A/N:-Another late post. There's still a few days before break, so I've exams and projects lined up. Most likely I will not make the deadline, and I'm thinking of extending it, but whatever.
-Warning: domestic sap up ahead, just because I can. Oh, and possible sp/grammatical errors and/or DM linked words. And implications of [badly written] sex at the end? I don't know. Doesn't seem explicit enough to rate it M.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Alfred could scarcely recall what he did during those dull business trips to London (hell, he had trouble remembering the meanings of the slang words England threw at him); the weather and clouds seemed to suck out the colors and turn the city a fuzzy shade of grey. Not all the time, but most. And he didn't do anything particularly interesting, either. He went to two meetings a day with middle-age politicians and portly businessmen sporting professionally trimmed mustaches. Those who knew who he was (they simply assumed him as a diplomatic representative, if they hadn't been informed otherwise) would offer him a small smile, and those who were new would ask arrogantly whether he was the assistant and, without waiting for the answer, request for a cup of tea anyway. Alfred would bring them what they'd asked for, sit down at near the head of the table, and watch the faces on those corporate pigs change to mortification.

England would arrive once everyone had been seated, entering with an indifferent expression on his face before starting the meeting. He would not spare Alfred a single glance unless talking to him about the discussed matter, but Alfred would always try to get his attention by means of notes, tapping his pen on the countertop, or wayward looks he knew irritated the Brit. But that was the norm.

However, there was that one time he successfully made England agree to preview with him the materials for another meeting at his house. There was a small lawn in the front yard, and someone, if not England himself, had planted a row of flowers that grew in clusters of splattered colors. England had kept everything strictly business; they'd talked late into the night until England left to change upstairs, and Alfred fell asleep on the couch, waiting. He remembered how exhausted England appeared and how, when he thought Alfred wasn't looking, his hand would tremble slightly. When he came to, there was a blanket on top of him, and the silence in the house indicated that Arthur had gone to sleep.

That was the Arthur Kirkland he had grown to love—the one who'd scorn him for all he was worth and be just as affectionate when he thought no one could see.

Alfred opened his eyes and turned his head towards Elizabeth, who was kneeling on the couch and tugging at Alfred's arm.

"Papa told me to wake you up," she said. "Also, he said if you fall asleep after eating you'll get fat like Santa."

"This isn't fat. These are muscles," Alfred said matter-of-factly, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. Peter had practically forced him into a snowball fight that lasted for an hour. But whether if Alfred was feeling the effects of being human (hence his current limited stamina) or if Peter was just inhumanely energetic, he was so tired he hadn't realized that he'd passed out on the couch. "I'm not fat."

She poked at his stomach once or twice.

"It's sort of squishy," she observed.

"They're muscles," he accentuated.

Elizabeth didn't argue, as if she wouldn't care either way.

"Okay," she said and slipped down. "I'll tell Papa that."

Alfred wasn't sure if she meant telling Arthur that he was awake or his claims of not being fat, but whatever it was, he could see Arthur coming downstairs, a bundle of yellow folders clutched in his arms.

"Oh, good, you're up," he said briskly, setting the folders aside and quickly throwing on a tan peacoat. "I'm going to run to the office because I've just finished the first chapter!"

He sounded very enthusiastic, and Alfred felt like he should be congratulating Arthur or something, the way the Brit was looking expectantly at him.

"That's awesome," he said, then added upon Arthur's expression, "I mean, you've obviously worked a long time on it. The editors will love it, I'm sure."

"Well, that part, unfortunately," Arthur replied with a click of his tongue, "is up to the editors. Though I'm afraid I need to brush up on my historical facts before I make up any more assumptions." He shrugged, but his smile was uneasy. "But," he appeared to be assuring himself rather than telling Alfred, "I can make corrections later. I was half-rushing it…"

"What do you mean?"

Arthur seemed to have taken the meaning in another fashion, for he scoffed back, "I know this isn't my area of expertise, but you can only get so far writing children's stories." Arthur buttoned his coat with one gloved hand, the other holding on to his file of manuscripts and notes. "I've always wanted to write for a bigger audience. Do you remember college?"

"Uh, sure, I guess."

"I was interested in classics. Jane Austen, Brontë, Victorian literature and such… Maybe that was why I'd wanted to write in the first place. I wanted to start a novel one day. I that I knew I was most likely going to end up with no savings and bloody drunk in the middle of some dismal alley at two in the morning—" He chuckled nervously. "—and that wishing to be an author was a lost cause anyway, because I don't have the ability or the time to just drop everything and pour my life into a gamble."

"That's not true at all." Alfred opened his mouth, ready to disprove any more self-criticisms Arthur was going to come up with, but Arthur only rolled his eyes, a small, breathy laugh accompanying a real smile gracing his features. He brought out a couple of pages from within the file and scanned it before addressing Alfred again.

"Don't you ever get tired of having to reassure me of my insecurities?" he inquired wryly.

"Nope," Alfred said without missing a beat. "Never."

"You don't have to lie, I've always been terrible about meeting deadlines. But that is awfully kind of you to say so," Arthur said drily. "I suppose I should thank you for putting up with my last-minute rushes."

"Of course," Alfred said and stood up, enveloping Arthur in a hug. England or not, Arthur was still just as cynical, his responses still laced with the occasional insult dipped in sarcasm, which was what made it familiar. "I'll always be here."

"You are always enthusiastic and insufferable during those times," Arthur agreed, staying rigid and putting just enough room between him and Alfred to continue double-checking his draft. He then murmured, peering downwards so that Alfred could not see his flushed expression, "And you are always patient with me. I am very grateful to have you there."

Alfred smiled, but the Brit only exhaled, glancing at the falling snow with a worried expression.

"I should be going."

Alfred pulled him nearer.

"There's still time." There was something fleeting and precious to this moment in time, something about this single, insignificant minute of him holding Arthur in a suburban house on Christmas Day, in a universe he hadn't even known existed previously. There were no documents or international issues threatening to bring the economy to an untimely doom, no buried cell phones ringing from underneath the couch, no meetings or shouting or being burdened by an unspeakable, scarred history spanning several lifetimes. Because for now, he and Arthur were human and, at least in this brief period, he was glad that Arthur gave him a sense of normalcy. "Talk with me."

"Talk?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we already doing that?"

"Nah, right now you're really just ranting. And it's not like I don't like ranting or anything, but you sound really tired. Talk about something less stressful. Something completely random and not work-related."

"I think you should lose weight," Arthur said frostily, without raising his head. "Your turn."

"Low blow, Artie. Not cool." Alfred frowned. "Okay. I know that…" Then it occurred to him—he didn't know anything about Arthur as a person. "…I know you like tea."

Arthur still didn't look at him.

"I think you are loud, and your personality is brash and obnoxious."

"You're supposed to take this seriously, Arthur," he complained.

"I am, can't you tell?"

"My turn." He whispered in Arthur's ear, "I think your accent is totally hot."

That sparked a visible reaction; Arthur's cheeks began to light up, and he responded scathingly, "Well, I think yours is atrocious and you absolutely demolish the English language."

"I like how you get mad at me but you don't really mean it because I'm too awesome."

"I think it's amusing how you don't know the depth of your own stupidity," Arthur threw back.

"I know you love…books written by dead authors and junk—"

"They're classics!" Arthur attempted to wriggle free, but to no avail. "Alfred, let go, I am not going to get caught up in traffic because of you—"

"Can I tell you a secret, Arthur?" Alfred leaned forward, his voice low, "Yesterday, I'd told you that I loved you."

Arthur stopped struggling, his eyes directed at Alfred, entranced and utterly displaced for a moment.

"I'd watched you leave for London, and I didn't do anything about it. But here you are again." He hesitated. "Do you believe that things happen for a reason?"

When Arthur found his voice, he spoke softly, "Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

Arthur shifted his papers, but only so that he could fiddle with something as he talked.

"In college I'd been working on an article to submit to the publishing company, and I'd almost given up on it. You told me something then that made me change my mind. Do you remember?"

Alfred gave a noncommittal grunt, mostly because he didn't want to upset Arthur. (After all, he'd already done that with England.) But Arthur didn't seem offended; he slipped the papers back into its folder wordlessly and remained silent as he contemplated to himself.

"I don't, either," he admitted. Alfred marveled at how quickly Arthur's mood could change—from frustration to bewilderment and to something unreadable as if he'd become a doll. "But I remember that you'd made me laugh."

"You guys are going to be late," Peter announced from the backseat, swinging his legs idly. The windowpane had become frosted outside, and he was puffing on them and drawing out faces with his finger. The car had been at a standstill for over five minutes, and he was clearly becoming impatient.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Peter," Arthur said flatly, hitting his forehead against the steering wheel and letting it lay there as motionless as the car had become, stuck between the city and home on the road back. Once the time pointed three, it was like a signal, calling every taxi and minivan which could possibly be hidden in Manhattan out for a grand traffic congestion. The plan had been for Arthur to deliver the papers by himself, but Alfred had, for whatever vague reason he'd come up with, insisted on tagging along. And of course there was no way Arthur would leave the kids at home, and Peter refused to let go of Hanatamago, which eventually ended up with everyone crammed into the car.

In other words, it was all Alfred's fault.

"You're welcome—"

Arthur exhaled resignedly before turning to Alfred and groaning, "Call Elizaveta and tell her we'll be late."

"Who's Elizaveta?" he asked dumbly.

Alfred hadn't even been aware that Arthur's face could contort into such a glare.

"Not now, Alfred. You've picked the wrong time to be stupid."

For once sensing the atmosphere and catching that Arthur's incessant glaring at the car in front was turning stormier, he turned to Elizabeth and mouthed, What do I do?

"She has brownish hair. She smiles a lot." Elizabeth supplied helpfully, "She told me she was from Hungary."

"Artie, can I borrow your phone? Mines ran out of batteries."

It was a lie he had to tell to avoid probable disaster, and Arthur's crossness was one he had to endure. Arthur complied, grumbling under his breath as the car ahead inched forward. As Alfred scrolled down the list to "E", he noticed that two names down, the entry was labeled "Francis Bonnefoy". He tapped on the words and a new window opened, indicating that there had been two missed calls three days ago.

Once Peter and Elizabeth had been dropped off at Tino's house (Alfred wasn't sure if he should be surprised to be greeted by a Finland- and Sweden-look-alike) they had, by what must be a holiday miracle, to weave out of traffic in one piece. He knew he shouldn't have been that amazed when the Edelstein's door opened two hours later and a woman—Elizaveta, Alfred assumed—suddenly shrieked and threw her arms around Alfred's neck while she was still holding a plate of a very delicately frosted cupcake.

"Merry Christmas! I'm so glad you're here!" She was crowing excitably, stepping aside to welcome them in. "The way you were speaking on the phone, oh my God, Alfred, I thought you two weren't going to make it!" Elizaveta called to the crowd inside, "Alfred and Arthur are here!"

There must have been over fifty guests, Alfred estimated. Half of the party looked intoxicated; the others were laughing and chatting, sipping at various drinks while Christmas music played from an unseen radio. The house was bigger than theirs, and far grander; however, with the amount of people streaming to and from rooms, there was almost not enough space. Dinner plates laden with an assortment of courses and desserts had been arranged at the dining table, but it was nothing fancy, not like the New York parties at big-name hotels with food made on the spot by hired chefs. Alfred had a feeling he should know these people from the way they were smiling at him, but he was looking at an entire sea of strangers. And for the first time in his life, he didn't especially want to be the center of attention.

"How are Lizzie and Peter doing?" Elizaveta was rattling on, setting her cake down and whisking up a glass of wine she'd left on the countertop. "Did they like the presents I got them? You should bring them here sometime, I mean, I wish they could be here right now, but I don't want Gilbert getting drunk anywhere near them, you know?"

She had Hungary's features: her face sweet and round along with a little smirk to indicate that she knew everybody else's business. There was a blossom tucked behind her ear, her light chestnut hair brushed smooth and pulled up into a bun, save for a strand on the side of her cheek that curled neatly into a ringlet. While she talked her hands gestured wildly, her motions exaggerated as she described something or the other about Roderich's supposed money-saving antics, her laughs bell-like as she listened to Arthur go on about a co-worker at the office.

For Alfred's part, Elizaveta had notified him that Gilbert (Prussia, he told himself. She means Prussia) wanted to discuss with him about something—she rolled her eyes good-naturedly at this point—and quite literally steered Arthur away as she continued to chatter about an article she'd come across. Alfred used the rest of his time wandering around Elizaveta's house, which proved to be a task in itself, mumbling 'excuse me's to people and craning his neck, hoping to find a familiar face.

"Alfred!" From a corner, lounging on the couch and surrounded by a circle of friends, Gilbert waved him over, snickering in that peculiar way of his. "Over there! You look lost, man."

"Do I?"

"Whatever, I don't really care," Gilbert waved it away and downed the contents of his bottle. "Some holiday, huh? And what's with that woman divorcing Glasses six months ago but still living with him? Get this: she told me that she still cared for him, and the marriage was a thing of convenience between their parents' companies." He huffed, crossing his arms, "What kind of cheap-shot logic is that supposed to be? I mean, who the hell does that anymore?"

"She's not going to ever leave Roderich, Gil," a man laughed. "So you can forget about your chances of screwing her—"

"Shut it, that wasn't what I meant!" He fell into a slump, fuming. "I fly all the way back from Berlin to party and I end up drinking with you poor single bastards." He motioned offhandedly at Alfred. "Except for you. How's Lizzie and Peter doing? I haven't seen them in a while."

"Fine, I guess." He sat down and bent over, his hands clasped together. "But the thing is that…uh, would you think I'm crazy if I told you something?"

"I've gone through three bottles of booze, whatever you tell me chances are I will believe you. Unless you say that you're a woman." He squinted, as if Alfred's face was becoming harder to focus on. "Actually…give me a minute…"

"Are you sure?" Alfred said doubtfully. "I mean—"

"Dude, say it or don't. You're the one who married the British punk and gone domestic, that should be enough to get you on the crazy list."

"That's exactly the problem. I didn't marry him." The more he thought about it, the more his dilemma began to distress him. Whatever conversation he'd had with Arthur in the morning flew out of his mind, and suddenly the only thing that mattered was the fact that he had somehow turned human, and that he did not belong here. "This sounds stupid, I know, but I was in my apartment in New York the day before, and when I woke up this morning I found out I was married and had two kids. I'm not supposed to be here."

Gilbert didn't seem affected. If anything, he looked increasingly drunker as he started to cackle.

"Hey, I've been through it, too. You don't think I have days where I wake up and I go, 'Why do I have this job? And who the hell is this chick next to me—"

"Would you believe me," Alfred interrupted urgently, "if I told you that I'm the human personification of America? And that some people in this room are representatives, too?"

The man nearly instantly assumed a sober expression, a frown deepening as he sat up straight again and raised his eyebrow.

"Actually…yeah. I've thought of something like that before." Gilbert cocked his head, his tone serious. "Then that means Arthur is England, and Toni is Spain, and me…"

"You're Prussia," Alfred prompted eagerly, but Gilbert decided to choke on his beer at that moment, his composure gone.

"Okay, I lied before. I'm not that drunk yet." He paused for a bit and inquired blankly, "What's Prussia?"

"Forget i—"

"Alfred!" Elizaveta was making her way across the room with a small plate of a tea-green colored confection. Out of the corner of his eye Alfred noticed Gilbert immediately pushing the beer bottle to a random person nearby and smooth out his shirt before reclining and putting on the most indifferent expression he could muster. "Alfred, I brought you something. Roderich made it the day before. He says he's trying out a new recipe for this type of cake—"

Gilbert snorted there, and Elizaveta turned her head to him sharply.

"Hello, Gilbert," she said coolly. "I see you've decided to waste away on my couch. Again."

He raised his arms as if he could care less.

"Least I'm not in there baking cakes and doing girly shit."

She glared at him murderously.

"If I hadn't known you since elementary school I'd have kicked your sorry ass for saying that," she seethed dangerously. "But one more word about Roderich and I'll see you leave this house on a stretcher." She left Alfred the cake with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Tell me how it tastes later, okay?"

Gilbert watched her leave, eyeing her longer than what was appropriate.

"Yup," he finally breathed out triumphantly. "She's definitely hitting on me."

The man sitting to the left of Gilbert punched his arm and roared with laughter so loudly that even Alfred cracked a grin. For another thirty minutes, he stayed and listened to Gilbert boast nearly incoherently about his misadventures in Europe; he'd just finished his story of when he jumped a man who'd swiped his wallet at the train station in Germany, and the time got paid to clean a house for a mobster in Italy, when he stopped and turned his head down the hallway, towards the front door.

"I think I'm seeing things now. Is that Francis over there?" he slurred. "But he told me he was going to be in Paris for his art exposing—exposure—exposi—"

Alfred stood up and glanced at the doorway. Behind the clumps of partygoers gathered here and there, it was obvious Francis, holding someone's hand and kissing their knuckles. Whoever's hand he was holding wrenched away, and as that person stepped forward Alfred's expression darkened considerably.

"Now I see three Francis's. Damn, he's kissing Arthur—three of them, at the same Goddamn time—"

Of course, Gilbert was distorting the facts through his beer-affected eyes, but there was no doubt that Francis was there with Arthur, about two crowds away. Despite Arthur having pulled away in the beginning, he clearly didn't resist when Francis leaned forward and pressed his face against the other's cheeks. He merely crossed his arms and accepted it rather monotonously, scowling as Francis drew back and pointed above the doorway. Nevertheless, he allowed Francis to lay his hand on his shoulder and bring him away.

Francis had come back from an art exhibition for Arthur. He knew it really wasn't his problem that Arthur could possibly be seeing someone else; he had no right to judge for he had known this Arthur for less than 24 hours. Alfred was stunned only because it had never occurred to him that—the thought was selfish, and he knew it—Arthur would love ever someone else. And as Alfred told himself that multiple times so that he'd remember that he was thrown to this warped universe by some freak accident, he wondered why he felt more miserable than bitter.

They'd gotten home at nine o'clock. Alfred drew the blankets over Elizabeth's head and she giggled, burrowing to the other side of the bed until her head poked out.

"Tell me a story," she said, just before Alfred could turn the lights off.

Alfred's shoulder raised and lowered, as if he'd never been asked a question like that before.

"You wanna hear about how Gilbert got mugged by the police in Budapest?" he suggested.

"Not really." She slipped out of bed and pulled out a hardcover picture book from within her desk cabinet, then handed it to Alfred. "I want you to read this one."

"'Ms. Fairy Finds a Home,'" he read aloud. "You like this?"

"This was one of Papa's books. He said it was a commission," she explained, and added quietly, as if she were ashamed, "I don't know what that word means."

"It means someone paid him to write this." Alfred leafed through the pages, across skillfully painted trees and autumn red leaves piled on grasses. "He drew this, too?"

Elizabeth nodded and climbed back onto the mattress.

"Yeah. Papa writes a lot of children's books, but he made this one for me and my dad." She flipped to the dedication page. "See? 'To Elizabeth, a star and the cleverest fairy in the land, and Alfred…'" She turned the page. "Okay. Start reading."

"That's it? You get to be a star and a fairy at the same time and I'm just…" He checked the page again and finished for her, "—'Alfred, an idiot'? Really?"

"Dad asked the same thing, too."

"And?"

"Papa said that it was a typo. But he means well." She tucked herself in, grabbing Tony surrounding herself with three other plush toys as if building a fortress. "Now the monsters won't get me," she said. "I'm ready now."

"I'm right here," he pointed out. "There won't be any monsters while I'm here."

"I know," she quipped distrustfully. "But you're a stranger."

Alfred sighed, and began at the first page, "'Once upon a time…'"

Elizaveta wanted Alfred to read three bedtime stories, but she apparently had had a tiring day at Tino's. She was out before Alfred reached the last part, which was not that much of a relief since Peter woke up then to go use the restroom and couldn't fall asleep again afterwards. Alfred successfully lights out in Peter's room at exactly eleven-forty-seven (he kept an eye on the digital clock), took a shower, and ended back in the bedroom he shared with Arthur to watch the rest of Family Guy on television.

"Al?" Arthur was drying his hair as he walked in. "I thought you said you had to plan for the new semester."

"What new semester?"

"You know, at the college." When Alfred gave him a blank stare, he emphasized his next words, "For your classes."

"I'm still in school?"

"Actually, never mind. Forget that I brought it up." As he passed by, he switched off the TV and cut Alfred off before the American could protest. "It's twelve, Alfred. I had to deal with the frog at the party to get the references for the novel, and he wouldn't stop being a nuisance afterwards…"

"References for…oh, man, that was why?" His eyes widened. "It wasn't because you and Francis—"

"Francis and I…?"

"Holy crap." A surge of guilt hit him like a wave, but he was inexplicably exuberant inside. "Holy crap."

"Alfred?" Arthur said at length, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "What are you talking about—?"

Alfred offered a hand and hoisted Arthur on his lap, earning an angry hiss from the Brit. But Alfred kissed him then, leaning forward and tangling his arms around Arthur's frame, bringing him as close as possible. When they parted, Arthur was regarding him dazedly, an expression full of perplexity and love meant for someone else.

"I've been thinking," Alfred said. "I don't think I've ever told you this, but…you're just…you're a better person than I am."

Arthur smiled, almost uncomfortably.

"Thank you, Alfred…"

"I'm serious." He felt Arthur's grip on his shoulders tighten in an almost anxious fashion. "You've loved me for years but I never really knew…"

Arthur's gaze did not falter; he blinked and breathed out, "How can you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Look at me like you haven't seen me for the last ten years."

Alfred froze, but relaxed when Arthur settled and put his head in the crook of his neck. When he reached over and turned the lamp off, Arthur rose, his grip slackening as he looked at Alfred, alarmed.

"Wha—"

He could barely see Arthur now, only the brief glow of his jaded eyes as the light died out. He turned Arthur over so that he towered over him, cupping Arthur's face and feeling fingers digging in his back as Arthur laughed silently. He was brought into another kiss, and his hands slipped down Alfred's back, sliding past old scars that he could not see, across wars England had lived through and possibly fought in. Light from a passing car shone through the blinds and draperies, and for a single moment Alfred could see Arthur's hair shimmer gold and his eyes glinting blindly at where he thought Alfred was. England would never allow himself to make an expression as vulnerable as that. He had once conquered a quarter of the world; he had ruled his empire for a thousand years and killed more men than he himself could recall.

"You could have had anything—anyone—in the world," Alfred whispered as Arthur's legs tightened around his torso, his breathing coming out heavy and warm. "Anyone at all."

"I want you." Arthur's touches were light and fluttering. "Oh, God—"

But it was England who could have had anything in the world. However, as Alfred brooded over that, what difference did it make now? Arthur was England, and England Arthur; what difference was it that this Arthur happened to be human? Arthur was just as proud and haughty, yet he'd chosen to love Alfred.

And so the image of England blurred and melted away, and all Alfred could feel through intermingling short puffs of air and heartbeats was Arthur. He could never show Arthur his scars.

"Why—" Arthur gasped out, biting back a cry as Alfred pressed deeper. "Why are you acting like this? The lights—"

Because I don't want you to see, was what he wanted to say. But Alfred swallowed that sentence and replied with another, finding Arthur's hand and intertwining their fingers as he did so.

"Because I know you're here," he said in a low voice. "And I don't need see to make sure."

Arthur let out a shuddering sigh, his free hand tangled within Alfred's hair, and said no more.