So, this grew to be a damn cute monster. Seriously, I think it gave me cavities. Major fluff warning.

Warning for sensitive triggers- namely, 9/11 and for the Brits, 7/7. I am not making any kind of statement. To my knowledge, details are correct (except obvious fictional accounts that I've made up for the story). Also, warning for minor angst.

There's the same strikethrough issue towards the end. -word- means the word should be crossed out.

Disclaimer- heh, I wish. Also edited 18/6/2012- similar things as chapter 1.

Shout outs for the first chapter: Tallisa of Swallow's Crest, LadyKnightOfHollyrose, delyrical, fan (), Blue Seer, Yumetsukihime and Ame Mika'zuki for reviews and faves: all much appreciated :D

I hope you enjoy chapter 2 as much.

11/9/2001. London.

Arthur dropped his teacup, and didn't wince even as the hot liquid splashed over his feet and ruined his carpet.

His heart hurt though. His heart ached more than any physical pain ever could.

He didn't bother letting his minister know where he'd be, but simply ordered his private jet to fuel up for a cross-Atlantic trip and left without even packing a bag.

His abandoned TV screen flashed from image to image of broken rubble and frightened, disbelieving faces as they watched the Twin Towers burn above their heads.

Alfred felt like a mess. He sat in a heap at the bottom of his stairs, unable to get up since he'd forced the last well-wisher out of his house. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks. He heard a scraping in the lock but didn't look up as the door opened, knowing only one person who had their own key.

"Alfred?"

He was right. It was good ol' Arthur, here to help and save the day. But wait, shouldn't that be his job? The hero's job? Shouldn't he be out there, helping them, his people, doing something, anything but sitting at the bottom of the stairs and crying for someone to help him, save him for once?

"Oh, Alfred," he heard Arthur whisper, and felt the arm go around his shoulders. Arthur sat next to him, drawing him close and just holding him. He didn't try to make the nation talk, or cry, or 'let it all out now', just sat there and offered body warmth and a shoulder to lean on.

Alfred felt his shoulders shaking, but he refused to cry again. "It... it hurts," he mumbled, face buried in Arthur's jacket. "Even civil war... even seceding didn't hurt so bad as this..."

Arthur just tightened his grip on the nation's shoulders.

"It's not the pain... I swear it ain't... the horror, the hatred, they feel. Why bother for them, Artie? Why give a fuck for them when they don't?"

He sounded like he'd just seen the real world for the first time. So naive, despite the power and responsibility he'd gained in the last fifty years.

"Why, Artie? Why, damn it, just why?"

His tears were falling again, darkening the green of Arthur's coat. Arthur reached out with his free hand, taking one of Alfred's in his. The older nation frowned, feeling the heat of it. "You're burning up," he remarked, before he could stop himself.

Alfred raised his head weakly to look him in the eye. Arthur flinched. "I'm sorry Alfred, I shouldn't have-"

But Alfred was chuckling through his tears before breaking into full-on laughter. Arthur felt sick as he heard the hysteria in the nation's voice, and decided then and there that he'd shut up until there was something good to say again. Eventually, Alfred's laughter trailed off into hiccoughs, and silence.

They sat together in silence at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped and one with his arm holding the other's head to his chest. As the sun set, Arthur forced himself to stretch his legs out.

"Come on," he said to Alfred. "Let's get you to-"

He stopped speaking with a sigh as he realised the younger nation was asleep. "How the hell am I going to get you upstairs?" Arthur asked no one in particular. Alfred had at least half a head in height over him.

But as he bent down and lifted him into his arms, he found the nation was lighter than he appeared. Light enough to worry him. It's not just the attack, he realised. It's everything he's been trying to do.

He wondered if he could persuade his minister to take more of an active role in helping America in the Near East. Wondered if he could take some of the burden for Alfred.

He carefully carried his sleeping friend up the stairs and placed him on the first bed he found.

Arthur stared down into Alfred's troubled face, considering the American's question in a different light. He shook his head ruefully. The why in 'why was he doing this?' was the only thing he did know.

He settled on a chair in the corner so Alfred wouldn't wake up alone.

Arthur came round slowly, aware of the facts that his neck hurt and he couldn't get up. He'd only expected one of them.

He opened his eyes slowly, and found himself with a lapful of trembling American.

Immediately he brought his arms up to hold the nation. "You're supposed to be in bed," he said softly.

"Didn't wanna be alone," Alfred mumbled, tightening his grip on Arthur's shirt.

"That's why I'm here, idiot," Arthur replied. He shifted, trying to get the blood flowing back to his legs. Alfred took the hint, standing up and to the side.

But he kept his hand entwined in Arthur's collar, tugging insistently.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" he asked. Alfred couldn't be saying what he thought he was saying.

"I don't wanna be alone right now. I just wanna sleep and forget." Alfred's eyes were becoming shiny.

Arthur stood too, so they were at a more equal height. "This isn't something you can just sweep under the carpet," he said gently, not wanting to upset the nation but knowing he had to hear it.

Alfred nodded, too quickly. "I know, I know! But that can wait 'til tomorrow, right?"

Arthur sighed, but against his better judgement, he sat down on the bed and let Alfred rest his head in his lap. He curled a hand into the blond hair, running his fingers through the strands.

"Mmn, nice," Alfred mumbled. "Stay at least 'til I fall asleep?"

Arthur would've stayed forever if Alfred had asked him to. The younger nation just hadn't realised it.

Shutting the door gently, Arthur left the nation sleeping and made his way downstairs again. He found paper and pen after only ten minutes of searching.

I've borrowed a change of clothes. Don't worry, I'll clean them and give them back before I go. I've just popped out for some food; I should be back very soon.

Arthur

He grabbed his coat and returned upstairs to leave the note on a pillow, where the American would hopefully find it.

As he was leaving, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His clothes look ridiculous with my coat, he thought absently.

He glanced at the wardrobe. I might as well. I'm already borrowing his other stuff. He pulled out one of Alfred's hoodies and slipped it over the T-shirt. It was too big for him, of course, but it was warm enough against the windy day. And the lining was soft. And smelt of Alfred, the scent of sweet, raw sugarcane against coffee.

Arthur blinked, and gave himself a mental slap.

I feel like an over-emotional girlfriend, he groused as he crept back across the room.

"Mmpf," he heard from the bed. Arthur turned, and saw Alfred stirring, nose wrinkling as his hair tickled it.

Without thinking, Arthur reached over and brushed the strands away. Alfred stilled, and for a second Arthur thought he'd woken him. But the American's breathing evened out, and he moved his hand back.

Arthur smiled softly; the sight was too cute. He bent over and pressed his lips lightly to Alfred's forehead, before standing and finally leaving on his errand.

Alfred opened his eyes to slits and watched Arthur leave.

Had he just..? And wearing his clothes?

He heard something crinkle next to his ear. Reaching up a hand, he read the note the older nation had left.

"Still doesn't know how to address a letter," he noted.

Arthur had kissed him.

His stomach felt weird. Alfred figured he was hungry.

He hoped Arthur was bringing hamburgers.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Arthur asked for the nth time.

"I'm. Fine." Alfred all but growled. "Get on the damn plane, Mom."

Arthur frowned, but picked up his hand luggage. "Don't butcher my language. Your accent isn't that atrocious." His gaze softened as he continued. "I know it's been three weeks, but if you need anything, just call and I'll come back-"

Alfred laughed, but it wasn't as light or carefree as it once would have been. "I'm sure England wants to see some of her nation again." His eyes glanced at the ground.

"Hey." Arthur caught the American's wrist. "I've been away for longer stretches."

Alfred smiled, but shook his head. "No. But thanks. I don't know- I don't wanna know- what I'd've done without you this time."

"Anytime," Arthur said easily. He meant every syllable. Then he smirked. "I don't know what you would have done without me all along."

Alfred's brow furrowed. Then he smiled brightly. "Nah, a hero never changes. I'd be every bit a leader as I am now!"

More than anything else, that reassured Arthur enough to get on the plane. With a final wave, he climbed the boarding steps.

7/7/2005. 14.00. London Heathrow Airport.

Alfred's plane touched down at Heathrow with barely a delay. He strode out, wondering where Arthur would be waiting for him.

He wondered if the nice English couple on the plane with him was alright. Halfway through the flight, the woman had burst into tears and the man hadn't looked much better.

He looked around the terminal, but couldn't see eyebrow or hair of the nation. His eyes fell on the TV screen in the corner, and figured if he was going to wait he might as well be entertained.

But they were playing the news. Alfred frowned. What was it about England that made its inhabitants so boring at times?

Then the studio cut to the scene of the story.

Broken rubble and smoke.

His own memory fed off the fresh images.

Twin Towers. Screams. Explosions and Pain.

"Although now some hours old, these images may be distressing to someone seeing them for the first time," The stereotypical BBC-English accent droned, over voicing the video.

Arthur!

Alfred spun and ran for the exit, hailing a taxi the moment he was out on the concrete.

The door was unlocked. Considering this was the house of Arthur Kirkland, the epitome (hell, the personification) of England and paranoiac extraordinaire, it was worrying.

Alfred shut the door, wary of what to expect. How much alcohol would Arthur have in the house, anyway?

The American was well aware that on 9/11, he'd completely shut down, like a puppet with his strings cut.

But Arthur? Arthur would be out for revenge, and failing that, to get roaring blind drunk. Hell, Arthur'd probably go for both, and not necessarily in that order.

"Arthur?" he called optimistically. Nobody answered.

Alfred cursed, and left the empty house. "Where's the stupid idiot gone?"

9.00, London (5 hours previous).

Arthur moved as in a dream. Had done ever since the scream.

The voices in his mind were yelling at him, shrieking at him to wake up and get a bloody hold of himself.

But he was awake. This was reality.

He could always hear the background noise in his head. It sounded like the bustle of a busy city, reassuring him that all was well and life was going on for his people.

But then the silence had started. Then the silence had started screaming, and he realised everything inside him was quiet.

Something was wrong. Arthur had got up from his sofa, when the pain had driven him to the floor.

Burning and falling and breaking and-

It was deep in his core. Just below his heart. London.

Had someone targeted the royal family? The Queen?

He became aware of his surroundings again as a voice pierced through his stupor.

"We interrupt this program to bring you an emergency broadcast."

Arthur turned his head to watch the radio. Which was rather pointless, considering all he could do was listen with growing horror.

"Approximately five minutes ago, three bombs were detonated on the London Underground Circle and Piccadilly lines-"

It had been five minutes already? It felt like five seconds, and five centuries.

He had planned to meet Alfred today. When had they planned that?

"-casualties are expected, but not yet confirmed-"

All thoughts of previous plans left his head.

Someone had struck against him, and his people. And this someone was too cowardly to do so on an honest battlefield.

On autopilot, Arthur pulled on the first jumper he found to try and warm himself up (why was he so cold with London burning inside him?) and closed the front door behind him.

He walked his way to the nearest underground station, only to find it barred by crowds and policemen. Ruthlessly, he shoved his way through, only to be held at bay by a barricade.

"But I need to get there!" He heard someone shouting. "I need to see it!" The voice broke on the last words, and from the pain in his throat Arthur realised it was his.

There was a hand on his back. "Easy there, lad." A gruff voice spoke into his ear. "You got someone special on the tubes today? I'm sure they're fine."

Arthur fell to his knees, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "But not everyone," he whispered. "Not everyone, and every one of them is special to me."

The tears spilled over, and ran down his cheeks.

Arthur forced himself to keep walking (almost home again), swiping at his cheeks with the cuff of his hoodie. Hoodie? The only hoodie he owned was the one he'd swiped from Alfred four years ago.

It was covered in dust now, and blood. Most of it wasn't his.

If he couldn't get there by underground, he'd get there on foot.

He'd left the crowded station, hoping to find some space. He'd failed; the streets were packed and he was being jostled this way and that in the crush of people. Elbows were the weapons of choice. He knew he'd have a few choice bruises tomorrow, not that they'd faze him in comparison.

Finally, forty-five minutes later, it felt like he was getting somewhere. He'd just reached Tavistock Square.

He froze. The screaming had started again.

Movement to the left caught his attention, and he focused on it. A man reaching under his coat-was he trying to reach a loved one with his mobile?

It wasn't a phone he pulled from his pocket.

Arthur refused to think it, refused to recognise the object as a detonator.

It was like a story.

The man looked around him, and locked eyes with the country. Arthur was sure his horror was plain to see.

The man narrowed his eyes, before the corners of his mouth curled up in a chillingly open, happy smile.

The silence was deafening, even amongst the crowd.

Arthur tried to say something, anything-

The man pressed the button.

The blast blew Arthur backwards, and he threw a hand up automatically to shield his eyes.

He felt himself hit the ground and gasped for breath. Debris rained down around him, over him. He sat up, barely thinking.

The dead surrounded him, and Arthur knew he'd got away with scratches only because he was so hard to kill. He mourned for his lost Englishmen, inwardly; before he let himself fall apart, he had a task to do.

But the bomber laid a few metres away, dead. Arthur stared, uncomprehending. Then it dawned on him, he could do nothing for his dead. There was no revenge he could take.

Arthur's hands were shaking with the need to do something.

A young man to his left groaned, still alive, for now. Arthur saw the blood running down his arm.

The man noticed his stare. He looked from his arm to the nation. "Well?" he finally said. "You gonna jus' sit there, or you gonna help?"

Arthur jumped, but got on hands and knees and crawled over. He reached under his hoodie to tear a scrap off his shirt, and bound the man's forearm above the three inch gash which still had glass stuck in it. Tourniquet to last until hospital treatment, he thought distantly.

"Thanks, man." The person was younger than Arthur had first thought, barely eighteen. "Could'na done that meself."

Arthur nodded mutely. He ruffled the kid's hair, leaving blood streaked through it, and looked around for more survivors. He could still do something for the living, after all.

Arthur shuffled through his front door. Unlocked? That couldn't be right.

It was observed abstractly, like he was some distance from the situation.

He had to focus. He had to plan.

Clump. Clump. Clump. Clump.

He let go of the door and it slammed behind him. The house fell silent as the footsteps also stopped. Arthur tapped a foot experimentally. No, he'd thought so, the footsteps weren't his. He wasn't wearing combat boots.

"Arthur? Y'okay?"

Alfred had to be talking from a long way away, because he'd certainly never be that quiet.

"Iggy? Talk to me, man." Even if you only yell, Don't call me that!

Arthur lifted his head to look the American in the eye. "What's there to talk about?" he said. "I now know exactly what you went through four years ago." His hands were shaking. Arthur balled them into fists to hide it.

Alfred's mind raced. Arthur's voice was deceptively light, but his green eyes were burning.

"I know the burning, the hatred. You were right, you know, back then. Why'd we give a fuck for them?" Arthur's voice rose to a yell.

"No!" Alfred didn't raise his voice to match Arthur's, but it was as urgent. "We can't be right about that! You've been telling me these last few years that the ultimate goal must be peace, for everyone. Don't tell me you're giving up!"

"They were British. Three of them were British and one lived here anyway. They were mine, and they killed my own, their own." He shook his head, and seemed to get a hold of himself. "I'm not giving up, Alfred. I just have a new task to get on with." He flashed an eerie smile, eyes focused on something just past Alfred's shoulder. Arthur nodded to himself, decisively. "Would you excuse me?" He shoved past the American and made his way to his kitchen.

Alfred blinked. What was Arthur..? It clicked. "Oi, no!" He blurted out, catching the Englishman's arm before he was out of reach. "We're going to the lounge, you're sitting down with a whiskey and you're lying down 'til your head's on straight again."

Arthur struggled. "But I've got to get out! I've got to do something for them!"

"How'd you think you got those?" Alfred yelled back, looking at the stains on his hoodie. "I bet your shirt's ripped to rags under that."

Arthur's reply caught in his throat as it struck him how well the American knew him. Instead of shouting, it came out in a whisper. "Not for the living, for the dead. Have to do something, but the bombers- dead already. Find the plotters. Punish them." His eyes hardened. "And you aren't going to stop me." Arthur wrenched his hand free and headed for the kitchen, turning his back on the other nation.

Alfred stood in the hall and waited for England to return. There was only this way to the front door.

Arthur came back, face washed and hands clean, but eyes no less furious. His plan was obvious, which made Alfred feel a lot better about his own decision.

"Sorry, Iggy," he said cheerfully, falsely. "But you'd regret this more than one of your worst hangovers."

England paused, and turned to him. "Alfred? What are you playing at now?"

Alfred gave him a wry grin. "I'm not playing here, England." He prepared himself for the fury Arthur would send his way in the morning.

Then he punched the nation's lights out.

Arthur groaned. His head was killing him, and he'd only been conscious for seconds. He hadn't drunken anything yesterday, had he? Why the hell'd his head hurt so bloody much?

"Er, morning, Arthur."

Arthur raised his head, noticing too late that it made the pain increase. "What the hell happened to me?" he asked Alfred, who'd seated himself at the foot of the bed.

Alfred looked wary, like he was worried about the near future. Arthur wasn't used to the look; it implied the American had planned ahead for something. "What do you remember?" He heard Alfred reply.

Arthur was even more suspicious. "Why aren't you answering my question?"

Alfred gave an uneasy laugh. "Y'know me, have to make you curse me at least once a year. But seriously, when's the big blank space in your head start?"

About to protest that his head was quite full, thank you, Arthur realised that- it wasn't. All of yesterday was one huge blank space, as Alfred had put it.

"I- I..." he stuttered."I don't remember... Alfred, what happened yesterday? I see you got back from Heathrow alright, at least."

Alfred's jaw fell open. "Anything? You don't remember anything?" When Arthur shook his head (and winced) Alfred bit his lip, muttering, "I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

"You? You gave me this headache? Come here, you bastard, I'll show you exactly how much this hurts!" Arthur forced himself to sit up fully, ignoring the pounding in his head in favour of the pounding he was about to give his former colony.

"Arth- wait-" Alfred scrambled to his feet. "You'd have been sorrier if I hadn't done it," he said quietly, once safely out of arm's reach.

"Oh really?" Arthur snorted. "And why's that?"

Burning. Broken rubble. Broken people.

Arthur blinked, wondering what the flash in front of his eyes had been.

"I need to see it!"

"Every one of them is special to me!"

"For the dead- dead already- Punish them-"

Arthur put one hand behind him for support. "Alfred?" he said uncertainly. His voice quavered.

"You gonna help?"

Blond-blood-streaked hair.

Tavistock.

And that was the image that broke the hold Arthur had put on his memories. Tavistock Square, broken and blown apart by one cowardly wanker.

Even that wasn't strong enough to describe his hatred for the man.

"Artie? You okay?"

Despite himself, Arthur felt his lips curve into a smile. "You only call me that when things have gone to absolute hell," he observed.

He tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes watering.

Alfred noticed, and sat back on the bed, closer than before. "It seemed appropriate," he said. "Come here." He gestured to the space next to him.

Arthur tentatively curled up next to him, grateful for someone to hold on to as he finally fell apart.

Three days later found the American sprawled out on Arthur's couch.

"Alfred?" The American glanced away from the TV, and jumped when he saw Arthur was closer than expected.

"Hm?" He answered, hoping this would be short.

C-rack.

"Ouch!" Alfred's hand whipped up to cover his already bruising cheek. "What the hell, Iggy?"

Arthur only smiled. "Payback, Alfred. It's a bitch, huh?" Arthur very deliberately scratched at his own cheek, where the bruise was finally starting to fade.

Alfred's mouth clamped shut with a click.

"Have a nice afternoon," Arthur said, leaving the American to his shows.

Alfred looked out the window with a disgusted frown. "It's meant to be summer, Artie. Why's it always raining?"

Arthur studied the younger nation from his seat at the kitchen table. He hadn't thought Alfred would stay for so long, but he had. And he'd been there for Arthur every minute of it, to help him, to stop him doing stupid things, to distract him when needed-

"Thanks, Alfred," he said.

Completely (or deliberately, Arthur couldn't tell) misunderstanding, the American replied, "C'mon! I've been here a week, and it's rained for most of that! It's not a complaint anymore, it's a fact!"

"It's only rained for five days," Arthur commented lightly.

"Five out of seven was a large enough majority to start World War Two." Alfred replied in dark contrast. Then he broke it by whining, "It sucks, Artie! Do something about it!"

"We could go out, you know. Most places have roofs."

Alfred's eyes narrowed and Arthur swallowed a sigh. "I'm not going to break, you git. You've kept me good company, and I'm not about to do something stupid anymore." He paused, wondering whether to mention it or not. "And besides-"

"You want to get to the pub?" Alfred guessed. It had been a frequent request.

"I'm a regular there! You're only making them worry by keeping me away!"

Arthur thought Alfred was suffering from enough cabin fever to agree. He was (thankfully) proved right when the younger nation growled and said, instead of 'no', "Stay with me. And keep track of what you're drinking! I'm not lugging you back here later!"

Arthur beamed, and Alfred was suddenly very glad he'd said yes to his friend's request. Arthur hadn't looked that happy in months.

Although...

He fingered his bruised cheek gently. It was a close second, as he recalled most distinctly.

"So what's this place called?" Alfred yelled over the rain and general British weather.

Arthur smirked. "You'll like it- wait and see."

"How much further is it? I'm soaked. And I'm cold."

"I did offer to let you share the umbrella," Arthur said. "It's just around the corner."

"Thank God." Alfred muttered, and pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

When Arthur tapped his arm, Alfred looked up and found the pub's signboard swinging a foot over his head. "The Lobster?" he read, taking in the picture of British redcoats in action with some disbelief.

"The owner's an American in the know with a strange sense of humour," Arthur explained. "I always said I'd bring you to meet him one day."

"A fellow countryman? Why didn't you say so earlier?" Alfred dashed for the door, given further incentive than simply 'get out of the rain'. With a fond smile, Arthur followed.

Inside was homely. The first thing Alfred noticed was the fireplace, a real one, filled with burning logs, with a pile waiting to be burnt next to it.

"C'mon," Arthur said, shaking out his umbrella. "Bar's this way."

He led Alfred through a number of tables and chairs, steering without much problem whether they were occupied or not. On reaching the bar, he hung his umbrella from a hook probably meant for a woman's handbag and said with a grin, "What's an Englishman got to do to get a decent whiskey in a place like this?"

Alfred jumped when a man appeared from under the bar. "Arthur?" He held out a hand to shake. "Was beginnin' t'worry 'bout ya."

With a pointed glance at Alfred, Arthur took the hand in one of his. "Any Yank should know you can't keep England down for long."

The barman followed Arthur's glance, and took in the tall, blonde and blue-eyed figure next to the nation. "I recognise ya, from the TV." He looked from Arthur to Alfred and back. "Nah, really?" He asked Arthur, who nodded and smiled.

He held out his hand to his own nation. "'Sa pleasure to meet ya, America," he said. "First drink's on the house for you, sir."

Beside them, Arthur had his head in his hands. "Dear God, don't call him sir. It'll only give him delusions of grandeur."

Alfred elbowed the Englishman to shut him up. "Alfred F. Jones at your service..." he trailed off.

"Kenneth. Call me Jack."

"Proof that he's one of yours. He's about as logical as you are," Arthur muttered, just loudly enough for them to hear.

'Jack' swatted him. Alfred wished he could get away with that. "Ya know 'xactly where my logic's from," he stated. "Kenneth Jackson, an' I'll thank ya kindly to forget my first name now ya got it."

Alfred decided not to ask. "Then call me Alfred, please." They let go hands and Alfred gestured to a bottle. "One of those for me."

With a grin, the barman poured Alfred a measure of Jack Daniels. "An' our English friend?"

"Will stick to his Glenfiddich, thanks."

"For now," the Americans chorused. They looked at each other in understanding of mutual suffering from drunken Englishmen, and had matching half-grins on their faces.

"-an' then-"

Alfred watched in amusement as Arthur continued to tell what probably was a thrilling story to his enraptured (imaginary) audience. He shared a glance with Jack who agreed wordlessly; it was time to get the nation home. He stood up and grabbed an arm, slinging it over his shoulders.

"'Bu' no!' 'e yell'd, an' said 'stead- 'ey, wha're doing?" Arthur stumbled as he was pulled rather viciously off-balance. He could hear the fairies protesting, asking him to finish his story. "Alf'red?" he checked. His attacker was definitely tall enough.

"Night, Jack!" The American called to the bar. Arthur automatically followed suit, realising he was being pulled away from the bar before his alcohol-addled brain could work out why that was a problem.

"'ang na minute! Wasn' done yet!"

Alfred ignored the nation's increasingly rude yells as they neared his house, hoping that the neighbours were both heavy sleepers and well-used to Arthur's temper. None too sober himself, he propped the Englishman up against the doorframe as he fished his key from his pocket. With a click, the door swung open, and Alfred tried to think why he should have held it shut for a minute.

Thunk. "Ah- ow! Li'l warning, 'fred?"

Arthur was sprawled over his carpet, struggling to get on his elbows with a mutinous expression set on his face.

"Shit," Alfred mumbled. "'ere." He held out his hand.

Rather than pulling himself up, Arthur took the proffered limb and yanked, laughing when Alfred landed on the floor beside him.

"Wha's that for?" Alfred asked, more annoyed than himself than anything. Hell hath no fury like a prideful Englishman, he'd decided long ago. "Don' tell me, payback, right?"

Arthur gave him a wide smile. Like a bipolar, prideful Englishman, Alfred amended. "Knew y'could be taught," the older nation smirked.

Alfred shook his head in despair. Why did he bother? "C'mon, upstairs," he said, getting to his hands and knees and this time actively pulling Arthur up with him.

"Onl'if you stay," Arthur muttered.

Alfred snorted. "Where else'm I gonna go?"

"Wi'me. Stay wi' me," Arthur repeated, more clearly.

Alfred froze. It felt like there was a whole conversation he'd somehow missed in those three, slurred words.

He played it off. "Aw, how can I resist? D'ya know how cute you look when you're slurring your speech?"

Arthur glared, and stomped off alone up the stairs. "'m not cute!" He hissed. "Stay there f'all I care, git."

The more sober American tactfully ignored the wavering path he took, and the cursing as he tripped over the last step.

Once the Englishman had disappeared, Alfred declined the nice rug Arthur had suggested in favour of the living room sofa. He figured he'd just dodged a bullet, so why couldn't he settle down and sleep? Okay, the sofa wasn't particularly comfortable but it had never stopped him sleeping previously.

"Stay wi' me."

Alfred shook his head to clear it. "Arthur says all kinds of things when he's drunk," he reasoned with himself. "He won't remember a word of it, anyway." That was certain due to the second bottle of Arthur's Scottish whiskey that Jack had brought up from the cellar, after the first was (single-handedly) finished.

Scarily, Alfred had almost said, yeah, okay, before his mind had panicked on him. He'd nearly succumbed to the bright, open eyes.

He was beginning to suspect there was some sort of magic about Arthur, despite how he denied it when they were in public. His eyes were amazing.

Alfred shot up. "I did not just think that," he stated. He thought of green eyes again. "Oh, hell," he moaned, burying his face in a cushion. 'Hell' didn't quite manage to cover it. He collapsed back and turned on his side, wondering exactly how a nation went about not admitting... like... for his father-figure-turned-oppressive-bastard-turned-good-(best)friend. Because if it was giving Alfred, renowned nation of the free, so much trouble, he could only imagine how Arthur would react if he knew.

Two hours of tossing and turning later, Alfred admitted defeat. Yes, Arthur was cute even when he wasn't slurring his speech. And what was an age gap between beings that were essentially immortal?

Four minutes after that, the exhausted American was passed out on the couch, dreaming away.

Alfred woke up to the sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. He stretched out his back and shoulders, before cursing suddenly; Arthur was in the kitchen.

It wasn't heroism, merely a matter of survival depending on his ejecting the other nation and taking up residence himself instead.

Fearing the worst, Alfred tiptoed around the corner. Arthur was seated at the table with a cup of tea. Alfred thanked God silently, that he hadn't got around to 'cooking' any food yet.

He scuffed a foot to announce his presence. Arthur looked up blearily. "Morning," he mumbled.

The older nation had all the classic signs of a hangover of monumental proportions. For the second time that morning, Alfred found himself relieved; his secret (and slip-up) from the night before was safe. Surely Arthur couldn't have remembered anything?

With a grin, Alfred also realised he had a prime opportunity. He couldn't let it go to waste.

"Good morning, Iggy," he chirped brightly. He moved over to the window, flinging the curtains back.

Arthur glared.

"You got a slight headache? Blurred vision? I'd say, seeing things?, but for you that's normal." Alfred's grin didn't fade.

Arthur's glare became heavier.

"Are the lights too bright for you?"

Arthur brought a hand up to massage his temple. "If you value your sunny disposition and intact expression, Alfred, I suggest you kindly shut up and pull the God-damned curtains shut again," he growled.

"Since you asked so nicely..." Alfred left the sentence open.

Arthur relaxed minutely, perhaps expecting a small reprieve for his pounding head.

Alfred hit the light switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light along with sun.

Arthur jumped and growled low in his throat, one hand flung over his eyes.

Alfred ran. He figured he'd need the head start.

He couldn't resist making the remark as they saw the girl in the airport's waiting room. It was begging to be said.

Because seeing Arthur in his dark green suit, handing the ball back to the little blonde kid with bottle-green ribbons in her plaits was freakin' adorable.

"You should grow your hair out, Iggy. I bet you'd be just as cute with a coupla those ribbons in your hair."

His only saving grace was that it wasn't exactly what he'd thought, which was more like, they'd match your eyes perfectly.

Arthur stopped moving. Slowly, he turned his head to regard the American, who'd begun cursing himself the moment the comment left his mouth.

Arthur tilted his head back in challenge. "I'm not cute," he stated, enunciating each word perfectly.

Whatever Alfred had been planning to say dried up in his throat. Arthur had remembered. Why hadn't he said anything? Alfred racked his mind for something, anything to reply with.

"This is the final boarding call for flight VX 243 to Washington. I repeat, this is the final boarding call for flight-"

Both nations started, the moment broken.

"That's your flight. You'd better get going," Arthur said neutrally.

Alfred blinked. "Erm- uh-"

"I don't think they'd hold the flight, even for you," Arthur stood and brushed his clothes down.

Alfred seized the easy opening. "'Course they would, a hero like me." He paused. "Arthur-"

"Keep in touch, Alfred." Arthur had already turned to leave.

Something inside Alfred gripped his chest and told him not to let the other nation go like that. Arthur had practically been teasing him, just seconds ago. Where had that Arthur gone?

He reached out and grabbed Arthur's shoulder, spinning him around.

"What-"

Alfred didn't give himself a chance to think. He'd always worked best on the fly, anyway.

He pressed his lips to Arthur's, lightly, just enough to show deeper intention for the next time they met face-to-face.

He broke away, meeting shocked green eyes for a fraction of a second. Not anger, not hate, not a-whole-lot-of-things-he-didn't-want-to-think-about, but surprise. And lurking in the background, hope?

Arthur reached up and grabbed his coat collar, pulling him down for a second kiss. It was no longer than the first, but this time it was green eyes assessing blue, checking their reaction when he pulled away.

Arthur smiled, reassured by what he saw. "Keep in touch, Alfred," he repeated in a happier tone of voice. Alfred nodded, struck dumb. He watched the shorter nation casually walk away, before remembering that as he was the one on a time limit, he should probably do the same.

At the door, he permitted himself one look back.

Arthur was kneeling next to the little girl, the blonde with the pigtails and green ribbons. And even though Alfred had never professed to be an expert in lip-reading, he was pretty certain Arthur had just thanked her.

With a grin, he made his way to the boarding room, glad for once that he'd not thought before opening his mouth.

27/10/2005. New York.

It had only been a couple of months. Hell, it'd been a couple of days since he'd spoken to Arthur on the phone.

Alfred missed him.

It was a disturbing feeling. It started off warm in the centre, before cooling around the edges and telling him something was wrong.

And the wrong thing was that Arthur was on the other side of an ocean from him. How had that possibly felt right for the previous three hundred years?

He picked up his phone and dialled the only number he'd ever bothered memorising, only to have the engaged signal ring in his ear. Alfred stared at the phone like it was a foreign object (never mind that it was a present from Kiku, the latest prototype or something).

What was he going to do now?

Thinking about it, Alfred was glad Arthur hadn't picked up. Beyond hi, I missed you! he had no idea what he'd say.

He cast his eyes around the room, catching sight of the writing set he'd not used in years lying abandoned on his desk.

Alfred's face broke out into a grin. That was an idea.

New York, America. Letter dated 27/10/2005.

Dear Arthur,

This has bugged me for centuries now, so I figured I'd set you straight.

You are a lousy penpal. You have no idea how to address a letter properly, if you even use a name in the first place instead of 'hey!' or more likely, 'oi! Git!'

Though that might just be when you're writing to me.

Don't worry, you eventually improved. You started replying, for one.

I reckon I should've got you drunk years ago, or at least listened to you more when you were drunk (because let's face it, it's quite the common occurrence) 'cause hey, you never know, maybe you'd actually be able to write a decent letter.

It's too late for that, though. I reckon I should teach you the wonders of e-mail, instead.

You need a young outlook to help you in your old age (I won't say senility, but only 'cause you've been insane for years). And who else would you count on but -your- the hero?

Talk soon, hopefully,

Alfred

Arthur looked from the letter in his hands to the translation he'd painstakingly copied onto his own paper.

It could only make him smile.

Original language: Americanese (also known as Alfrese)

Translation:

Hey Iggy.

We're gonna have troubles. And arguments. I know that, and I figure you know that.

Wish we could have made up years ago. I miss you. Still, we're here now, so I wouldn't change the past for anything.

I want to give this a try. For real. The future, together.

Yes, with me. Don't be horrified. You raised me, there's only yourself to blame for how I turned out.

(At that point, Arthur suppressed a shiver. That meant he was a result of... Francis)

Erm... what do you say?

Alfred

Alfred switched screens when his computer beeped, telling him he had a new message.

It wasn't an address he recognised. Curious now, he clicked 'open'.

To username: american_hero

From username: ruleBritannia1966

He gave an educated guess as to the sender's identity.

Oi, git.

Alfred hung his head, chuckling.

Who says you can't teach your elders something new?

There was an attached file. It had the dates for the next proposed world meeting. Arthur had volunteered to host it.

He laughed harder when he noticed Arthur hadn't bothered to sign the invitation.

20/11/2005. London, England.

The other nations filed out slowly, chatting amongst themselves. In the normal fashion, absolutely nothing had actually happened, other than the most recent rumours being swapped and the traditional arguments breaking out.

Arthur sunk back into his seat and breathed deeply. He rested his head on the seat back, unbothered when he heard someone hop onto the table in front of him. There was only one person it could be.

Still not opening his eyes, he reached out and grabbed at Alfred's jacket. The American complied, leaning forwards to bring their lips together. Arthur smiled into the kiss.

After a good few minutes of simply kissing and stroking faces with gentle fingers, Arthur pulled back. "I want to show you something," he said, to Alfred's inquiring look. He grabbed Alfred's hand and led him through the corridors of the high-rise building until they came to the roof access.

Without pausing, Arthur opened the door and pulled the American through it. There was another set of stairs to climb before they emerged onto a level platform.

Arthur spun to face him, and Alfred was struck by how alive he seemed, in the centre of his city and hundreds of metres above it. The river surface, far below, glinted with the last rays of the setting sun.

The sky was lit up with orange and pink. If he looked to his left, he could see the moon outlined in white against the purple clouds.

But when he looked to the right, he could see Arthur, and he could see what Arthur saw. Black shapes, office blocks and towers rising up into the sky, silhouettes with soft outlines.

"I love it up here," Arthur remarked, gazing at the skyline. "It always reminds me of crooked teeth."

Alfred glanced sidelong at him. "Yeah, maybe. I've never really thought about it." He cocked his head, considering. "Guess nothing's never straight," he finally said with a grin, screwing up Arthur's language just to hear the exasperated sigh from the older nation.

Arthur sighed and clipped Alfred over the ear. "I know you're doing that on purpose. I taught you better."

Alfred caught the hand in his, holding them together. "Some things I had to figure out on my own." He smiled.

Only sixty years ago, that comment would have resulted in all-out war between the nations. Alfred felt that stupid, warm feeling inside him when instead of yelling, Arthur squeezed the hand clasped with his and said softly, "I think, deep down, I had faith in you to do so all along." The warm feeling intensified when Arthur didn't let go, and they lapsed into comfortable silence.

Further words were unnecessary- even at the height of their arguments, they always had understood what the other nation was trying to say.