A/N:-At the Christmas Eve party, Alfred and Arthur are not together yet.
-Partly based on the movie, "The Family Man", so it will have some of the movie elements, like quotes and certain scenes. Subject to be altered, however.
-Alright, I have one month to finish this story. Probably going to fail and miss my Christmas deadline though, lol.
- "Alfred falls asleep while watching the movie "The Family Man" during the holidays. He wakes up a human, married to Arthur with two kids, Peter and Wy (Elizabeth), and a dog, Hanatamago. Alfred tries to get back to his life as a nation, but in the meantime he is unwittingly falling more in love with this Arthur." That's basically what I'm working with.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

"What do you think of this so far?"

He could feel Arthur tense and see the glass of champagne in his hand sway and nearly spill as he laid his hand on the other's shoulder, but relax just as quickly when Arthur realized that it was only Alfred who'd come to bother him.

"Oh," he said. "It's you." He shook off the hand resting on his arm. "Do let go, won't you?"

"It's Christmas Eve, England," Alfred protested, moving to the Brit's side. "Can't you be nicer to me, you know, it being the holidays and all?"

"I don't believe you've done anything much to earn that much from me, I'm afraid," he said wryly. "You were being positively ridiculous during the meeting today."

Alfred tilted his head, as if he couldn't have helped it anyway.

"It's Christmas Eve," he repeated, then stared out the window. "So what are you doing here by the windows? I'd thought you and France would be the first ones to get smashed and do that totally wicked dance you two did on the buffet table last year…"

Arthur cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed.

"It's exactly because of that I don't want to get drunk tonight, America," he said. "However, it's the same every year, isn't it?"

Alfred had managed to nick several sugar cookies in the lining of his coat, and was shamelessly stuffing them down his face.

"What is?" he mumbled out.

Arthur ignored the crumbs falling from Alfred's mouth and gestured with a tip of his head.

"The party we always have on Christmas Eve. It's the same people arguing over the same things, and—"

"That's not true," Alfred said. "France brings different women here all the time."

"Well, alright, but save for that it's been all the same."

And it was the same thing every year—there was Feliciano hanging off of Ludwig's arm and talking at a million miles an hour; there was Francis with two beautiful ladies by his side, speaking French in small, delicate voices; Kiku was sipping his drink by the other corner, looking very uncomfortable as Sadiq shouted at Heracles in front of him, who in turn responded in his slow murmurs. And there was Arthur, Alfred thought, who would stand by the window all alone and pretend he was waiting for someone.

Alfred chuckled.

"Would you rather be human, then?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately.

"Sometimes," he said, giving a little smile, "I imagine it'd be nice to live as a human."

"Why?"

"Oh…it's selfish." Arthur's face tinted pink. "Humans get to love and be loved. And mean it."

"And we don't?" Alfred demanded.

"Not in the same way," Arthur replied. He gazed outside, and made it clear that that was the end of the discussion.

Alfred huffed.

"We've been through centuries and nobody's changed. But to be honest, I'd rather everyone fight over who gets to carve the turkey than in wars, you know?"

"Of course, that wasn't what I meant," Arthur rebutted peevishly. "It's only that I'm the one who remembers the smallest details, and I'm the only one bothered by it."

"Then don't be bothered by it," he said nonchalantly, swallowing his last snickerdoodle and pulling at Arthur's hand. "Come dance with me."

"Don't be silly." He wrenched his wrist back, rubbing at it in annoyance. "I can't—not with you, I mean, not here…"

"Everyone here can care less, they're already drunk or too…busy…" He gave a meaningful look towards Antonio and Lovino, the two half hidden behind the window curtain and swaying to the music in each other's arms. Alfred shrugged. "Or we can do it like them, I don't mind."

"That's not the problem," Arthur said frostily, though his tone wavered. "We're not…we're not like them, America, for goodness sakes…"

Alfred had already snaked one arm around Arthur's waist, dragging him behind the heavy curtains as he hummed along to Bing Crosby's voice crooning out "White Christmas". Arthur shifted stiffly, adjusting his body so that his drink wouldn't topple.

"You can't sing, America, why do you insist…" he mumbled irritably, but his face had turned scarlet as he lay on Alfred's shoulders, studying the snow collecting outside. "We must look like a pair of idiots."

"No one's watching," Alfred replied breezily. "Practice makes perfect, don't you know? Like when you tried to teach me how to play violin—"

"And you're still horrible at it."

"But I'm not that bad on guitar, you know that."

Through the reflection in the window pane, Arthur could see nations in pairs, shuffling along just like he and Alfred were, tangled together awkwardly in the way of good friends that would never become lovers, with sleepy grins that might've been an indication of affection or just pure drunkenness. Arthur nodded tiredly to Alfred, his eyes almost closing as they moved slowly to the tune, the lights in the lobby dimming. The world felt hazy and misty and Arthur thought that it was nice to have someone holding him for the moment…

And then Alfred started to sing.

"Stop that—" Arthur's face scrunched up, and he would've smashed his palms in Alfred's mouth if he hadn't been holding the glass. "You're terrible!"

"No, I'm not," Alfred said, and continued to imitate Crosby's low, rounded voice. "May your days be merry and bright…I think I'm pretty damn good." He paused. "Hey, England…?"

"I just remembered," he murmured against the American's shirt, "that it was snowing that day, too."

"Huh?"

"You sang this song to me on Christmas Eve in forty-five." He laughed nervously, in a very quiet manner. "Sure, I was bloody drunk that night, but I remember because…you thought I wouldn't…"

Alfred deadpanned.

"I'm not getting it."

Arthur pushed away.

"You don't…you don't remember?" He sounded mortified, his expression flushed with shame and disappointment.

"Forty-five, that's ages ago, there's no way I can remember all the shit I say."

The Brit backed up, his hand wavering.

"So you didn't mean a word of it?" he whispered, horrified. "You—I should've known! Oh God, I've even believed you all these years, but you were just joking—"

"England—Arthur!" Alfred steadied the other, his eyes wide. "What—what did I say?"

"Nothing!" Arthur bit out, glaring. "You said absolutely nothing, Mr. Jones." He looked around and stepped out of the curtain. "I can't stay. It's late, and I've got paperwork. I should leave."

"No! Arthur, wait!" He yanked on Arthur's wrist. "I don't understand!"

"Let go, you're hurting me—"

He stopped as Alfred moved forward and kissed him, the rest of his words dying on his tongue as Alfred pulled him closer. His champagne was on the windowsill, still sparkling and untouched against a background of night and floating snow. The time was twelve, and sprinkles of gold and silver fell onto guests as the decorated clock on the far wall chimed. In their corner, Lovino closed his eyes and kissed Antonio; in the middle of the hotel lobby, Feliciano laughed in his usual bubbly way and reached up to wrap his arms around Ludwig; Elizaveta was by Roderich's side, for the first time being without a digital camera; five tables away was Peter, running with that snow-white puppy of his towards Tino and Berwald, grabbing at red and green streamers as they floated down.

The song thrummed softly on hidden speakers, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know…"

When the clocked chimed a final time, Alfred pulled away and told Arthur that he loved him.

"America…"

Arthur's voice was small.

"Never say what you don't mean, America. I hate it when people lie." He finished gently, "I'm going back to London tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Alfred."

And Arthur weaved into the crowd of half-intoxicated, giggling bunch of party-goers without another word.

"You forgot," the television fizzed out, the woman's voice surprised and hurt. "You actually forgot our anniversary."

Alfred didn't think he should be spending Christmas like this, a bowl of chips in one arm and dip in the other, stuffing his face and watching some romantic drama film that happened to be on HBO in the dark in his Manhattan apartment. If he called Arthur now, there was a good chance that he'd be ignored.

"I'll fix it. I'll go out right now and get you something. I'll make it right," the man assures her guiltily, but to no avail. "Please don't cry…"

He should've done that. He should've gone after Arthur and tell him that he'll fix everything, make everything right again.

But he didn't. It wasn't because he didn't love Arthur.

It was because he didn't know how to make Arthur understand that he meant what he said.

As the movie played, Alfred watched the couple dance and laugh and kiss, and even though it was just a film he knew Arthur was talking about loving and being loved like this. Only that they were nations, and their emotions were artificial most of the time, propelled by diplomatic relations and very rarely by personal affairs. So that neither knew what was real and what wasn't.

Alfred barely noticed when the screen changed scenes.

"These last weeks, Kate, I know that I've done some...some unusual things…"

"It's been interesting, that's for sure."

"But I've done some good things too, haven't I?"

The woman considers this, on her face an expression Arthur often used when he was thinking.

"You've been Jack Campbell. And that's always a good thing..." she murmured.

Alfred's eyes slipped shut and he fell asleep on the couch, just as the man took the woman's hands in his and made her promise that she'll always remember him as he was.

Something felt off when Alfred opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming in through the draperies blurring his vision for a minute. He was in a bed. Had he sleepwalked to a bed in the middle of the night? He was certain that he'd fallen asleep on the couch last night, in the middle of watching the depressing parts of that Nicholas Cage movie…

"Stop moving around, Al…it's too early…"

He froze, and turned to see Arthur snuggling up to him in a worn pajama top, thick lashes fluttering at the morning sun as he stirred under the sheets.

"England?"

Arthur half-opened his eyes, confused.

"What's the matter, Alfred?"

"You—what the—the party!" He sat up completely straight now, staring at the room in bewilderment. "You left me at the party! You said you had paperwork, and you had to go back to London tomorrow."

Arthur blinked.

"Are you…are you alright, Al?" he ventured cautiously.

"Am I alright?" he repeated dumbly. "Should you really be the one to ask that—"

Voices and a sharp yapping noise bounced from the hallway and into the room, little pattering footsteps coming closer until two kids, a boy and a girl, popped their heads through the door.

"It's Christmas! It's Christmas! Santa came last night and gave us presents!" the boy shouted excitedly, crawling onto Alfred and jumping up and down. "Come on, let's go downstairs and open them!"

The girl was holding a puppy when she came up to Alfred, tugging on his sleeve.

"Let's go see if Santa ate the crumpets and scones we made, Daddy," she chirped. "And then we can go build snowmen, you said we could!"

"Wha—"

"Maybe Santa choked on them and he's twitching on the floor right now!" the boy exclaimed. "Wouldn't that be funny—"

"Santa's going to take back the presents if he heard you," Arthur scolded groggily, sliding off the bed. "You're jumping on Daddy, Peter, that's not very nice."

"No! I didn't say that!" he yelled back, rappelling down the mattress. "Is Daddy going to wake up soon?"

Arthur sighed helplessly, throwing on a robe and ushering the two outside.

"Give him a few minutes, I suppose." He looked at Alfred before turning back to the girl. "Love, why don't go check if Santa replied to the letter you two wrote? I'm sure he left it with the presents."

The girl nodded and grabbed Peter's hands, dragging him out the room and down the stairs.

"Okay!"

Arthur let out a breath of relief and suppressed a yawn.

"Alfred, I thought you said you were getting up early to dress up for the kids," he said.

"Dress…up?"

He looked around, trying to not panic then and there. He wasn't in his apartment, but on a bed in a room that looked very much lived in—toys strewn near the door, pale-colored curtains which Arthur was currently pushing aside, complete with a bay window through which Alfred could see a snow-blanketed neighborhood.

"As Santa Claus," Arthur accentuated, as if that was obvious. "You were talking about it all day yesterday, wouldn't shut up until I've heard it three times…"

Alfred was silent, then swung his legs over the edges.

"Ow!"

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked.

The American bent over and picked up the lone Lego piece he'd stepped on.

"What the hell?"

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I told you to stop letting them take their toys everywhere." His expression softened as he walked up to Alfred and hugged him. "Merry Christmas, love."

Instinctively, Alfred wrapped his arms around the other. He had never heard Arthur's accent this calm and soothing, nor Arthur himself so content. On an impulse, Alfred lifted his chin and kissed him, expecting Arthur to back up and do something along the lines of cursing incessantly or to punch him, but he did nothing of the sort and instead responded rather enthusiastically.

"You're being quite irregular this morning," Arthur whispered against Alfred's mouth, smiling. "Alright, what did you break this time, Mr. Jones?"

"You…you're not mad at me?" he said incredulously.

"Why would I be? Unless…" Arthur raised an eyebrow, his tone becoming dangerous. "You've given me a reason to?"

"No, no!" He slapped his palm on his forehead a couple times. "Am I dreaming?"

Arthur gave him a strange look.

"You really do need coffee to function," he commented, pulling away and heading downstairs. "Strong. Coffee. Okay?"

"Uh…okay—wait!" He pointed towards the living room, at Peter and the girl. "Who are they?"

Arthur shook his head slightly, his brows furrowed.

"Aliens," he said flatly. "Came in a UPS package with Santa's presents."

"…Really?"

"Are you serious—no, of course not." Arthur rubbed his finger on his temple, exasperated. "Alfred, just get dressed, Tino and Berwald are coming over to watch Peter and Elizabeth at three, and we've already overslept. I'm not letting you go to the Edelstein's party in those sweats, no matter how funny you think it is."

"I'm not wearing sweats—oh, what the…" He followed Arthur down the stairs, pulling on a jacket. "England, are you playing a joke on me? With magic or whatever your Peter Pan friends do?"

"Alfred, you're really not making any sense." Arthur made his way into the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinet. "And—hold on, did you just call me England?"

"Well…yeah."

The Brit turned around and faced Alfred, grabbing his arm.

"Are you sure you're alright, Alfred?"

A glimmer on Arthur's finger caught his attention. He raised his own hand and gaped at the ring.

"Jesus Chr—are we…are we married?" he asked carefully.

Arthur sighed.

"Very funny. You should know that this is the strangest question I've ever gotten from you," he said. "Yes, Alfred." He pulled a can from behind the tea bags and thrust it at Alfred. "Coffee."

He fumbled with the tin can, staring at Arthur in awe.

"Um…let me just…call my boss."

Arthur gazed at him with a curious expression, but he relinquished his hold and scooped another spoonful of tea leaves into the teapot.

"Okay, Alfred," he murmured, watching Alfred stumble upstairs. "Okay."