Hello! Starry here!

This is my first Hetalia fic and I'm so excited about it. It's kind of fluffy drabbly nonsense but it may get more serious later on. Obvi pairing is USUK. Other pairings may pop in and out.

Enough with the chatter. Let's get cracking. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Super Scones

America kept two photos on his bedside table. One, partially obscured by a crumpled up Big Mac wrapper, showed America as a child, holding on to a toy sword with one hand and a teenaged England with the other. The second, more recently taken, focused on the two countries as adults. America towered over shorter, slim England and had draped an arm over his shoulder. England leaned ever so slightly away from the American and, attempting to smile, managed a half-hearted grimace. He was obviously still angry with America for growing half a head taller than himself.

Every night, after running and leaping onto his king-sized bed, America would roll over to the left side of the mattress and look at the photos. It was a comfort ritual-the best days of his childhood life were those when England would be the last face he saw at night and the first face he saw in the morning. Even if he did force him to eat baked beans and porridge when he woke up.

Those breakfasts were not some of America's fondest memories; rather, he would think about the lectures on art and philosophy that England would usually give him over his morning tea. At first they bored the young America so much that he started doing psychic readings on himself with his tea leaves. Gradually, though, as he aged and matured ("matured" being used loosely here), he grew to appreciate the mental hurdles England was guiding him through. "After De Arte Natande was published, Everard Digby went straight to Cambridge and…America, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah, Digby."

"Like I was saying, he went to Cambridge and spoke with the head…don't give me that look, Alfie, you know I'm only trying to keep you from becoming a complete prat. You're too ignorant and naïve as it is," England explained, replacing his teacup on his saucer.

America frowned and moved the clotted cream around on his scone. "I'm young. I want to go outside and explore…learn for myself, you know?"

"Even as a nipper, you've got to know about your world, Alf. The other countries out there…they're a load of gits and they'll eat you alive if given the opportunity. I know what's best for you. Trust me." England sighed and picked up his cup again. "I think we've done enough for now, anyway."

"Hey, can I go outside?" America jumped out of his chair and hurried to dump his dishes in a basin.

England waved his hand. "Sure, sure. But be wary. You never know when France will jump out at you…oh, 'hey' is not a word, by the way. Surely you can find something better to say."

"I like 'hey' and I'm not scared of old France," America laughed. "Will you come play with me? I found this neat-o pond full of fish!"

"Eh, I really need to…" America's eyes filled with disappointment and England wavered. "I can do that later, actually." he said, with a dismissive shrug. "Show me this pond of yours. Go get your net and maybe we can catch ourselves some fish for dinner!" I need to get those reports filed...but I can't stand that look on his face. I know the lad's lonely when I'm gone…he doesn't need to be alone when I'm here, too. He fondly watched the blonde pre-teen gather a bag full of "exploration tools." Spending more time with America...what harm could that do?

By the time his own side of these memories had rolled through his head, present-day America was usually fast asleep, clutching his worn stuffed eagle and drooling a bit on his red, white, and blue pillow. Sometimes he still dreamed of the past and expected to be shaken awake for breakfast by England…and woke up unfathomably disappointed when it didn't happen.

Though the breakfast food was undoubtedly better nowadays.

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In a more or less circular room in the attic of England's house there were shelves upon shelves of books about sorcery, both black and white. The multicolored tomes were coated in a thin layer of fine chalk dust from the symbols England labored to draw on the wooden floor when he got the notion to make a spell. Although there were a staggering many to choose from, one book stood out from the rest because of how worn and faded it was. Obviously a favorite of England, its spine had cracked in multiple places and its pages were mercilessly dog-eared; The Art of Tea read the cover. Yes, the tea-encyclopedia was placed in between Incantations to Impress and Parliamentary Potions because, as all Brits know, tea is its own little form of magic. Did your house burn down? Your boyfriend run out and take the cat? Did France touch you inappropriately? Never mind, love, have a cuppa tea, makes everything better.

Jasmine, Oolong, Pekoe…no, no, no, England thought, flipping through the pages of the tea-encyclopedia he'd pulled down and sat in his lap. Tulsi might work…no, I'm out of that and I don't feel like going to ask India right now…ah! Chai! That's full of stress-busting spices. The book had solved his problems once again.

What were England's problems? Well, for one, his house smelled like coffee. He'd been perusing tax forms in his drawing room when that bumbling duffer, America, crashed through the front door and came running to find him. "Hey! England! Guess what! Guess what I-WHOAH!" he yelled, tripping over a basket of yarn on the floor (though he'd never admit to it, England secretly loved to knit) and sending the cup of Dunkin' Donuts in his hand all over England's nice cream-colored rug.

England was aghast. "What the bloody hell is this? Look what you've done to my rug! That was an antique!" He abandoned his tax forms and dropped to his knees beside the coffee stains, trying to dab at it with tea napkins.

"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry! Um, um, how can I help?" America pulled himself to his feet and put his hands to the sides of his head.

"Don't bother," England replied, having located a hand towel nearby. "what did you want? It jolly well better be important."

America grinned, still clutching the empty coffee cup. "Oh, man, is it ever important! Guess what!"

"What."

"I said guess, silly."

England exhaled noisily, dabbing the last of the coffee from the rug. "Aliens landed in New Mexico."

"No way, they did that ages ago. I finally did it," America said smugly.

"Did what?"

Here came England's second problem. "I finally made…wait for it…a scone that actually tastes good!" America dropped the backpack he was carrying and began digging through it. "I brought you some! I can't wait for you to taste it! It took me seven and a half months to perfect the recipe but I finally broke through-"

"Wait just a blooming moment, there. What's wrong with my scones as they are?" England straightened up and threw the dishcloth on the table.

America made a gagging face. "They're gross. Duh!"

England took a step back, clutching his chest. "You used to love my scones! You'd have them every morning with clotted cream and marmalade!"

"Yeah, but that was before Toaster Strudels were invented," America explained. He then took a closer look at England's face. "Hey, you're not actually mad, are you? I was just trying to help you…look, your lemon poppyseed scones weren't all that bad…"

England waved away his backtracking explanation. "N-never mind. It's fine, really. Just a little more of my happy history died, is all," he muttered wryly, rubbing his head with the heel of his palm. He extended his other hand to the saddened blonde in front of him. "Let's see these scones of yours."

"Okay!" All of America's enthusiasm had returned. "Here. Taste this and tell me if it isn't the most HEROIC scone you've ever put in your mouth."

A warm, triangular pastry was placed into England's hand and he bit off a bit of the end to chew with consternation. Damn it. This is delicious. Damn it. "It's…it's tolerable, I suppose," he concluded, placing the rest of the scone on the table so he could wolf it down once his annoying guest had left.

America whooped and punched the air. "YEAH! It's made with Coca-cola and extra hero! I knew you'd love it! You want me to leave the plate with the rest of them here with you?"

"YES," England said emphatically, then reddened. "I mean, um, if that's what you feel is best. I'm easy."

"Right," America commented, a smirk crossing his face. "I'll do that, then." He picked up his backpack again, put a wrapped plate of scones on the table, and turned towards the door. Right before he crossed the threshold out of England's house, he turned back. "Hey, you know what I call these?"

England scowled and hid behind his back the scone he'd just picked up. "You know 'hey' is not a word! Stop using it!" The scone was burning his fingers. How did it stay warm in America's backpack? What was in that backpack?

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I call them SUPER SCONES. 'Cuz, you know, I'm kind of a superhero," America winked and ran his fingers through his blonde hair, ruffling Nantucket.

"What?" England yelled at his retreating figure. "Sod off! And don't come back!" As soon as the door was closed, he turned back to the table and stuffed the scone in his mouth. "These stupid Coca-cola scones are…ace. I must have really taught him how to cook." Crumbs flew everywhere as he tucked into the pastries. He snickered and then laughed hard as he realized what a mess he was making of himself with the scones. They were so good! America must have been planning on making better scones ever since he was a tyke, that twit! Then, as quickly as his joviality had come over him, it drained away and left him with the familiar empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that he always got when he started thinking about the past. His face flushed and he sat down heavily in a nearby chair, chewing slowly. His third and most pressing problem had emerged.

Was it really the scones? England's mind went down a road that was worn out from the hundreds of times he'd followed this thought process. It couldn't just be the food. That wouldn't conquer someone like America. Why then? Why did things happen the way they did? Was he truly that neglectful? Should he have visited more often? Was it because of the arguments over tea?

He tossed the uneaten portion of the scone back on the plate on which it was brought. You never told me why, America. Why did you fight me then? What happened to us? You were my best friend. You were…my world. I never told you that, did I? Red-faced, he stood up and headed for the library to dig out his tea-encyclopedia and find a stress-relieving draught. Maybe he'd add some gin, too.

I miss you.

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England and gin are never a good mixture.

Please review! It honestly makes me write faster!