Thank you all for your lovely comments! The third and final installment awaits!

Bell'inizio

France knew something was up.

America and England had returned without incident the day before, and they had both been in bizarre moods. America seemed preoccupied and reflective—so, basically, very unlike himself, and England was either drunk or acting like he was drunk.

France was perched on the sofa in the parlor, legs curled under him, Canada laying a golden head on his shoulder, his eyelids fluttering as he fell into sleep. France had a book in his hands, and he didn't even notice that England had stormed past him, grabbing an overcoat from his hall closet. It wasn't until he heard the slam of the closet door and Canada jerked awake that France glanced up, reading glasses on the end of his nose, and he closed the book.

"England?"

"What?"

"Where are you going?"

"Out." France frowned.

"Out where?"

"What does it matter? This is my country," England spat, his head popping around the corner. He buttoned his coat and slammed the heavy front door. Canada pushed his glassed up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. France pulled his reading glasses from his nose and placed them in the case, standing up. Canada looked up at him expectantly.

"I'll talk to that one," France said, pointing warily at the door. "You talk to your brother. See if we can get some information out of them about what happened in Italy." Canada nodded, yawning and stretching his shoulders. His pristine heather gray suit was wrinkled from where he had fallen asleep. The last meeting had gotten out only an hour earlier, and most of them were still wearing their suits.

All of the Allies were in London for a meeting that weekend, and England's disappearance had stalled their departures. So now they were all staying in one of England's personal London mansions—a lucky survivor of the Blitz.

"Alright. Where is my brother anyway?" Canada inquired. France jammed his thumb over his shoulder, up into the bowels of the grandiose British mansion.

"Up there somewhere, sulking and being his not-self," France answered as he tugged his pea coat from the hall rack.

"How do you know where England went?" Canada asked as France headed for the door. France scoffed and threw his eyes to Canada.

"I've known England for over a thousand years. I know exactly where he is."

He found the downtrodden nation at Churchill Arms, a favorite haunt. The place was rather quiet, considering it was a Sunday evening, and he spotted the man sitting at a table in a corner by himself, a squat glass between his fingers.

"Arthur," he said pointedly as he plopped down in the seat across. England's eyes remained on the half-empty glass in his hands, but his eyebrows perked. He was listening. "Arthur,mon vieil ami, what is happening here?" England raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and threw his head back, swallowing the rest of his drink in a single gulp. The ice clinked against the glass as England practically slammed the glass back down, beckoning to the bartender for another round. France grabbed the glass as the bartender placed it down, and took a whiff.

"Scotch? Classy," he said as he handed the glass over. England sipped from the glass and placed it down, finally leveling his eyes with France. They sat in silence, and France realized this would be the first time he'd really spoken to England after he and America arrived the previous evening. Something had happened between them in Italy—and as much as both nations frustrated France, they were his allies, and he depended on them. This was war.

France was about to speak when England opened his mouth.

"America," he started, and there was a slight slur to his voice, and his accent was a bit more Cockney than normal— "is a whore." With that, he threw back the second round of scotch, and France watched with wide (and impressed) eyes as the burning liquid went down his throat with ease.

"What?" France asked. "What do you mean by that?" England wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Did you know that, that Alfred, he fuckin'—he sleeps with random humans?" France raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. "It's like, by doing that, he's just throwing our anonymity all to cock, y'know? It's like, does he even bloody care?" England's voice had raised several decibels too high, and was starting to gather strange looks from around the room.

"How do you know this, exactly? Did America tell you this?" France inquired as he beckoned the waiter over. England threw up his hands.

"He bonked this random git in Italy, and he didn't even know who he was—who does that besides a whore?" England cried, and France winced at his words. America? Sleeping with random people? That didn't sound like the America any of them knew.

"You heard about this, I take it?" France asked gently. England was upset, and drunk, and France took his hand to keep him from pounding on the table and hurting himself. England rolled his eyes.

"Of course I heard about it, Francis—I was there," he said, slamming a hand to his chest. He laid his chin on the edge of the table and stared straight through his empty glass. France moved his chair closer to England and placed his chin in his hand, staring at England. England refused his look and continued staring straight ahead, his teeth clenched. He'd said too much. He'd blabbed and now—now what?

"England," France asked, a tenderness in his voice that England didn't recognize, "what happened between you two in Italy?"

"Nothin'," England muttered. "Bugger off."

"No. You're hammered. Now—tell me. What happened when America arrived in Italy?" England was silent, contemplating his answers. But the events were swimming in his mind, as if he were looking at them through a broken periscope.

"I was in Italy," England started slowly. "And then America was in Italy."

"And?"

"And—and then 'Merica," England continued, pointing to an invisible America only he could see in the corner, "America, he came, and he found me, and I was faking, and I seduced him so good, Francis." France just stared at England, trying to piece together England's nonsense.

"What? Wait, what did you do?" he asked. England raised the glass to his lips, trying to get the last remnants of scotch from the bottom of the glass. England made a confirming noise in the back of his throat and lowered the glass, but his head remained tilted back, his hair dusting his shoulders.

"I," he began, holding up a drunken fist, "seduced Alfred."

"Alright then," France replied, his hand on England's arm. England's arms dropped to the table and he closed his eyes.

"I was all dolled up as an Italian, from uh, a Brit undercover, and I had to be all savvy and suave an' flirt, like you," England began explaining, pointing at France. "And America came outta nowhere, an' I just decided to test out flirting and I got him into my bed, Francis, and let me tell you—" he stopped, and France waited, wondering what would come next out of the Briton's mouth. England opened his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, turning to face France.

"Tell me what?" France asked, genuinely curious as to where the story would go. A smile slid across England's face, and his nostrils flared, and he spoke.

"I shagged the shit out of him, Francis," England muttered, licking his lips and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. France gulped but retained his composure, despite the image of two of his more attractive Allies going at it someplace in Italy now ingrained into his mind. He shook his head violently and grabbed onto England's shoulder. England rolled his head to the side, and it occurred to France that he may have had four or five other drinks in the time it took him to arrive at the pub.

"England, England—are you telling me you had sex with Alfred, in Italy, in, what, disguise or something?" France asked. England grinned. His voice was getting louder, and France was starting to get irritated. Drunk England was amusing, yes, but also a handful, and it was getting to the point where England would be beyond his limits. England seemed to be getting angrier as he spoke, his forehead creasing and sweat rolling down his cheeks.

"I did, I did, and he's a wanker and a whore—"

"You—"

"—I didn't raise someone so oblivious and—"

"Arthur!" Francis cried, and he violently shoved England's shoulder. England blinked, jarred by the sudden movement, and suddenly felt a burst of pain and nausea rush through his head like a bullet. He winced and placed a hand to his head. "Arthur, you're just talking nonsense now—so you slept with Alfred, in Italy, and now you're speaking ill of him?" England faltered.

"He—he has sex with random humans—"

"Do you really think Alfred is that oblivious?" France asked incredulously. England bit his lower lip. "Arthur, you raised him. He is just as oblivious as you, and he is certainly not a whore—did you ever stop to think that maybe he knew that it was you?" England licked his lips again, and suddenly realized how chapped they were. They stung.

"You—you are so blind," Francis said, and his tone softened. "You're a pathetic drunkard of a man right now, but I promise you, Alfred is no more of a whore than you. He is much more reserved than that—trust me, I know." England said nothing in response, only continued to watch France as if he were observing a painting.

"I know you have all these—these awkward, unrequited, residual feelings, Arthur—sometimes I feel as if you never grew past being a teenager," France admitted, chuckling to himself. "But this is war time. You or I could be gone in any moment, hell, we thought we'd lost you for a while when you didn't return when you had planned. We've already come close to losing you once," France said, and England's eyes widened the smallest bit. "I know you probably regret what you did, but if it seemed right... maybe now is the time to finally act upon it."

"It's common, for young men going off to war to have shotgun weddings with their sweethearts, just in case they don't come back," France continued. England wondered in a moment of clarity if this was something France was making up or if it were true. France extended his hand and ran his fingertips down England's cheek, and the motion was so sudden and so gentle that England jerked from the touch. But it did make him feel calmer.

England breathed deeply, his brain swimming. Could... could America actually want him? Admittedly, England's disguise wasn't foolproof by any means—any normal person who knew England well would probably see right through it. So... did that mean America had?

"I—I don't..." England murmured, and he banged his elbows to the table and put his head in his hands. "I don't fuckin' know, Francis."

"I know," France replied, putting a hand on the nape of England's neck. "But you do know that you've had feelings for America for a very long time."

"...yes."

"And you know—don't give me that look—you know that America isn't as daft as you always say he is. Maybe he was seduced by you, and not whoever you said you were." England closed his eyes and listened to the throbbing of his head.

"Maybe you just gave him the opportunity he'd been waiting for."

"Al?"

There was no answer. Canada frowned at the door, and he knocked again, harder this time. "Alfred, I know you're in there."

"You're wrong," a voice called, and Canada glanced around the hallway. America's voice had come from another place in the hall—the only other open door was to England's den, just a few doors down. Canada wandered to the doorway and saw America sitting in England's chair, a map and notebooks on the table before him. Canada's eyes widened as he realized that America was actually doing something related to the war—America, doing reputable work?

But he then noticed that America had a book up to his face, his glasses on top of his head. His navy blue suit was wrinkled at the waist and his cream-colored pressed oxford was unbuttoned, revealing a wife beater underneath, with his pale yellow tie discarded on the back of the chair. Canada walked in and sat down on the coffee table, pushing aside the stack of notebooks America had been scribbling in.

"Whatcha reading?" Canada asked, sliding his arms out of his own suit jacket. He smiled to himself as he placed it on his lap—they were wearing the exact same outfit in different colors.

America lowered the book and turned its cover to face Canada.

"Utopia?"

"Thomas More," America offered, pulling the book back to his face. "One of England's favorites."

Canada sighed and rubbed his face with his hand.

"So, I'm just gonna be blunt about this," Canada said, raising his eyes to meet America's. America glanced away, his eyes trained on the book, but his eyebrows were arched and his head was bent forwards. He was listening. Canada breathed deeply, unsure if he wanted to know what could have possibly happened to seemingly shatter the shaky foundation England and America had formed. But he had to help, somehow. "What happened between you and England in Italy?"

"What happened?" America repeated, turning a page. "What happened is I had an amazing time with an amazing man." Canada swallowed.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he asked, and America looked up, shocked by the outburst. America lowered the book to his lap.

"Y'know how I said England was dressed up like an Italian?" he said, pulling his knees into his chest. "He saw me and started totally hitting on me." Canada stared, his mouth gaping just a bit.

"What? England? Really?" Canada asked. America shifted.

"Oh, he so was. He came over, and he was all suave—"

"—you know what that words means?"

"—and he was acting all funny, and, well at first I didn't recognize him as England, I just thought he was some random guy, but I figured it out pretty quick but he wasn't saying anything about knowing me so I just pretended not to know who he was. And he flirted with me and took me out and bought me things and Mattie—holy God, it was just like how I always imagined it. Except with less yelling." Canada had his hands to his temple, rubbing circles around his throbbing head. What was his brother telling him, exactly?

"So... so that's it? England flirted with you and you just went along with it?" Canada said. America half-shrugged, half-nodded and went back to his book.

"Oh and we had sex, too."

"WHAT?" Canada cried, and at that he jumped up. America, startled, lowered the book once more. "You did what? Did you trick him?"

"No, he was totally coming onto me!" America replied. "It was his idea to go back to his hotel—"

"And whose idea was it to have sex? Yours I bet, your libido is impossible," Canada spat, folding his arms and turning away. "Alfred you can't just start sleeping with all our Allies, this situation is fucked up as it is— it's not like you and England have a normal relationship, you know."

"Yeah, because nations have normal relationships with anyone!" America cried, and they were both standing, glaring at each other. He'd expected Canada to laugh, or be annoyed, but not to be angry.

"You—you idiot! This is war, don't you get it? You obviously did something to upset England, and who knows, maybe you just broke up part of the strength we had from fighting against the Axis, remember that detail, Alfred?" Canada asked, standing right in front of his brother. America just stared back, his eyes stony. "Ugh, just—do you do whatever you want all the time? What is this, a party to you? You were sent to Italy to save England, not to fuck him, and now he's upset, and this is such a messed up group of Allies we have I'm surprised we're even somewhat winning, and cessez-vous jamais de penser à vos actions?" Both America and Canada jerked back as Canada spoke, and Canada closed his mouth, licking his lips. He only slipped into French when he was very upset.

America sat back down in England's chair, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Well, I don't know what I did, I only did what he wanted me to do," America said, but he sounded tired. Defeated. "I... I forgot, you know. Through the day, that he wasn't supposed to be England. He was just... I know he was flirting and that's very unlike England but, he was just so England about it, and I—I just wanted to pretend." Canada sat down on the coffee table, leaning forwards, breathing slowly through his nose. "I wanted to pretend that there was no war, and that there was no wall between me and England, and we were happy. Together."

"You love him so much," Canada said softly. America's eyes were still closed, but his fists were clenched. "Alfred, you break my heart sometimes."

"I'll talk to England. I'll set this straight," America offered, opening his eyes. "And we'll all move on like none of this happened. Because this is war, right?"

Canada didn't reply.

America opened his bedroom door as slowly as possible, knowing that the old house creaked and groaned under every minute movement. It was midnight, and he had spent the last hour tossing and turning in his bed, staring at the wall. He just had to talk to England.

He'd heard Canada, France and Russia helping England into his room, which was on the floor below. He heard England muttering nonsensically, and he knew (oh he knew) that England was drunk. But he didn't sound hammered, so he guessed that France got him somewhat sobered up at the bar.

America crept down the stairs, each one creaking slightly as he stepped, and he stopped at England's room, listening to see if he was asleep. When he didn't hear anything, he pushed the door open.

The room was light, since the lamp next to his bed was still turned on. England was lying on his side, on top of his covers, still wearing his white suit. His shoes were even still on. His face was pink and his hair was mussed, and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked peaceful, nearly angelic, completely asleep like that. America closed the door and walked over to the bed, stopping at the foot to remove England's shoes.

After he did so, he gently tugged each of England's arms out of his suit jacket, rolling him over as slowly as possible so he could get it off. He shook out the jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, and then he perched himself on the edge of the bed. England was now lying on his back, his face turned slightly away from the younger blonde, one arm across his chest.

America resisted the urge to reach out and touch his face, and instead put his own hands in his lap and looked solemnly at England.

"I'm sorry, England," he said. "I'm sorry for whatever I did to hurt you." England's brow furrowed and he took a deep breath, moving slightly.

Maybe it was because he was tired, and England just looked so peaceful and beautiful, lying there in the dim glow of the light, and America just loved him so much it hurt, but America leaned down and laid a kiss on England's cheek.

England's eyes fluttered opened and he grunted, turning to face America, who pulled away quickly, his cheeks heating up to a burn.

"Wha... where am I?" England asked. He sounded groggy.

"You're in your house, England," America answered. "With us."

"Oh," England replied. He stretched his shoulders and rubbed his face with his hands. "Am I drunk?"

"I dunno, are you? Because you were," America explained. The two sat in silence, America hovering over England and England looking up at him through lidded eyes. He was still partially drunk, and very tired. England looked at him expectantly, waiting for America to say something.

England's own heart was thumping so fast he thought he would pass out, and he kind of wish he could, just so he wouldn't have to talk to America in such a state. But America wasn't moving, and the look in his eyes was so painfully sincere...

"America—"

"I knew it was you," America blurted out suddenly, cutting England off. "Arturo. I knew he was you." England stared at him, blinking. His brain had taken the information but processing it was difficult, and for a moment he had no idea what America was talking about.

"What? What do you... oh," England said, and he stiffened, and his blush matched the one gracing America's cheeks. "Oh, you mean, in I-Italy..."

"Yeah," America replied, and he leaned back, biting his lower lip. England pushed himself up on his pillows, but his head protested the sudden movement. It hurt too much to move so much.

But England wasn't even paying attention to the pain. America knew? He knew he was Arturo? For how long?

They sat in a strained silence, America fiddling with the duvet. England just stared at America, waiting for something, his heart pounding, his throat dry. Was that it? Was that all America was going to say? Although he supposed he should say something, as well.

"I didn't realize you knew," England said, and his voice was hoarse. "Or... well. You surprised me, I suppose."

"Your disguise was good, I just know you too well," America offered, and England couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from tugging up into a small smile.

"Um, right. So..."

"So..." America wasn't sure what to say. So I let you seduce me? So I'm completely in love with you, so much that it hurts? So I pretended we were together, just for one day, to see what it was like? His palms were clammy and he felt like he had one of England's terrible scones shoved down his throat.

He couldn't take it anymore.

"So I let you seduce me," America said, and England's eyes widened. "Because I wanted you to." England was so shocked, he couldn't say anything, even though his muddled brain was flooded with pure ecstasy.

"Y-you what?"

"I wanted you to—I've always wanted you to," America said, his voice growing soft. "England—Arthur, I-I just... you were gone. We had no idea what happened to you. And I was afraid that, with this war... you've almost died once," America said, and for the first time in several hundred years, England saw a look of dread and fear graze America's eyes. England licked his lips and leaned his head back against the headboard. "I was afraid that something had happened to you, and when you were alright, I just wanted... I wanted to experience what it was like."

"What what was like?"

"What it was like to be with you," America explained. "Because in any moment, you could be gone. I could be gone. And... I just had to know. Because I care about you, a lot." Silence flooded the room and England's ears were pounding as the blood rushed through them. America avoided his gaze and was looking back down at the duvet, plucking at a loose thread. England's heart swelled.

"Alfred?" America looked up, and saw the smile on England's face. "Can you come here?" America didn't move at first, but then he slid off the bed and walked to the head, where England beckoned him down to his level.

"What—" but America never finished his question. In one swift movement, England cupped his chin in his hand and pulled his lips to his, and they were kissing, and there were no lies or facades between them this time. They parted, and America blinked in confusion as England leaned his head back.

"Oh, bollocks, my head, shouldn'ta moved so fast..." England muttered, squeezing jus eyes shut. America just stood beside his bed, stunned into silence. England re-opened his eyes and looked up at him as he placed his hand over America's.

"I love you, too," England said, in a voice just above a whisper. A smile eased across his face, and eventually, America returned it. It was an odd set of circumstances.

Tentatively, America bent at the waist, and leaned over England. He bit his lower lip, looked down at his hands (which were placed at either side of England's waist) and looked back up. England reached out, placed a hand on his cheek, and drew their faces together.

The only sound in the room was a dim hum from the lamp in the corner, and their breath as they parted again, only this time they came back together, and England was drunk and America was enamored but it didn't matter. America hummed against England's lips, and he didn't realize until then how much he had been yearning for England's touch once more. That first taste in Italy hadn't really been enough to satiate him, and now he was climbing onto the bed, straddling England's hips, and England wrapped his arms around America's neck and rubbed his fingers between the fabric of America's shirt.

They pulled apart again, and this time America didn't go back in for more, but he hovered before England, eyes closed, breathing him in. England rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm still really, really drunk," England muttered. America chuckled. "And, we have to, y'know, talk about this. There are still—"

"I know," America answered, "I know, I didn't expect—"

"I'm glad though," England whispered. "I thought you were attracted to something that was completely different than you."

"But that was you," America protested. He leaned back, sliding off the bed (much to his brain's protests), and helped England lie back down again. He stroked England's forehead and ran his forefinger over England's flushed cheeks as England looked up at him. "That was you. Being romantic."

"Something I haven't much experience in," England mumbled.

"You'll become more experience," America promised, and he leaned in to kiss England's forehead gingerly. "With me." England smiled, and as cheesy as the line was, it made him feel warm and safe. There was something in this war that, perhaps, he could believe in.

"Ti amo," Alfred whispered against his forehead.

"Ancheio ti amo," came the reply.

Bell'inizio roughly translates to "beautiful beginning".