in just a couple swallows, and excused himself to make his typical visit to the toilet. Matthew still had more than half his drink left. Good.

"Again, Alfred?" His brother called out after him.

He waved him off and dashed away.

He made sure he remembered to use the toilet before they left the conference center for the first time since their personal meetings started. He was sure his brother thought he must have some kind of bladder problem at this point. He didn't care; he had a mission to accomplish.

America made his way to the side hallway, and waited for a count of five. He edged his way back toward the entrance, took off his bomber jacket and draped it on an old-fashioned stand-alone coat rack. He put on an old, faded brown fedora that he had deposited there earlier in the day, pushing it down over his eyes and slightly askew, and then straightened his tie and jacket. A glance over at the table showed that Matthew was a few sips away from finishing his beer. Perfect!

Alfred strolled toward the bar, and motioned to the bartender as he approached. He kept his voice down. "Yo! Molsons, two. Hold off on the second one for bit, 'kay?" He flashed his trademark American hero smile. Oh, the counter was granite, a dark charcoal grey—nice. With his beer at the ready, he leaned his back against the bar, and waited. His smile faded.

Matthew sure could nurse the hell out of a drink when he felt like it. Finally, he turned, and held up his empty glass. The act had begun, and Alfred was the only one at the bar in range. Yes! Just as usual, the bartender was busy.

America didn't brandish his smile. His own act had begun. He was going to experience for himself what all those poor unwitting souls did at the hands of Canada.

Pushing to the back of his mind how wrong this might be, he looked up at the shine of a glass waving in the air.

"Oh no, not again," that familiar bedroom voice came stole into his head. It was definitely different hearing it from the receiving end—his brother really did have a soft, sultry kind of—whoa, enough of that, Alfred reigned in his thoughts. The widening of the eyes, the licking and biting of lips. Smile. Sigh. Glance. Turn. Drop of the gaze.

One. Wait? Was he sweating, Alfred took a deep breath, because he was afraid that he was, now. Two.

And now that not-so-innocent half-smile. Getting that smile was so wrong, but it felt so right. So warm.

Alfred's breath hitched in his throat, just managing to move his head in Canada's direction to nod, and remember to offer a small, friendly smile of his own.

Another drop of the gaze. One. Two.

At least Alfred could content himself that he was immune to the eye batting.

"Hey man," he signaled to the bartender. "How about that other beer now." A moment later, it rested beside his own.

Actually, this was rather exciting. He smiled at Matthew again.

Oh, no! He had nearly forgotten about The Blush but discovered that he was immune to that, too.

Thankful that Matthew was still looking at the table as he approached, he cleared his throat, and once again almost brandished his patented Hero Smile, but let it fade. A more cordial, gentle smile took its place—one he reserved for the human diplomats that visited the White House.

Here was where The Act would stop.

"I thought you might still be thirsty." Alfred set both beers on the table, and looked straight at Matthew for the first time during the exchange, never letting the smile falter—in constant battle with The Blush. This blush was different. It didn't just cover his cheeks; it radiated and spread out to his ears. There it was; this was the real deal. He let his smile grow, but not into The Grin, and sat back in his seat. His seat.

"A-Alfred?"

"Yes, Matthew?" He took a sip of his beer, and as if to mirror the movement, so did Matthew.

"Wh-what?" His eyes widened, and bit his lip.

"You shouldn't do that, Mattie," he leaned across the table and pulled the abused lip free with pad of his thumb.

"But, but…why?"

"I've seen what you do, Matthew. But, I know what you like."

"Well, uh…" Canada's gaze darted from the beer to the tabletop to Alfred and back a few times. "Oh, have you?" He thought he heard his brother mutter. "But, why?" He stammered again after a moment or two.

"I've always wondered…" He fell silent.

"Al, what do you mean?" Matthew squirmed in his seat, and Alfred's draped his hand over his brother's almost of its own accord. He tried not to look as alarmed as his twin did, but didn't withdraw it. Matthew didn't try to wrestle his hand away, though it twitched in his grasp. They both looked down at their hands, fingers now intertwined. When did that happen?

"Why couldn't I order our drinks?" Alfred tried to recover, still looking at their hands, but just managed to wrest his gaze back up to the other's eyes.

"Al-Alfred…wh-why didn't you just order them then, bro?" Matthew's voice had steeled a bit by the last part that he emphasized. Alfred noticed that.

He nearly chuckled at his seeming stupidity, but knew that it was much more complicated than that, and shook his head.

"I've always wondered…why—why you couldn't leave with me?" His hand moved—on his own again—and his thumbnail slowly grazed its way along his brother's palm, back and forth.

"Alfred?" The bedroom voice was back—an understanding?—and he practically purred now, and Alfred took a few swallows of his beer to keep his blush at bay. Wait! What the hell was that!? That voice… "That's funny, Al." The bedroom voice continued, deeper, lower, slower. "I've wondered the same thing."

Oh? Oh! "Oh, really?" America hummed. Well, in that case, maybe America could channel a little bit of France himself, and flashed his patent smile.

"Well, you will be now." Canada smiled back at him.

This was always just planned as a one-shot. So, whatever happens after they leave the bar is up to your imagination as a reader. If it's something interesting, I'd love to know, though. Haha! :D

I really hope you enjoyed it, because I enjoyed writing it. Immensely. It's just a little thing.

Again, happy days to all the Canadians and Americans reading this.