This story is special.

This isn't a typical fic for Halloween. I was torn between writing something tragic and humourous, but then I changed my mind. I decided I wanted to write something more meaningful. I thought, instead of following the crowd, I'd deviate and be unpredictable. So, instead of a regular story revolving around Halloween with gouls and ghosts, instead of injecting fear into your hearts with the threat of monsters, I'd try to do it with the threat of losing love. I thought I'd show how true love, although I don't think I've experienced it romantically, means you're constantly scared to lose somebody but you realise that you'll always be with them somehow. And so, this isn't really a story for Halloween, but it's a story for a very special person's birthday.

Happy birthday, my Alfie. :) You have no idea how much you mean to me. I only hope I can convey a fraction of it in this story. Thank you so much for being an amazing person. Happy birthday! (And, after approximately a couple of hours of writing and deleting things because I was being very tsuntsun about it, I finally wrote this little message to you. No kidding, it took forever. And I'm also in the process of writing your letter which I am also being tsuntsunderedere about. I blame you, you know!)

Everyone sing happy birthday. I must insist. :I Happy birthday, Suzume Chiyu. ... -heart hands!-

I'd make you a cake but I fear that it wouldn't be very good after being murdered by travelling... So I'll just make you one when you come here. *n* Hey, Prussia even said she'd eat my scones, you must do so also! I'll even let you have a burger or something. -huff huff-

Oh dear. I'm rambling again. I am getting old... Ironic that you're older than me. And yet you still call me old! Bah! Americans!

Warnings: You might get cavities. Oh and they're gay obviously, but that should be an awesome promise rather than a warning. Besides, most of what I write is USxUK anyway. Hehh... Additionally, human names. Because it sounds more intimate to me.

Anyway, let's get on with it. It was inspired both by Halloween, America's fear of the occult, and something I wrote for my America a little while ago over MSN. Oh, and Snape when he was introducing the first years to Potions. A little while before he said, "Clearly, fame isn't everything."

I'm sorry... I'm too obsessed with Harry Potter. May I utilise the "I'm English" excuse?

xo.

It felt almost as if they were being watched.

The full moon hung ominously outside their window, deceptively innocent in its plain appearance. It shouldn't be anything to worry about really - this happened every month, and no werewolves had ever leapt through the window and attempted to decapitate them or knaw on their flesh... He hastily cut off his horrifying thoughts with a violent shiver, and cuddled up to the man sleeping beside him, blissfully unaware of the frantic thoughts dominating his lover's mind.

But Alfred didn't want to wake his darling. So, in spite of the nervousness niggling at him like some kind of poisonous arachnid nipping greedily at the back of his neck, he didn't voice his concerns. He stared down at his (possessive pronoun - he had someone to belong to, and someone who belonged to him, and they belonged together) sleeping boyfriend. Lover. Fiancé. He could feel his heart rate accelerate and butterflies erupt in his stomach. His fingers shook as they gently weaved soft, silky hair out of Arthur's face.

That was something he adored about the older man - how he felt. How he seemed so scrawny and lanky, and Alfred could feel some of his bones jutting out when he hugged him, and yet, somehow, he was still so soft. He could compare Arthur to an abandoned doll, although he would never voice that. It wasn't that the Brit was fragile - God, no. Once, he had a black eye, a busted lip and a red handprint on his cheek for a week. He vowed not to forget an important anniversary ever again...

But Arthur was just... beautiful, in his own imperfect, flawed, amazing way. Every negative aspect about him could conflict with something good Alfred saw in him. The Englishman claimed he was too pale, but Alfred was aware that pale skin was considered awe inspiring in some cultures. That, and Alfred just loved how they portrayed yin and yang. They seemed to be the epitome of the phrase "opposites attract". And he loved that. He liked how they contrasted in almost every way, but loved each other's differences and eccentricities.

And the scars. God, the scars. They littered the Brit's body like clouds in a London sky. They were scattered all over the fragile-looking flesh, some almost faded, smooth, and some rugged and pink as if they were still fresh. One of the biggest ones was a large circular one over his chest. Above his heart. Alfred snuck a warm hand beneath the covers and traced small patterns over the jagged scar. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the familiar scent of pure Arthur invading his senses and calming his nerves momentarily.

Arthur reminded him of fall. Or autumn, as the Brit called it. The older man had once expressed his distaste over autumn. It was some time during World War II, at a point when Arthur was vulnerable and utterly delirious with pain. He was a bit hysterical, giggling like a child but dry sobbing too, shaking his head as if denying something, but he didn't voice what. Suddenly, as Alfred was gingerly dressing his wounds, Arthur whispered hoarsely, "I hate autumn."

It was extremely out of the blue, and Alfred only glanced up, half expecting him to launch into an incomprehensible rant or bring up an entirely different topic. Humouring the unpredictable man, he asked, "Why is that, Arthur?" He was trying to use his name a lot, scared that he was going to lose the other to some kind of amnesia. He passed out for hours and, although Ludwig mostly attacked Arthur's heart, the Brit had showed signs of trauma in other places. Possibly his nervous system, but Alfred wasn't a trained doctor. So, he just kept utilising the man's name, hoping, praying, needing him to get better soon.

And then bright emerald eyes, seemingly hollow at first glance but burning with numerous conflicted emotions beneath, locked onto his. Chapped lips, looking charred but bloody (probably because he kept biting them in his nightmarish slumbers), parted, and he breathed, "It reminds me of dying."

Alfred froze, the bloodied bandages in his hands falling off of simmered skin slowly as his fingers shook. Arthur couldn't say that. Arthur was strong. He... He had faced so much throughout his history, long before Alfred came into existence, and he managed to pull through that. The adversity he overcame just proved his resilience, so he couldn't... Choking back a sob and letting out a shakey breath, the American worriedly enquired, "Why, Arthur?"

Ashen, too thin shoulders shrugged slightly, and a dry tongue ran over painful lips. "Because," Arthur murmured quietly, pausing to let out a string of throaty coughs, full of congestion, and his body shook with the effort. Swiftly but carefully, Alfred grabbed the flask of water, wrapped his arm around the older man's shoulders, and pressed the cool metal to his waiting lips. He greedily, if weakly, lapped up the water, desperate but too weary to do much else. "I'm not invalid, America," he gasped out, coughing at the effort to snap, and Alfred gently ran his hand over the Brit's flushed cheek as he placed the flask back down.

He loathed how Arthur had called him by his 'official' name at the time. After the revolution, the Englishman seemed adamant on referring to him by the name of his country, even if it seemed to be painful for him to admit that he was exactly that now. But, instead of voicing his hurt feelings, he just prompted Arthur on, saying: "I'm sorry. But why do you dislike the fall then, Arthur?"

And then the eyes darkened considerably once again, falling down to the sheets that were smudged with bloodied hand prints and littered with dirty bandages. His frail fingertips clutched at the sheets and his brows furrowed. "Because..." he began again, and let his eyes fall closed as he let out a sigh, so poignant and defeated that Alfred could swear he felt his heart crack. "Everything dies." It was so blunt, emotionless, and Arthur's face was impassive as he said it. But Alfred could see his skinny frame trembling slightly, and his reddened hands tightening on the sheets as they shook. "The prosperous green leaves turn to brown. They fall from the branches supporting them. They fall with only the ground there to break it." He let out a shuddering breath and hunched his shoulders slightly, not even wincing as another small cut split open at the sudden movement. "They fall, all alone, and break apart until they are nothing."

That memory was engraved into Alfred's mind: the image of Arthur - fragile, broken, hollow and yet so full - and the gravity of the words he used to reflect how he himself felt as a country. But Alfred did not agree. The fall reminded him of the end of one journey and the road onto a new one. It made him think of warmth and cold all at once, and it made him think of families and togetherness. He had voiced that opinion once, and Arthur smiled that annoying, omniscient and condescending smile and murmured, "Autumn... The word itself means to fall from a height."

The American only rolled his eyes at that. Definitions or literal meanings of certain words did not determine the entire truth. But if Arthur wanted to play it that way, fine. Autumn was a time of harvest. And a harvest meant gathering in the old and letting the new grow. Not to mention, in America they had Thanksgiving, and Alfred didn't need to state his opinion on that. He always invited Arthur over to his for that time, along with Francis and Matthew, and sometimes some of his states and Arthur's old colonies. He wanted to show Arthur that he was thankful. He was grateful for how the Brit had found him and raised him and was always there, even when it seemed like he wasn't. But, he deduced that Arthur could be almost as oblivious as he was on occasion...

Contrastingly, however, Arthur had once shyly voiced that Alfred reminded him of spring. It was a few months after the war, and they were sitting on Alfred's lawn and drinking, of all things, tea. They had been relaxing in a comfortable silence and, although Arthur had looked troubled in his thoughts, Alfred knew that trying to make him talk would only result in being lectured. But, eventually, he had just blurted it out. Curious and slightly confused, Alfred just asked him to elaborate. And, with red cheeks and an averted gaze, the Englishman had mumbled into his tea cup: "You remind me of spring, I said. And... and it's because you... make me think of new life and fresh starts. You're full of life and light up others'." His face steadily grew darker and darker and he downed his tea before rushing indoors and hiding from the American, extremely flustered.

The fool couldn't see that he reminded Alfred of fall for practically the same reasons. Stupid insecure Brit...

And suddenly the desire to just feel more of his lover overwhelmed him, and the hand covering his scar slipped down to his waist to pull him closer, and his lips brushed over the smaller man's and he whispered: "Arthur..."

"Nn..." The Brit moaned, resisting the consciousness that probed at his mind, and tried to squirm away from the evil force attempting to wake him, but to no avail. A strong arm was wrapped tightly around him and refused to relinquish its hold, and Arthur swore he would maim his boyfriend later. But for now, he sighed and allowed him to press their lips together, gentle and soft but full of feeling, and he could taste coffee and mint toothpaste. It was strange, he mused, how Alfred usually tasted bitter and spicey. It was a stark contrast to his sweet demeanour. When they made love (made love, they did, rather than just fuck emotionlessly as he had done in the past), it was gentle and sweet (unless Arthur got sick of it and insisted Alfred stop treating him like a china doll once on a while), but when they kissed, he could taste the bitterness of coffee on Alfred's tongue and the spice of something lingering on his lips.

Conversely, Arthur tasted sweet. Instead of eating sweets, Alfred just leaned over and kissed his fiancé when he was in the mood for something to tantalise his tongue with promises of more. It was also rather odd, he too thought, with Arthur's adoration for bitter tea. But then, the elder did have a big sweet tooth, and often indulged in sharing hot chocolate with Alfred, or nibbled on chocolate or sweets when he was peckish or simply bored. But he was still so thin because thos damned rations from the war had just been ingrained into his regimé and he never ate much. His portions were small, and he grimaced at prices on menus when they ate out, even though he could easily afford it now. It was something they were working on, because Alfred didn't want to feel Arthur's bones digging into his torso when they hugged, and he didn't want to be able to feel the indents of his ribs when he kissed his waiting body.

So they kissed and they tasted and they felt each other - there, together. Not alone, not alone. The words echoed like an ancient mantra in their thoughts, mingling with the breathy moans and whispers of names.

That was, until a strange sound, something akin to a dog howling, infiltrated the atmosphere and made them freeze in their sluggish show of closeness. They pulled back slowly, licking their lips unconsciously and relishing in the lingering flavour of the other, and then just stared into one another's eyes as if confirming that they had both heard... whatever the hell that was.

"It was probably just a dog, right?" Alfred whispered, as quietly as possible as his blue eyes darted to the door and then back to Arthur pleadingly.

Inwardly smirking, Arthur simply nodded innocently, and then adapted a feigned thoughtful expression. "Yes, probably," he agreed genially, and the American deflated in relief. "That, or a werewolf," he mused, a far away expression on his face as he seemed to ponder over various options. He hardly noticed his lover stiffen beside him and drag their bodies even closer, both his arms wrapping tightly around the slighter figure as he buried his face in soft blond hair.

"D-don't fool around like that, Arthur," his boyfriend berated seriously, although the reprimand was severely lacklustre due to the shaking in his voice.

Disgusing a snicker, Arthur hid a smile in the crook of Alfred's neck and replied sweetly, "Why, Alfred, I thought you loved fooling around."

The American huffed slightly, cheeks going pink in a rare display of virtue. "Yeah, but not when I think I'm gonna be devoured by some huge ass hairy... monster. Thing." He shuddered and clung to Arthur even tighter than before. "J-just imagine... a-all it's teeth. Jesus. Fuck."

Taking a bit of pity on the lad, Arthur wound his own lanky arms around the other man's neck and pressed his lips gently against his jaw, tracing a few soft butterfly kisses along it. "Calm down, love," he murmured placatingly, soothingly tracing the tips of his fingers in circles on his lover's broad back. "I was only joking. Nothing can harm you."

He didn't receive a reply for a little while, and he wasn't sure if Alfred had fallen asleep or if he had somehow said the wrong thing. Separated by a common language indeed... They always seemed to inadvertently upset or anger one another. They hadn't been arguing nearly as much as they used to. They had mellowed during the 1940s and actually became increasingly closer since then. He still remembered being stuck in those awful trenches. Of course he participated in the war. He was a soldier just by existing. Being a personification of a country, he hadn't had much choice. It's not like nations could die easily anyway... And, with his past, he would know. But those thoughts had dispersed a lot since he had grown closer to his now-lover. But, just... God, the trenches. They were cramped and stunk of corpses. It was repulsive and sickening and had almost numbed him to the revolting smell of death. He recalled the American throwing up a couple of times. He hoped that he would never numb to it like Arthur had done.

But they hadn't argued during World War II. Sure, Arthur had been rather unresponsive and hollow throughout, but... still, it had a positive impact on their relationship. He had been delirious a lot of the time back then, but he remembered snippets of Alfred tending to him and whispering soothing words, holding him during his nightmares and consoling him when he had breakdowns. They were strange memories, since he felt like he was hardly even there when experiencing them... His mind was so fogged, and he felt as if he had been watching from the outside. And he knew how ridiculous he had been acting... He couldn't remember half of the things he said, really. Things about death. He recalled a lot about that. But he also remembered Alfred listening to his crazed ramblings and offering his opinions - his stupidly sweet optimistic ideology.

When Arthur had come back to his senses - at least for the most part - he and Alfred had began conversing more. It was a bit awkward at first, but conversation came easily. They called each other, although not too often due to the expenses involved, and wrote frequently. He still had all of the American's crumpled, messy letters that smelt of coffee beans and gunpowder. He was too nervous and pessimistic to enquire whether the other had kept his letters also. It would be so humiliating if he hadn't. He didn't want to seem too sentimental or attached. He always feared he cared for Alfred more than was reciprocated. He was accustomed to unrequited love, and so he couldn't help but doubt all of the time. He never voiced it, however, although he wondered just how insightful his lover could be sometimes, when blue eyes suddenly snapped up to his and the American clearly stated his love for him. And, of course, he always reacted by blushing and reprimanding him, but also murmured it back after a moment. Every time, he was rewarded with a blinding smile. Every time, he couldn't stop himself from smiling back.

"That's not it," Alfred suddenly spoke, drawing Arthur from his reverie, and he blinked himself out of his daze and glanced up as the larger man pulled away enough to stare down at him.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked blearily, still fixated on his thoughts.

The American rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I know you're old, Arthur, but please do try to listen to me when I'm talking to you," he mocked teasingly, drawling the last part in a very snooty and high pitched English dialect. The Brit smacked him and he chuckled slightly, but the sound soon faded out, and he reached out to tenderly stroke the older man's face. He ran his fingers through his hair again, down his warm cheek and traced along his jaw, before placing his finger on Arthur's lips. "I said," he repeated, drawing closer to the other man slowly, "That's not it. I don't want you to have to protect me, Arthur." He withdrew his finger and leaned forward to brush their lips together tantalising and soft. "I want to be fearless. I wanna be the one to protect you." He moved to fill the remaining space between their lips, but the Brit pushed him back. He frowned, almost pouting and wondering why Arthur wanted to ruin the moment. "Whaaat?" he whined childishly, and Arthur's lips twitched.

"I disagree with you, of course," he mumbled, gently headbutting his boyfriend when he repeated the last two words sarcastically. "Idiot. Nobody is fearless. Nobody ever has been, nor will anybody ever be. Even the most heroic, chivalrous and virtuous of people cannot put aside natural feelings. They might be brave and launch into things in spite of their anxiety, but they can never truly abandon it." He brushed his thumbs over Alfred's cheeks, noticing fondly that they were cupping each other's faces and gazing into each other's eyes. His heart rate increased and he felt himself flushing slightly. He never would have imagined... this... "You can save others, yes," he said, trying to distangle himself from his embarrassing thoughts. "But others must aid you in your quest. Everyone requires help sometimes."

The American suddenly started trembling, and Arthur grew concerned, before quiet laughter spilt from the man's lips, eyes squinting in an irreplaced show of mirth. The Brit pouted, affronted by his boyfriend's insensitivity, and moved to squirm out of the loving position they were in. However, Alfred's arms slid back down to hug him by the waist, and Arthur was nowhere near strong enough to break their hold. So, he just buried his face in the bigger man's chest, sulking.

Eventually, the laughter died out, calming into rare giggles that finally dissipated into silence. Then, large hands (When did they get so big anyway...?) moved against his back gently, and Alfred placed a kiss on his head. "Sorry for laughin'," he apologised, but Arthur could tell he was still smiling in amusement. He huffed and buried his face deeper. "Your hair tickles. And imagining your cute chipmunk pout is making me even more entertained."

Arthur's head shot up and he glared furiously. "I do not look like a chipmunk! Nor do I pout!"

"You're pouting."

"Shut up, you wanker!" he squawked, burrying his face back in his stupid American's chest. "Why are you laughing at me?" he grumbled sulkily, words muffled.

"I said sorry," Alfred said insistently, justifying himself, and then saying, "It's not that I was laughing at you... Okay, maybe I was a little, but what you said was just so cute!" He kissed the Brit as soon as he looked back up, and then pulled away slowly and grinned. "No objections, babe."

Arthur flushed and averted his eyes, scowling in embarrassment more than anything. "Shut up," he snapped, his ego still bruised. "Git," he added for good measure, but that only succeeded in making his lover's teasing smile grow.

"C'mooon, honey," the American murmured, leaning down and pulling Arthur up to nip languidly at his exposed neck. He was thankful that he and Arthur had fallen asleep without pyjamas on due to... well, the promiscuous activities they engaged in before deciding to sleep. It made it easier than sliding all of the layers of clothes off of the smaller man's body. Urgh, it was so frustrating having to undress his lover, although it was worth it to see his flushed face. And when the Brit was willing to do it for him... well. Anyway. "I was jus' sayin' that I... I can be your hero, baby~" he sang, grinning wolfishly as Arthur groaned and slapped his cheek lightly, green eyes glinting in amusement.

"Don't remind me of that," Arthur replied, suppressing laughter and feeling butterflies in his stomach as his lover grinned at him. He felt a smile tug at his own lips, and tried to resist it. He failed, evidently, as the American's grin softened into that special smile that he reserved solely for Arthur. He felt his heart constrict in his chest because - damn it, he was always reminded that Alfred had grown up. He tried to stop himself from digressing once again and smirked back at his boyfriend. "You stood outside what you presumed was my bloody window at two in the morning singing that..."

"Oh, God." Alfred groaned, but he was laughing nonetheless. "Then some old lady opened her window and tossed a flower pot at my head."

"And then you turned up to the right place, knocked on my door and showed up covered in mud."

"I still can't believe you slammed your door on me," the younger man muttered, glowering in accusation at the smirking man lying beside him. He mimicked the expression and whispered hotly in the smaller man's ear, "But eventually, you let me in and even joined me in the shower... Care to reinact that event, Arthur?" And he felt a sense of pride swelling up in his chest when the Englishman shivered at the tone of his voice. He knew that Arthur liked his voice, especially when he was serious. He often acted childish and exuberant, but when he wanted to be serious, he could be (even if it took a little restraint). He recalled a meeting once, when he had been unusually severe about the entire thing, and afterwards Arthur had practically attacked him.

In turn, he loved Arthur's voice just as much. Although the man could become boring in the topics he ranted on about, the American always remained fixated on his voice. He didn't take in all of the words the other said, but he enjoyed listening to the timbre of his voice, heightening considerably as he grew more excited and interested in whatever he was talking about. Normally, the Brit's voice was significantly deeper than his, highlighting their contrasting personalities. However, in certain circumstances, the older man's voice lost its harsh edge and became softer. When he was feeling motherly (How Alfred loved referring to Arthur as feminine. He wasn't really - aside from his hobbies and habbits - but it was fun to tease him), he spoke gently, and his entire being radiated warmth and compassion. It was rare, and only really happened when Alfred was sick. Or, even rarer than that, when Arthur was in a good mood.

Which was now, by the looks of it. Face flushed and eyes shimmering like real emeralds in the moonlight, he looked like an angel without wings. With his arms around the American's neck, Arthur pulled them close enough to make contact again. It wasn't passionate, nor was it a fight for control, but instead, it was sweet and full of longing. Their kisses always seemed needy, as if they thought that the other would be torn away from them at any moment. They may not speak their insecurities and fears about one another, but it showed through their actions. And right now, their lips were dancing together, soft but not fleeting and hardly weak. Their tongues slipped together, intertwined and desperate but slow and savoury, as if it had been too long since they had been together.(1)

Alfred's eyes fluttered open (When had he closed them anyway?) when he heard Arthur elicit a small moan. His arms tightened around the smaller man and, damn it, they could never get close enough. One of Arthur's hands was tangled in Alfred's hair, and the other had drifted down to grasp one of Alfred's, enlacing their fingers to display their feelings. Warmth flowed throughout their body as electricity sparked speedily through their veins as they tasted and felt the other. Close... so close. But never close enough.

Finally, their lips parted when the need for oxygen became apparent, and they gasped for breath as they stared at each other longingly, clutching each other, holding onto each other as if they were the only things keeping each other there. Arthur closed his eyes and shuddered as the white noise in his mind faded into blurred words and unhinged sentences. And then he felt warm lips pressing against his jaw, trailing down his neck and nibbling on it, licking and biting softly, and he groaned in pleasure. Alfred felt the reverberations in the older man's throat as he moaned quietly and noticed the tiny shivers that passed through the man's body every time he placed a kiss on his waiting flesh.

He glanced up, a devilish smirk on his lips when he saw the flushed face and the teeth digging into his lip. "Arthur," he purred, "Don't hold in your sounds... I want to hear you." With that said, his lips hovered above Arthur's, and his tongue flicked out, teasingly sliding over the Brit's lips, and he let go of the clamp he had on his lips. Triumphant but still wanting to tease him, he pulled away, sniggering at the indignant squeak his lover emitted, and then smirking at the abrupt gasp as he littered kisses down the scared torso. The kisses lingered on every scar, and he tenderly carressed every one. He drew letters on the smooth skin over Arthur's thigh - I l-o-v-e y-o-u - and then brushed his lips over his lover's nipple, and the Brit squirmed lightly beneath his ministrations.

"Alfred..." he whispered, fingers carressing Alfred's messy hair, and he met expectant and curious azure blue eyes. Suddenly, although he was breathless, he smirked, and Alfred frowned at the conniving look in the emerald orbs that stared back, unwavering and sly. "Get on with it," he ordered, bucking his hips up.

Befuddled, but unwilling to object to his temperamental lover's demands, he gladly acquiesced. "Impatient, aren't we?" he taunted, sticking his tongue out when the Englishman scowled at him. "Fine, fine, Your Highness." He moved to lean over to the bedside table, but Arthur grabbed his wrist speedily. Alfred had the strength, and Arthur had the speed; they were a team. His unrelated thoughts came to a stop at the heated look on Arthur's face.

"Wait," he whispered huskily, shakey breaths escaping sporadically from bruised lips. "Lie down," he ordered, and tugged on the American's shoulders, bringing the curious younger man into a deep kiss, heated and how did Arthur learn to kiss like that?

Being caught up in the deep kiss, the breathless words the Brit just spoke drifted easily out of his head. Subsequently, he was unprepared as Arthur began moving subtly beneath him. And then, suddenly, with such swiftness that he was left feeling dizzy, blinking white out of his vision and then staring up, bewildered and perplexed. Finally, his vision cleared, and he stared, bleary-eyed, up at a victorious looking Brit. "Uh," he said intelligently, mystified by the current situation, and then muttered: "You aren't gonna top thise time - it was your turn last night." He was pleased that the older man blushed at that, and only chuckled evilly when he was smacked lightly. "No need to act, babe; I know you're just as perverted as I am... or moreso. Remember when you asked me to-"

"No, Alfred," Arthur snapped, face bright red as he scowled in embarrassment down at his lover. "Anyway," he said, desperately wanting to get off of the topic of things he had requested in the past. Alfred had been just as bad! He had lost count of the times he had been asked to dress up as one of Kiku's blasted anime characters. And, what's worse, most of the ones Alfred wanted him to dress as were females who were very scantily clad. "I'm not going to be topping in the sense you're thinking of..." he murmured, torn between being smug and shy. He tried to offer a superior-looking smirk, but with the way Alfred smiled warmly back, he must have just looked bashful. He cursed himself as he carefully leaned over Alfred, pressing their lips together as he unconsciously moved for the lubrication beside them.

The lid slipped off easily - they never really fastened it properly after using it. So, sliding his fingers through the smooth, cold gel, he carefully pressed one inside of himself. He gasped into the kiss, but refrained from reacting in any major fashion; he was fairly accustomed to the uncomfortable feeling by now, although it always still made him lose his breath. He reluctantly added another finger, wondering with chagrin why his hands were so bloody freezing all the time. Even with his own fingers inside of him, it still felt like a foreign intrusion, and it just felt so weird doing it to himself.

And then, warmer hands were tugging at his own hand gently, and his eyes flickered back open. He suddenly realised that he had been shuddering and making noises, because Alfred looked both amused and concerned. Arthur's face reddened darkly and he glanced away, only for the American's free hand to grasp his chin and make him face the other again. "Let me do it," he murmured between breaths, voice uncharacteristically deep, and Arthur shuddered in excitement at the low timbre of it.

"Okay," he breathed. Whilst he enjoyed being in control, he knew that they were fairly equal in their relationship. Or, he liked to think so. The American had more money and supplies than he did, and he greatly surpassed him in strength, but... whenever he showed signs of his insecurities, Alfred proceeded to make him forget all about them. Stupid American... "Nngh!" he suddenly gasped as a few slippery fingers slid inside of him, intruding and probing and damn it, would he ever get used to it entirely?

He couldn't stop his gasps or moans from escaping his swollen lips, reddened from the kisses they continued to exchange, sluggish and needy and lingering. Both were already covered in a thin veil of sweat, longing for each other and feeling conflicted about the preparation taking too damn long - but damn, Arthur looked so beautiful when he was blushing like that, and Alfred looked amazing when he was staring with so many emotions swirling in his blue depths.

"That's enough," he gasped out, licking his lips as he tried to restrain himself from moving his hips. "Nn... It's enough, so..."

Smiling in understanding, the American removed his fingers from his lover, feeling himself grow more excited and so, so ready when the other let out a whimper of a moan at the loss of contact. However, Arthur, with a bit of effort on his shakey arms, lifted himself into a sitting position. Chest heaving with the effort and face flushed deeply in desire, his eyes fluttered and he let out a moan from deep in his throat, lowering himself onto his lover's arousal.

Instantly, he felt that famliar warmth filling him, as if every part of him was being shared with his lover. You aren't alone, a voice in his head reminded him, and it was Alfred's voice. He had said that the first time they made love. It was awkward and painful and messy, but it was also loving and they actually had somebody - they had each other. "You aren't alone," Arthur whispered weakly, voice wavering at the temporary pain of being so filled, and he felt large, warm hands supporting his hips after stroking his shuddering arms.

"I know," the younger man replied, just as softly, just as shakily, but still strong and firm, and Arthur's eyes flickered open to gaze happily, gratefully, lovingly into Alfred's waiting blues. "We'll never be alone, Arthur... We have each other." And, even when flushed, panting and moving in such a fashion during such an act, it didn't look or feel wrong. It wasn't lust. It was love. Tainted, perhaps, by their written and unwritten history, their discourse, their feelings, but it was love, and it was true.

"I love you," Arthur suddenly blurted out, full of feeling, so many emotions that he always felt whenever he said those three words. Everything rushed back - finding Alfred; finding America, loving him, caring for him, providing for him, protecting him, losing him and everything before, after, and in between. All those suppressed emotions he kept locked within his heart like he did with treasure chests as a pirate just suddenly spilt out: his words, his feelings... "I love you, Alfred."

And Alfred gazed up at him, eyes half-lidded, but he was unwilling to close them and give up seeing his Arthur. Sky blue and forest green clashed, staring, all of their locked away emotions just overflowed. "Arthur," he gasped, breathing heavily and groaning softly, running his hands up from Arthur's hips to cup his cheeks. "Arthur, I love you too...!"

xo.

"Still afraid to sleep?" Arthur enquired, eyes hardly open and voice as soft as fairy's footsteps. They were still tangled together in a messy heap, but they were holding each other, supporting each other and just there for each other. It felt... safe. It felt right.

Alfred allowed himself a quiet chuckle, proud to be the special person to witness this vulnerable side of Arthur. He himself didn't see it often - only when the Brit was particularly emotional. Usually, that was on his birthday, or another unhappy date, but sometimes... Alfred didn't understand Arthur, really. He was like a woman with his feelings. One minute he was livid, the next close to tears, and then calm and complacent. Really. He had once brought it up, only for Arthur to go all PMS on him, so he never mentioned Arthur's neuroticism again. Aside from during verbal battles, but that was unavoidable with his impulsiveness. Nevertheless, he was just glad... He was glad that Arthur was his, and he was Arthur's. They really did fit together perfectly, even if they were drastically different.

And, so, weaving his arms around the Englishman and smiling at the exhausted man, he said: "Just a little." He beamed as Arthur groaned tiredly, muttering something about not being young enough to have another round... (Which was a lie, because once they had done it several times in one day. Then again, they'd had a heated argument and challenged each other to doing it in every room in the house. They had succeeded the challenge. They had also once attempted it in a hotel, but after being caught in a lift(2), Arthur just hid for the rest of the day.) "But I know you're here to protect me, so I think I'll be able to sleep."

Arthur's lips twitched before letting out a tired yawn, and he snuggled up to his warm lover, sighing happily. "Brilliant," he replied softly. "Goodnight, Al."

Alfred smiled, allowing his eyes to slip closed. "Night, Artie."

xo.

Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

(1) I just about restrained myself from adding because they are such sexually deprived beasts who are never satisfied. Almost mentioned something about phone sex too, just for kicks, but I decided not to reveal it because they get a bit embarrassed about it... Oops~

(2) A lift is an elevator. I try to make Alfred use American terms, but I am English and therefore do not fully grasp American phrases or slang... I mean, ba-donka-donk? Come on, guys. Please. We raised you better than that.

I never fail to mention how Arthur gets all PMS-y. It's just too fun. I included a couple of references in here, one being relating to the PMS-ness England has. Hot and Cold by Katy Perry has been consistent whenever my America and I discuss USxUK. XD Moreover, there's also the fitting together thing... MasterTwxt's USxUK videos on YouTube. My America and I frequently randomly say, "Puzzle pieces!" Hehe.

Anyway... I'm not very good at... lemons. I get really flustered when I write them, and I've done a couple before so I don't want them to become repetitive. I mean, there's only so many synonyms you can utilise for diverse wording during sex scenes. Plus I hate using certain words to describe... vital regions... and I can't call them that because then it'd sound like Prussia writing USxUK porn on his blog!

Oh, which reminds me! I promised our Prussia that I'd write PrUSUK... I have a policy about not breaking promises too, and so...~ Well, obviously it'll be rated M, let me tell you that... But geh! Do you know what Prussia said when I promised to write her it? She said England's going to be in the middle while the others do things to him! For goodness sake, I saw Lichtenstein/England - in that order - a while ago. It doesn't need to be made worse! I have no idea how I stumble upon EVERYONE/England! It's so frustrating! I mean, I love USxUK and I search for that (practicallyeveryday), and occasionally I look for PrUK and FrUK (but not nearly as much as USxUK because I'm so obsessive), but FFS. Lichtenstein? First Seychelles, then... I-Italy... Oh, lord, Italy scares me now... YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT HE IS CAPABLE OF.

But other than that... I'm just rambling because I'm tired and excited and bored at the same time because it's America's birthday but she's at Aki Con with Prussia and the others. Why do I live across the ocean? Le fu. I was even invited to one in Chicago by another friend, who then remembered that I reside in London. XD Damn it, all the Americans are taunting me!

Well, anyway, I've got to finish America's parcel and make more scones. Take care and be safe!

Love, England. xoxo.