Title: A Night of Sin

Summary: Alfred overtakes Arthur one night while he is drunk, but Arthur doesn't seem to remember a thing. When will the guilt be enough for the secret to come out? USXUK

Rating: T for teen.

Disclaimer: Why U NO UNDERSTAND? I don't own Hetalia.

A/N : Yeah, so it's been awhile, huh? I'm not even gonna lie, I was a little shit and didn't post 'cause I'm an ass and like to leave cliffhangers for two years. :D Besides that, I'ma apologizes. *hands out cookies*

Oh yeah, also, I see there was confusion in the first chapter on how far Alfred went with Arthur, and I now realize I should have elaborated more thoroughly. *beats self up for that* I just didn't know how to do it without rating it differently, and at the time, I really didn't want to write it all out. Here, I'll explain it right now. If you have sensitive eyes (pffft), don't read.

HMMM, what happened was that Alfred put his hands and mouth all over where a certain Brit's love parts are and his fingers up where the Brit's sun don't shine. Alfred was going to go further, as in stick his love parts where the sun don't shine, but stopped himself. I hope that was elaborate enough. If not, perhaps I should redo that part to make it more clear or do another flash back laterz …and then change it to M. HM. :D HAHA, you guys wish…(no really, I might)

YEAH, SO, CHU ENJOY NAO. Go on, go read more angst. Apparently that's the only thing I write best. D:

Chapter Three: The Guilt that Grows with Time

England stood there, in shock when the American literally ran out of the room. Alfred responded to his question and then left without even saying anything about the Brit's eyebrows or his imaginary friends or his terrible cooking. He just…left.

When the blonde had left him in the dust, Arthur felt hurt, as if the nation was so distasted with spending more than a few moments with him. Could Alfred really dislike spending any amount of time with him? They were on bad terms, he knew, but he would rather argue than not talk to the taller nation at all. Alfred usually just didn't run out like that, but at least Arthur had gotten an answer.

Relief came and yet it hadn't. The relief that he hadn't fought with the American last night and that Alfred wasn't there to see him, but no relief in that there still seemed to be something wrong with Alfred…What was it?

Still thinking, he was about to leave the conference room when he heard a shuffle near the entrance. For just a split second, his mind whispered to him the name of a certain blonde, but who entered the room wasn't a person he particularly wanted to see.

Russia walked in, the same old smile still plastered on his face as it had been the entire meeting.

"I forgot something," he mentioned in a sing song voice, and Arthur was happy to oblige to get out of his way. Ivan headed over to the spot in which he sat at during the meeting and picked up a small black journal. Slipping it into his pocket, he made his way back to the door. However, before he left, he turned to look at Arthur, as if calculating something. Finally, after a moment, a dark look entered his eyes.

"Those marks, you know, seem oddly like someone tried to do something to you, da?" Russia mentioned, his lips curling into that sickening sweet grin that meant he knew more than someone else did.

"W-what do you mean?" England asked slowly. What was that supposed to mean? They weren't that noticeable, were they? He knew Ivan liked to play around sometimes and mess with people's minds, but he felt like there was some truth in what he was saying. Looking back down at his bruised wrist, Arthur felt a slow realization creeping into his mind. He didn't like this one bit.

"Look at yourself again, da? Someone was trying to become one with you." And with that, Russia left the meeting room once again.

England stood there, blinking and thinking and wondering. What the hell did-?

Then the realization hit him.

In an instant, he ran out of the conference room to the bathroom.

He had to look over his body again to confirm what Ivan said. How could he of been so damn naïve? These marks probably weren't from a fight, but from someone trying to get busy with him while he was drunk. He was Britain, for god's sake! He had France as a damn friend! How embarrassing! He wondered how many other nations realized this.

How the hell could this of slipped past him? At least he usually remembered when someone touched him without his consent, but this time, he couldn't even recall who could have. No one gave themselves away, and if it just so happened to be France, he would have known already because the idiot always told Arthur what he did on purpose.

Once in the bathroom, Arthur stumbled into a stall and closed the door quickly. Unbuttoning his shirt quickly and lowering his pants, he inspected his body once again, better than he did this morning while he was still in his drunken stupor and in a rush. Now that he really looked his body over, he stifled a sharp inhale of comprehension. Someone had done something. Ivan was right after all and he was just too hung over to really notice.

He let his eyes wander farther down then, and that was when he saw it. There was an odd shaped bruise right next to his inner thigh that he hadn't noticed before. Lifting his leg up a little to inspect it closer and pushing up his boxers a little, he almost fell back in understanding of what the marking really was – a bite mark. He rubbed it as it to remove the proof that someone had been there, but it stayed in stark contrast against his pale skin.

Breath stuck in his chest, he hesitantly looked back down to try to see if there were any other markings anywhere, and after he knew what he was looking for, inspected the other bruises he had. The one near his shoulder, which he thought was from a fight, wasn't actually from a fight at all. And on his chest, there was one or two of the same size. And the one on his wrist…as if to pin him down. Dear God.

Pieces were fit together.

Who could have done that to him?

It must have been at the bar, must have been. Was…was he raped? No, he would have known, right? He didn't feel like he had been violated down there, so he was pretty sure he wasn't, but someone had tried to. He thought back to that morning, while in the shower, and then thought back to his wrinkled clothes. No way! It couldn't be true! Someone really did try to do something to him. He'd already washed away some of the evidence, which didn't help him in figuring out who it was.

Well, whoever did it was probably one of those bar creeps – the ones that wait and watch for easy to target victims. The asshole that did it had enough gall to wait until he was drunk! If he ever found out who it was, there was no way that they would get forgiveness from him. Yet still, why? He was so angry in his drunken rants and pretty strong at kicking people off of him, so how did this even happen and why would someone want to do it anyway?

And if so, why had they not gone all the way? As sickening as it sounded to the Brit, why stop halfway like that without…well, violating him? Perhaps there was a disruption, and though Arthur tried to think why, he suddenly felt sick to his stomach at the thought of some stranger feeling him up and touching him in ways he would rather not want to think about. He felt sick, and the small space in which he was standing in suddenly started spinning. He didn't remember ever being so out of control with his body before, and didn't remember the last time, or any time really (besides with France, maybe) that something like this happened.

Despite that, there still had to be a reason why the person who did it didn't go all the way. Maybe… maybe Alfred had tried to come and save him, which would explain why he had some memories of that blonde. Yet, the American said he had been at home last night, not with him at the bar. Though, what if he was ashamed to have seen the Brit in that state? Alfred could have seen him like that, disheveled and with someone else kissing him and touching him and taking his clothes off. Suddenly feeling sick again, he lurched over and hugged his arms to his sides while trying to keep the bile down. What if Alfred was ashamed that he helped him at all? What if he was too disgusted with England to even bother telling him the truth?

He didn't pin Alfred as a liar, but what if Arthur had done something to upset him? Such as, treat the kindness Alfred had offered in saving him with yelling and spiteful words. It seemed logical, as he always yelled things while drunken, but something still wasn't making any sense. This whole situation, he began to understand, had something to do with a nameless stranger and Alfred, and in between the time he was drunk last night he got molested and possibly said something or done something to piss Alfred off. One way or another, he would try to figure it out, but how was the question.

Alfred probably hated him by now, probably even more than he hated him beforehand. With the way he looked at Arthur and the way he ran out of the room right away, Arthur was sure that either Alfred was really busy or was just avoiding him out of disgust. Leaning against the stall door, the Brit held back a groan. His life was so fucked up, wasn't it? Spending the night with people he didn't even know, further ruining his tense relationship with America, and drinking almost every night.

No matter how much he didn't want to accept it, most of his problems were due to one person, one nation that got to him more so than the others. All of these years and though their relationship between each other improved a bit, they were still so distant from one another.

Even though he was still bitter about the blonde's independence and was sure Alfred had gotten over most of it, Arthur just couldn't get over the fact that Alfred didn't need him or depend on him like he used to. He would never admit how much he missed those days. It was sad really - sad in how much of the past he lived in.

Francis? Where did he come from? Alfred noticed the French man standing a few feet away, and he really didn't feeling like dealing with him right now, especially since all of the thoughts swirling in his head threatened to burst out all at once.

Alfred's weary eyes then narrowed at the French man, his expression turning back to that of a small frown rather than a pained grimace. When had Francis got here? This was just what he needed…Stupid perverted blonde…

"No, just leave me alone. Shouldn't you be molesting Matthew or something?"

Ignoring the question about Matthew, Francis just smiled and got closer to America. Nothing wrong with him? Like hell he would believe that. He was acting so weird at the meeting, there had to be something wrong. Francis wasn't all too concerned in knowing, but just happened to find Alfred there and couldn't help his curiosity. If the issue involved some relationship wise, then he would be more than happy to help.

Wanting to diagnose the problem, he turned to the easiest and most known source of all internal conflicts first. "Ah, but I can certainly see there is something wrong with you. A man such as myself does not go through so many relationships without gaining knowledge on them."

Getting close, he put an arm around Alfred's shoulder.

"Relationships?" Alfred spluttered, shaking his head. Why did Francis just assume it was a relationship problem? Damn French man. A flighty fear settled in a crevice of his heart along with the other ones that were already there. This one yelled, 'what if someone found out?' He knew it was so very wrong to be keeping this to himself and that it was even more wrong to deny that it had even happened. How could he continue to keep the secret bottled up?

He felt dreadful – his hair was a mess and Nantucket drooped almost sadly – because he got up late. His eyes were dry and red, he felt almost lethargic because of the lack of sleep, and shivers continuously ran through his body. One could pass this up as him being sick. He knew better though. This was his entire fault, as many other things seemed to be when Arthur was involved.

"T-that's not what's wrong! I just…" He was going to say that he ran out of hamburgers or something as an excuse, but right now he felt as if he couldn't pull it off. How odd it was to force optimism. How odd it was to act happy. Usually, it was natural thing that came easily with his ignorant idiocy and impulsive ideas. It was always natural, unless Arthur was being exceptionally ornery towards him. Why did the Brit affect him so much? Thoughts were interrupted when Francis pressed the idea once more.

"So, what's wrong?" Francis had to know, and most definitely knew it was a relationship trouble judging on what his eyes reflected and how he acted. Besides, he knew that now there were no major, drastic problems happening in his country such as war, so Alfred should be normal, but he wasn't. He looked like he was chewed up and spit out.

Pushing Francis away, Alfred shook his head and crossed his arms. A thought striking him, his pain filled eyes glanced at the French man. Francis had to know about this then; he just had to get it off of his chest before he mentally fell apart piece by piece. This was a small start, and yet it was so hard.

"Have-have you ever…" A cough was given in the middle of the sentence as he looked away. How could he tell the French man this? Maybe he should just scrap it and make up an excuse. Like, he had somewhere to be! Maybe McDonalds…Yeah…Not before a few second had passed though, words came out to finish the previous idea. It was all just seeming to pour out now.

"…You know…overtaken someone?" The horrible question was finished and Alfred felt his heart drop, thinking a judgment of some sort would come.

This was such a weird subject to be talking about and he already felt so dirty for it. Normally he wouldn't, but last night was the first time he'd ever played a – cringe – villain like that. Oh, the word stung him. Maybe he should just force himself in jail or something for such a criminal act. Such a horrible person he was. Never had he touched anyone like that without consent…. especially not Arthur. His personal life of that sort usually stayed secret, unlike France and Russia's. They almost always admitted their relationships with others outright. At times, it was awfully disturbing too. And he always thought his brother Matthew was innocent.

That last thought brought him back to look at the Frenchman, obvious anxiousness shown in his eyes. Francis pondered over what the American had said, a look of confusion spreading across face before a grin spread moments later.

"No relationship troubles, huh?" His question simply gave way for him to muse over Alfred's last confusing question. Then, almost all too suddenly, it had made sense. Before the American man could respond, Francis shook his head and put a finger to Alfred's lips.

"Ah, you mean make love to them without their consent? As in, claim them without permission? " his voice lingered on the last word, a small smirk appearing on his lips as his arm wrapped back around Alfred, letting it now rest around his lower waist.

Of course he had his experience with stuff like this before, and he knew when someone was having problems with it. It wasn't that he knew everything, but he had years enough of experience to tell when something wasn't going as planned. Of course, he never thought Alfred to have problems as serious as this. The guy could barely tie his own shoes sometimes.

"Why? Want to overtake me?" Francis flirted, though he knew there was an obvious issue if Alfred was asking questions such as this. He wondered why he had asked such a question in the first place, as if he were hiding something. Realization hitting him like a brick, he eyes widened for a fraction of a second before they went back to normal size, not wanting his face to betray him. This was America they were talking about, an idiot. Alfred couldn't have…

"Mon amore? Why ask such an odd question?" he asked, his grip around Alfred's waist tightening as he raised an eyebrow.

Still not receiving an answer, Francis felt Alfred push himself away, shaking his head. His face seemed ghostly white at Francis' last questions; as if he noticed something he would rather not like to admit, as if something really hit him straight to the heart, as if he was guilty about something.

"Raconte! S'il vous plait, Alfred."

Alfred shifted uncomfortably, words stuck in his throat, wanting to make themselves known. He choked on his own villainous regret.

Francis really started to wonder what Alfred had done. Really, this was Alfred, wasn't it? A fun loving idiot of sorts. What could he of possibly done? Francis did have to mention that all in all the serious side of him was attractive, but there was a sense of fear he picked up on, which initially doused those feelings.

Alfred never touched anyone without messing around or looking for a fight, and he certainly never did it in a…sexual way. That was Francis' job, not this boy, not this kid, this child. He was still a boy who loved hamburgers, justice, freedom, being the hero…and now he looked like a child who had done something bad for the first time. Guilt, Francis could see it in his eyes. He could feel it radiating off of him. What had he done?

Deciding not to respond to those almost urgent questions, Alfred answered the first one Francis asked about claiming – is that what he called it? – a person without permission.

"No, I didn't…I didn't claim anyone, but I almost did," Alfred responded slowly, each word raspy. No, he hadn't taken Arthur, but he had the idea to. He stopped right before it got to that point, yet his hands were already so defiled. His eyes had already seen what could not be unseen. He had touched Arthur in every worst possible way. Disgusting.

He felt up Arthur's body, kissed it, ran his hands over every slice of heaven and hell so he could remember both the pleasure and the guilt. He had lifted the blonde up, seen him in ways he never imagined he would see him, seen him as an adult rather than his former caretaker, and brought him back down again to reality, forcing his body to react so wrongfully. He put his rough, weathered hands on such soft skin, such lustful places, and defiled both while looking through the eyes of the sin itself. He had removed clothing, experienced the nakedness between them, relished in the ghost of love's former touch, of what, to him, would never be. He wanted it all and he wanted none. How selfish.

What he would do to take all of the lust filled touches back, to burn the memories of what he had seen, of what his eyes had glimpsed at of the unsuspecting body of his victim and- Eyes were shut as he shook in remembrance, a deep frown forming on his face. What he wouldn't give to take back those kisses, those burning touches, those noises. What he wouldn't give to remove the nervous heartbeat hammering in his chest, the feeling inside that was eating him alive.

What he wouldn't give to take it all back.

He went against his former caretaker, but was it out of a hate, a way to get back at him? No, that wasn't right. That couldn't be it! Alfred's breath hitched in his throat. It was something else, but he didn't mean to express it that way, did mean to inflict such forceful desire, and he never wanted it to be that way. Alfred looked back to Francis, weary and cold inside.

Why was he talking about this with France again? Well, he was experienced in such things, so he supposed it would be, right? Maybe talking to Matthew about this would be better. No, wait, it wouldn't. He didn't know if he wanted to see the horrified look on his brother's face, though he wasn't sure how good Francis' advice would be. No, it had to be good.

Francis looked at Alfred in an odd way after the last response was uttered, forgetting his wonder in why he was being strange. Why did he look so distressed if he didn't do anything? What had he done if he didn't claim anyone then? Ha, simply relentlessly touch them inappropriately or something without permission? He was France, and he did that all of the time!

Yet, France had to admit, that this was Alfred and judging by his reaction, this was the first time he had done something like this. He was obviously upset and shaken up by what he had done. Was he naughty with someone's body when they couldn't say yes or no? With whom though? Wait, just wait a minute. No way.

Sacré bleu!

Suddenly, his questions made sense as he connected two and two. It couldn't be…No wonder Alfred felt so awful. France went over the most obvious explanation in his head.

For one, Arthur was drunk last night, he was covered in bruises, and he seemed to not remember anything at all. Also, Francis had secretly stuck around a little enough to hear the Brit's question about maybe remembering Alfred at the pub with him. He didn't think much of it until now. The other facts were Alfred's weird behavior, the way he was avoiding Arthur, and the distress and helplessness that was shown. The one main thing, which confirmed his beliefs, was the question Alfred had asked about 'overtaking' someone.

And people said he wasn't smart. Well, he'd just diagnosed the problem already, to which he gave himself on a pat on the back for before he took the information gathered into account and saw it for what it really was. Oh, Arthur…poor Arthur. Oh, Alfred. He felt no anger for Alfred, but just sympathy. Something must have gone out of hand, and Alfred must have done something he didn't realize he was doing until he regretted it. From the sound of it, though, he managed to stop things before they progressed too far.

Oh, Francis knew just how they fought with each other, but any person could bluntly tell them that the fighting was not based off of pure hate, but of a series of underlying problems and insecurities. Each always worried about what the other one thought of each other. It was written on their faces, the hurt they inflicted upon each other without even saying a word and the loneliness they felt when reminded of how they used to be affectionate with each other. They hadn't really resolved anything in these many, many years, had they? They had learned nothing at all, and yet France wasn't going to give up on them.

If something had made this already messed up web of problems worse, this just did. Though, everything happens for a reason, right?

"Go talk to Arthur, now," Francis said in all seriousness. Francis was so very worried for Arthur, and no matter if Arthur pushed him away, he still cared for him and they were still friends. He thought for a moment about telling Arthur himself, but then he thought back to his past relationships and knew that he was the one that had to suffer the consequences and make things right again.

In all honesty, he had been with people when his victims had a few drinks to drink, himself being fully conscious. Obviously he held alcohol better than others. All of those times though, he knew there was a sense of regret. So many relationships had taught him well… Well, most of the time. He never felt guilty for groping others and would never feel guilt for that. Most things and rejections were brushed off without feeling.

But he could tell right away that this was eating the poor boy alive. These sorts of problems were not ones he needed to be dealing with, and certainly ones he hadn't dealt with before. After all, he was still young, still youthful, and such problems weren't what he should find himself so worried and torn apart at. He was not the type of person to handle these things well either, Francis could tell. Despite that, Arthur still had to know. Wasn't the road to forgiveness in accepting what you did and telling the other person first?

Or something like that.

"What?"

A blank looking American stared at Francis. He was so adsorbed that he didn't even question how Francis knew about it without Alfred telling him. It was as if his command slapped him in the face. He had to directly tell Arthur, didn't he? No…Arthur would hate him so much. Arthur already loathed him to the core. He hated everything about him, and this would set Arthur even farther away from him. This would be the murder of what little remnants of the relations they had left. Maybe England would even declare war against him? Well, that was a little extreme, but they were childish when it came to fighting with each other.

Francis saw the look of almost fear on Alfred's face and only held him closer, not trying to grope but simply trying to offer a tiny amount of comfort. He was so much older than Alfred and knew so much more. What the sad part was that Francis wasn't all that much older than England and he seemed to be on the same level of understanding of relationships as Alfred. Well, if Arthur's obliviousness didn't plainly point out his problems, his obvious reluctance certainly did.

Francis had the overwhelming feeling that he wanted to help these two, but knew intervening would not be best. Whatever happened was up to them, not him. They would have to solve things between each other, and though it would be a hard road to forgiveness, perhaps Arthur wouldn't give up completely. That was the thing Francis was most worried about, because for the last few years Francis could see it in the Brit's eyes – that pitiful, sorrowful, internal wishing that things were back how they used to be – and it killed him inside.

However, he could not fix everything between them. How this situation would turn out now would be up to Alfred.

"Mon cher…Do whatever you think is right. Whatever is in your heart, do it."

And with that, Francis detached himself from the American and walked away, leaving an almost dumbfounded boy behind that was full of questions. It suddenly hit Alfred that he had never even told the French men of what he'd done.

How Francis had figured it out, he would never know.

Still, he knew it to be clear now that he had to tell Arthur. He would rather have Arthur hate him then to keep this pain to himself. Wasn't it another step to becoming a hero again? Maybe…? Hopefully…

Heroes told the truth, which is what he would do.

Eventually…right? Even though Arthur would probably never talk to him again? Despite the fact that Arthur rarely let grudges go? Even if he would never see Alfred again in the same way? Even though he would – Alfred held back a choke – hate him, despise him, refuse to love him as he once had? In the end, could they even go on as they had before?

How could he to what his heart told him when it was laying in pieces?

Was his heart meant to break like that?

Or had it already been broken?

A/N : So, it's finally finished. Gosh, it took me so long to go back, reread everything and come up with stuff. I couldn't just leave it though – something told me I had to continue. SO YEAH, I hope you enjoyed.

Translations:

Raconte – Tell me

S'il vous plait – Please

Mon Cher – My Dear

Mon Amore – My love