Author Notes:

-This was a big excuse to roleplay USUK sex. We told ourselves it wouldn't be a story, so we kind of just let loose and had fun. Please do not take it too seriously. Granted, the set up takes a long time. We had fun with the birthday party idea. And it's way, way, way too much getting into Artie's tortured thoughts. (I didn't realize the set up was this long until I started writing, whew).

-That being said, a few months after roleplaying this I thought it might be a good idea for a birthday fic for America and July 4. So I'm writing it up. So there. I do what I want.

-Also: for those reading in the One Month/ One Season (What am I calling it? New World Order Series? Something like that...) Anyway, if you're reading that PruCan series, this fits into that universe. It's the story of how these two get together. It's not like you have to read the PruCan series to get this, especially cause this happens way before anything there, but for those that like to know such things, yes, same universe.

Warnings:

-It contains a heck of a lot of sex (eventually). And a lot of angst. I mean it. AAAAANGST.

~!~

As You Wish

~!~

He is not the type to crash a party. For years, he has not come to this party in particular. Whether or not he has been waiting for an invitation for so many years, he does not believe he would have come even after being invited. For so long, he has believed to be content simply sitting at home and ignoring the ache that hits him when he looks at the calender. Content sitting in his house, alone, without distractions, knowing the other nations were doing something stupid and crazy with a certain boy.

He frowns to himself even as he steps out of the taxi and stares up at the mansion. Even after all these years, he still thinks of Alfred as a boy. When he imagines America, he sees the child he had once been. He ignores the grown up in his memories, the one staring sadly at him in the rain, looking down with such pity as if he were the one making the mistake. He doesn't dare to imagine the face of the one who had shown up to help in the world wars, grown and incredibly tactless, incredibly idiotic, incredibly naïve, yet still a nation with big guns and so many people.

He doesn't dare let himself think of America as anything but a child. If he were still a child, then there would be no reason to feel hurt. A rebellious teenager was better than a principled man, after all. So he avoids America. He avoids the visits. He ignores the loud crazy ideas in world meetings.

Most certainly, he avoids any mention of the lad's birthday party...

"Yet here you are," he mutters to himself, letting out a cross between a laugh and a sigh as he holds his gift tucked neatly under his arm and stands at the door to the mansion.

There is still time. Still time to turn back and call off this farce. Still time to return to the comfort of his home. Still time to pretend this never happened, that he never came this far, that he never had an inkling of an urge to visit. Still time...until his hand moves almost on its own and he hears the knock as if from far away.

The door opens, but it is not America who stands on the other side. He finds himself staring at Feliciano Vargas, Italy, who smiles like he always does. It would be hard to imagine Italy not at a party. He supposes it is normal. Of course Feliciano would be invited long before he is, especially for this day.

Once again, he wonders why he has even come this far, but now it is too late to turn back so there's nothing for it but to move forward.

Italy waves, a glass of wine in one hand and a party hat on his head resting on the opposite side of his curl. "Ve, hola Britain~ I didn't know you were invited~ You never come to America's parties..."

It isn't until he steps inside the house that he notices how absurdly quiet the place is. For one of America's parties, it seems like the crowd itself has been switched out with a team of ghosts. Except America hates ghosts, so there's no way it would be that, even though he can feel the eyes of every other nation staring at him without any sound crossing their lips. Staring at him as he walks with his head down.

He takes one step and then another, possibly because he's too stubborn to turn back now, even though he's caused some kind of scene simply by showing up. What was it Italy had said? Didn't know you were invited...You never come...

Well, he supposes that is true, at least. This is the first time he has made his way across the ocean at this time of year. The first time he has bought a hotel room in America's land for no other reason than a personal visit, no political move, no push by his boss; no, this visit is completely on his own. And it feels strange and wonderful and terrifying all at the same time. He should turn back; he should drop the present and run; but he's too stubborn to leave now. He's here now. He'll be damned if he lets a few little stares and covered whispers chase him away.

Lifting his eyes, he scans the crowd and finds the object, the person, of his concern. Alfred is standing near the center of the large room, talking with Japan. Even with the silence being so loud it's deafening, the American has yet to notice anything out of the ordinary, still talking as if nothing is wrong. Typical. So bloody typical.

Of course, Japan gestures towards him and America starts to turn. He lowers his gaze immediately. He does not want to catch Alfred's eye, not yet. Not yet. He angles his steps toward America and quickens his pace, stopping only once he can see the pair of shoes that he would recognize anywhere because even though Alfred is always buying new things, he seems to be upgrading more than changing styles completely.

Taking a breath, he holds his gift out. He wants to look up and face him, but at the same time he knows his words will get caught in his throat if he does so. With everyone watching, everyone listening, he's suddenly self-conscious about every move, every word, every twitch. A part of him wonders if the others can hear his heart beating, because the thump-thump-thump is starting to bother him now.

"Happy Independence Day, America," he says.

There is a slight pause where the silence stretches on into infinity, and then America swipes the present from his hands. "Aw thanks, England," he says. "But I wasn't really expecting you."

This of all things makes him lift his eyes. Still, he avoids meeting the blue eyed gaze, while still looking toward him, that little trick of looking just above someone's shoulder so they think you're paying attention. "What do you mean?" He frowns, "You sent me an invitation."

"Oh, I did?" America laughs. "Still, didn't expect you to come, you know, what with it being celebrating my independence from you and all..."

At the simple, casual reference to such a painful memory, he clenches his teeth, sets his jaw. "If you'd rather me leave, I have no problem with that. After all, it only makes sense that on this day you'd want to be as far away from me as possible."

"Oh no, I'm actually glad you're here!" America says quickly, grinning. "What'd you get me?"

After watching the American give a few quick shakes to his gift, Arthur shuts his eyes and forces himself to take a calming breath. 'This was America. He remembers this day in a different light. It's a happy day for him. A happy, carefree day...' But still it is hard to listen to him so casually toss out the words independence in front of the one he declared separation from on this day so long ago.

"Something you will more than likely throw away," he mutters.

He knows the choice of gift is probably not the wisest move he has ever done. He is still not sure what he expects. He is still not sure why he made such a choice. What is he hoping for? What does he want? Why did he even come? This has not been what he expected at all. Already he's wishing to go home.

"Why would I -?" Alfred's words break off as he opens the gift, tearing the paper and tossing it on the ground, as careless as the child he remembers. He hears a small, choked off sound from America and opens his eyes to catch the blue-eyed gaze behind the pair of glasses, but then Alfred cracks a smile. "So you do have a sense of humor, England!"

He frowns, sending a glare at America...and the box of tea he holds, just for good measure. This is not the reaction he was hoping for, even though he doesn't really know what he was expecting. "You are an imbecile," he mutters, turning on his heel and intending to make his way out.

It is only now that he realizes for certain that this visit was a bad idea. Definitely the worst decision he's ever made. Why did he even bother? Obviously the brat still has yet to understand the finer details of life. Not understanding the gift. Thinking it's a joke. Bah. Why did he expect anything different? Of course America isn't going to say thanks for the gift, thanks for coming, oh, I was hoping you'd come. No, instead he gets something only a clueless child would say. Why is he even -?

The hand grabbing his arm is a surprise, and he freezes at the touch more from shock than any real force. "Hey, where are you going?"

The question catches him off guard. Where is he going? What is he doing here in the first place? Why did he come? He's certainly leaving, but where exactly? He did get a hotel room, but he doesn't have to stay there. After all, nations had access to a private jet whenever they so chose. True, his boss still didn't know about this little visit, but...

"Home," he says into the silence, stating the word as soon as it hits his mind. "I'm going home. Clearly the invitation was a mistake."

"Aw c'mon, don't be like that. Stay a while."

If that awful destruction of the English language, that awful accent didn't get on his every last nerves sometimes. Keeping his face away from America, keeping his eyes on the door, he pulls his arm out of Alfred's grip. "No. America, you won. It was a fair fight, and I shouldn't bother you about it so much."

He turns his head to look over his shoulder, eyes finally taking in the grown up standing before him. A pressure hit behind his eyes and he had to force himself to speak over the new lump in his throat. America was grown up; he really wasn't a child anymore; he was an adult; he was a nation on his own; and he was on top of the world.

"You've grown into a fine nation, America. Congratulations," he says, before tearing away from the sight. Walking away from the acceptance of America's adulthood. Even now, it is hard to admit to it. Even now, he still wants to pretend the annoying man he deals with so often in meetings is not the same as the adorable child he raised.

Before he can reach the door, before he can escape this place, America is in front of him, blocking his path once again. He stops suddenly, and then gasps when Alfred grabs his hands. Both of his hands. Holding onto them, rubbing thumbs against his bare skin. It is awkward and sudden and so...

"Thanks," Alfred says with a grin. "That means a lot, coming from you."

His eyes catch the grin, then look away. He does not know what to do with his hands. His brain still has not seemed to catch on to the intimacy in the action. He wants to get away. He wants to leave. The ache is starting to grow, and he cannot explain or understand why.

"I'm going home," he states firmly. "I have given you a gift and your congratulations. Now I wish to return home."

"Aw," America whines, "But I like having you here. At least stay for the fireworks!"

He looks up and his breath catches at the look behind those blue eyes. Or maybe it is simply the way the light is reflecting from the glasses, somehow making those blue eyes appear even brighter than before. They are pleading, begging him to stay, and so reminiscent of a certain child from his memories. A certain child he had to deny so many times.

Does he really want to disappoint America again?

"Very well," Arthur says, closing his eyes and letting a long sigh escape his lips, knowing that no, he does not want to disappoint this boy ever again. "I will stay for a little while longer."

"Sweet!" America exclaims, and suddenly his hands are free but arms are wrapped around him, squeezing tightly. A hug?

What? Why? All of a sudden?

His eyes widen and he reacts almost instantly, pushing the lad off of him. "I'm not doing it for you!"

America laughs. "Relax, dude, that was just a friendly glomp." A friendly what? "Hey! You should come check out the punch! I think Prussia spiked it...though Denmark tried to add something else and Norway pulled him away before he could. Haha! You should have seen them!"

His heartbeat is still racing, still beating ridiculously fast in his chest, still pounding out a rhythm that he is surprised no one else can hear. He takes a few quick breaths and forces himself to be calm, or at least show to the world that he is calm even if he is still surprised and dazed by the words, attitudes, and actions of a certain American. Somehow he manages to hear what Alfred says and he straightens up, rolling his eyes.

"You're such a child," he says. "Like a college freshman."

"Huh?" America stares at him. "What makes you say that?"

"Your idea of intelligent conversation is 'someone spiked the punch.' Honestly, will you ever grow up?"

"I did grow up, though," America mutters, his face suddenly pouting like a child, which is enough to pull back the pleasant memories in his mind. "Didn't you just say that a few minutes ago?"

He has to flinch away from the sad look, upset with himself for putting such a look on America's face. Can he not ever do anything right? All he wants is to leave so he can stop disappointing this child, stop making him sad on his birthday. "Yes," he mutters. "I suppose I did."

Bouncing back quickly, America brings back the earlier conversation as if nothing had gone awkward. "So, anyway, did you want to try the punch? It's red, white, and blue. I mean, those are your colors, too, huh?"

He shakes his head, not wanting to speak of punch and alcohol and colors of flags. Seeing America's flag is enough to bring back memories. He can almost see the battlefield. He can almost feel the rain. Taste the blood and tears and bitter defeat. Can almost feel the anguish of losing one he felt so close to, one he wanted to protect forever.

"How long?" He murmurs. "How long has it been, America? How many 'birthdays' have I missed?"

"Uh...I don't know...I lost track after a hundred."

"Over a hundred," he whispers. "It's been over a hundred years and only now have you invited me."

"Hey, England," he hears the whisper from America as if the boy is leaning in close to him, so he keeps his eyes on the ground, not wanting to look up at him and be too close for comfort. "You're the one that gave me tea."

Except that comment makes his head shoot up and his eyes narrow. "Well maybe you should be grateful for once in your life!"

America straightens back up and sticks his tongue out. "I never did like tea after that incident, you know." The boy hums as Arthur continues to glare, feeling the annoyance building into a flame of heat in his chest. "But anyway, it's in the past." America mutters before reaching a hand out, offering a hand to him. "Enjoy the party with me?"

The gesture, the question, it makes him blink and step back. It makes him stare, look from the hand to the smile on the boy's face. It makes him glance around at the rest of the nations, reminding himself that there are others here, even if they have finally found something else to entertain themselves. Which is good. He does not like being the center of attention for too long, especially not when it involves America always catching him off guard.

He steps back and pulls his hands close to his body, letting out a huff of breath. "You have other guests. Maybe you should go entertain them and leave me alone." The statement sounds colder in the air than it did in his head and he fights the urge to wince when he hears his own words.

America doesn't seem to be bothered. "Aw, c'mon, Arthur. It's the first time you've been to one of my birthday parties. I'm sure everyone else will understand."

"And whose fault is that?" He snaps, the flame popping out before curling back to a steady warmth in the center of his chest. He sighs and puts a hand to his head. "Never mind. You win. I'll have some of your punch."

"I honestly didn't think you'd want to come," America murmurs before grabbing at Arthur's arm again. "But I'm glad you're here now!"

Feeling a little annoyed at being touched and pulled around like this, Arthur sighs, reminding himself that this is America's birthday party, that the boy should have at least one day without having to worry about getting a lecture. Let the boy be a boy. They reach the punch table and America drops the grip on Arthur's arm, using that same hand to swipe a few of the desserts from the table, seeing as it is decorated in red, white, and blue colored sweets as well as the layered punch.

He stands there and watches, mostly disinterested, as Alfred takes a small plastic cup and pours some of the festive punch. "Like I said, though, I'm pretty sure Prussia spiked it...and Denmark probably managed to sneak something else in when no one was looking." America smiles as he hands the cup to Arthur and then starts to pour another one for himself. "Tastes awesome, though."

Holding the punch cup in both hands, he raises an eyebrow at the information. "How can you not know what they put in it, and then not worry about it making you sick?" He has decided. He will not be drinking this punch anytime soon. He knows he is not the best at holding is liquor, though he still believes he can out last America, but he knows if he does get drunk he will no doubt regret everything that happens this night. He does not want to regret. He does not want to ruin America's birthday any more than he already has.

"Never has before," America says with a shrug. The boy lightly smashes the two plastic cups together, as if clashing two glasses in a toast, except he says nothing that is anything remotely like a toast. "Come on. Try it."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, all right, but -" he breaks off when he realizes something else. "Wait. What do you mean 'before?' Have they done this at other parties?"

"Yup!" America grins. "It's almost expected now. Just like how France always gets naked by the end of the night and Hungary always ends up beating a few people with her frying pan – mostly France and Prussia, though sometimes Spain when they're acting like a trio. Really, the party's just getting started, England. Nothing's happened yet." A soft smile crosses the boy's face. "Well, except you showing up of course."

He finds himself frowning, staring at the cup in his hand. He's not really listening to America ramble on and on about the crazy antics of the nations at a party. If the world knew, if their bosses knew, what kind of things they did behind closed doors...He takes a sip of the drink in his hand without really realizing it, but when the alcohol hits his tongue he pulls the drink back and sets it to the side, leaving it on the table.

"I think I'd best leave now-"

Before he even has a chance to finish the sentence, America springs forward. "No!" The boy exclaims, a hand pressing down on Arthur's shoulder, as if to keep him stationary, which makes no sense. "You only just arrived, didn't you? And what about the fireworks?"

At the mention of fireworks, imagining the explosions going off, he shuts his eyes and suppresses the wince. "America," he says, "Fireworks remind me too much of the war. I can't stay here and watch those."

"Not even with me?" America pushes. "I mean they're really the best part and I -" Arthur finds himself leaning in when the boy cuts off and glances to the side, his voice dropping into a surprising whisper. "I've always wanted to watch them with you."

"Alfred," he says, frowning, feeling his brow furrow as he tries to understand what this boy is saying and what he really means by it. "How do you expect me to be cheerful when you're celebrating the day you broke off your relations with me?"

America's response is surprisingly quick. "Because you don't have to think about why there's a celebration to enjoy the party," and the young man is grinning as if stating some secret that he discovered. "Just think of it as my birthday. You don't have to remember all that depressing stuff..."

All that depressing stuff...

Did Alfred not understand why he couldn't stand to come here? It wasn't a single moment. It wasn't the embarrassing moment when he broke down in the rain, seeing the truth so clearly before him, finally cracking when he realized this had actually happened. It was the fact that America had left him. All those years, all those promises, all those smiles, and the moment he grew up enough to make his own way – the very moment – America broke away, pushed away from him, wanting nothing more to do with him, hating him...

The pressure is behind his eyes again. The emotion is cracking through his facade. He has to leave, has to escape, has to get out of this nightmare of memories. He turns away, determined to leave this time no matter what America says. "I'm sorry, Alfred," he manages to whisper. "I'm not as ready for this as I thought I would be...and this is year 226."

His feet begin to walk. He keeps his head lowered, trying to keep himself together. It is ridiculous how much he is on the edge of falling apart. This day has never been the same. The wounds are still fresh. He's tried so hard to push them back, to forget them, but every year the slightest mention of America's independence leads to a spiral of thoughts that eventually push him over the edge. There is a reason he holes up in his own house during this holiday.

He is almost to the door when America grabs his arm. Again. "Please don't go, Arthur. Not when you already came this far."

His steps freeze. He doesn't have much of a choice. "I thought not being invited to this was the most painful feeling in the world," he mutters, "...but I was wrong."

"Ah -" he can hear America's voice just behind him. "I'm sorry. I should have invited you a long time ago. I was just so sure you wouldn't want to be here, but now that you are here..." The grip around his arm seems to tighten. "I'm not letting you go."

Forcing his way out of the grip is much harder this time, but he manages it somehow, a little surprised and upset and annoyed that America would stand for such a thing. "You make no sense!" His face is burning, though he doesn't know why. "You won't let me leave a celebration for when you left me?"

Oh god...oh god...

Hearing his voice crack, he wants to curl up and hide. Saying the words out loud are worse than simply repeating them in his head. This is the day America left him. All those years ago, this is the day the boy declared independence, the day the young man turned a gun against him – against him!

And now Alfred is just standing there, hands up, a gesture of surrender as if Arthur is the one being aggressive here. "Hey, you came here on your own, Arthur. Why? If you can't stand to be here, then why'd you come in the first place?"

"I -" Feeling his eyes grow, he freezes, his heart pumping hard in his chest, hearing the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to collect his thoughts, tries to understand, tries to search for an answer. He has been searching for an answer to that question since he took the first step onto the airplane that brought him here. "I – I don't know. I don't know, damn it!"

"So," America says, his head tilting to the side. "You don't even know why you came. Was it really just to give me a gift and say a little congratulations...and then leave? Seems like an awful lot of time and money to spend coming over here just for that..."

My boss doesn't even know I'm here...He's not going to be happy to learn about the money spent...

Somehow, he manages to find his voice again. "I told you, I thought I was ready for this, but clearly I was wrong!" He's shouting. Dash it all, he's shouting at America. Coming to his birthday party and shouting at the boy. Can he not be in the same room with the lad before he's shouting and annoyed and falling to pieces within a matter of minutes? Closing his eyes, taking a quick breath, he forces himself to calm. "I know you will have plenty of fun without me."

"Nope," America denies quickly. "I've noticed something. If you're not with me, it always feels like something's missing. Sure at first, birthday's were great, but now...now I just want you here and I don't care if it's hard or doesn't make sense." He can't believe what he's hearing. Does America even know what he's saying? Does he even realize how dizzy it's making him feel? "I guess I'm trying to say that if you leave now, it'll just hurt worse not having you here." His biggest mistake is looking up. When Arthur looks up and catches the blue eyes, he knows he's going to cave in again. "So please don't go."

His cheeks are burning, but he does his best to ignore it. "All right," he mutters, glancing away. "All right, you win."

America smiles and grabs his hand. His hand! "So, we left our punch over by the table, and you have got to try France's cake ball desserts."

It's too intimate. It feels too warm. Their palms touching. America squeezing his hand like this. His mind feels scrambled, racing in so many different directions. What is this? Why does the boy have to be so addicted to touching, to pulling him here and there, to leading him around?

"Why would I eat something the frog made?" He huffs, trying his best to ignore the heat in his face.

America shrugs as he pulls England to the dessert table, swiping the cup Arthur had left there earlier and handing it back to him. "Oh, just 'cause they're pretty good. You could always try Italy's pizza, but most of that disappears really fast so I doubt if there's anymore left."

He sighs. "Honestly, America, I'm not that hungry." Takes a sip of the drink against his better judgment.

"Aww, but the desserts are the best part," Alfred whines as he drops England's hand to gulp down his own drink of spiked punch. "Besides the punch of course."

"All right, all right," Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes at the childish side of the nation. "I'll have one of those...whatever it was the frog made."

His surrender seems to give America a pep in his step, leading him down the table to where the little balls of dessert are arranged in some patterns, mostly broken now that people have been eating them. "They're cake balls. Like little cakes but in a ball...and some of them have alcohol, too." America laughs, "I mean, you can't have a good birthday party without alcohol, right?"

"Hm," he grunts. "Seems like that's the main theme here, isn't it?" Taking one of the little dessert balls in his own hand, choosing one colored red and popping it into his mouth, not expecting too much.

Of course he is pleasantly surprised at the taste that explodes across his tongue. Red velvet? Chocolate underneath it all? And the texture! It almost seems to melt in his mouth and he forgets where is he in the middle of all that flavor. At least until America nudges him in the side.

"See, I knew you'd like it."

With a swallow, he finishes off the dessert. "Shut it," he snaps, hand reaching for another of the tasty things. "I never said I liked it."

"Haha, okay, that's why you're grabbing more?"

This one definitely has alcohol. What did he grab? A blue one? It tastes like vodka. Why vodka? It tastes like a mix of fruit and alcohol...or, no, sprite and alcohol...whatever it is, his tongue is dying for more already. He swallows and groans a little at feeling a lack of the wonderful taste.

"It's only because it's rude to not eat what the host lays out for you," he mumbles, even as he grabs a third one.

Addicting. Bloody hell but it annoys him how the frog can cook so well. Perfect little desserts. For America's birthday. His tongue freezes to the roof of his mouth, feeling the fire in his chest start to flare up again. France was able to make America happy. France was able to cook something so good that America had to share it with him. Show it off, even. The flame wanted to lash out; if he could only find that frog, maybe he would show the bastard who was allowed to make America happy.

America's laughter tore him out of his thoughts. "Okay, we'll go with that, then."

Fighting the blush, he pulls his hands back to his side, and then downs the rest of the punch. "There," he huffs. "Happy now?"

"Yeah," America smiles. "The longer you stay here, the happier I get."

Now the blush is definitely harder to fight. He can feel the heat climbing into his cheeks. He only hopes it's not too noticeable. "Whatever," he says, trying to throw attention away from the awkward. "What now, hm?"

The boy shrugs, looks around the room, then grins. "Fireworks should be starting soon. Wanna go outside with me?"

With me?

He gulps, feeling a little buzz on his tongue, wondering how much alcohol he has managed to consume. How much is hidden under the desserts and the punch? How many drinks has he taken? Is he really starting to loosen up, to feel it? To be honest, he doesn't want to stay and watch America's prized fireworks. He wants to leave now before he can be forced through such a thing, but he can't seem to voice what he wants.

"All right. If that is really what you want."

"Here," America says, taking the empty punch cup from him and refilling it, along with his own. Before Arthur can protest, Alfred has handed the drink back to him and grabbed his free hand. Warmth hits him and he swears he has had too much to drink because he feels like a silly blushing schoolgirl all of a sudden and it doesn't make a lick of sense. Buzzed. A little. He can still control himself. He just has to cut himself off now before things go too far. "I love this place at night."

At America's statement, he is pulled away from his thoughts. Pulled back into reality to see they have gone outside. Standing on a balcony of America's large party house. Looking out at the New York bay. He finds himself staring at the Statue of Liberty, cringing just at the reminder that America holds something from France as valuable and praiseworthy, and is there not anything from him that he likes?

"See," America says, pointing out toward the statue. "They're gonna shoot them off from there and the whole sky gets covered in 'em."

"Really?" He takes a sip of the punch in his hand, a part of him curious to see this amazing display despite himself.

"Yup! Every year!" America laughs, leaning across the balcony rail and grinning.

At the first explosion, the first display of bright colors, he tenses. As the rest of the nations rush their way onto the balcony to get the best view, Arthur stands frozen. A hand goes out to hold the white railing, as if seeking balance. As the explosions and the sound of music blaring from the loud speaker radio – of course America would be blaring his national anthem at a time like this – he starts to wonder how much he can take. He watches, but he doesn't see anything. The sound so reminiscent of gunshots cuts into him each time and he clenches his hand around the railing.

It's too much. The memories swarm at him, and hearing the boy laughing beside him, pointing out things Arthur doesn't care to see...it's too much.

As if from a distance, he hears America wince. "Okay, so maybe this was a bad idea."

Shaking his head, Arthur pulls away. He has to pull away. He has to get away from it all. He feels sick. Everyone in this nation is celebrating their breaking away from him. Everyone is shouting about freedom, shouting their hatred of the British, mocking him...this is all...he can't take it...and America is laughing along...

It hurts. It cuts deeply to see the truth he has been ignoring for so long. He has to run. He spins away and forces himself to walk. He thinks he's dropped his drink at some point, but his mind is a haze of emotion and it is taking every inkling of control not to break down here. He will not break down in front of everyone. He refuses.

He's at the door when he hears America behind him. "Wait, Arthur! Don't leave yet!"

Ignoring the lad, he walks outside. One foot in front of the other. He has to keep moving. Ignoring everything. Pushing those thoughts away. He can only take so much. He's almost reached his limit. So he walks down the street, ignoring the sound of America calling for him. Can't the boy just understand? Can't he just leave him alone?

And then that grip is on his arm. Again. Always grabbing him, stopping him from leaving. "Wait. Just..." America is breathing like he's out of breath. "One more thing."

He tenses. "Why?" His voice cracks and he grimaces, trying to gather the anger, to pull the flame up from the pit of his stomach and force himself to pull away from this stupid boy. "Why are you insisting that I stay if...if you and I both know that all this does is bring troubled memories?" He's shouting again. He turns to face America. There's pressure behind his eyes. No, there's more than that now. Those tears on the edge of falling. He has to get out, but he just wants to yell at him now. "Unless you moved on long ago and you're just wanting to keep me here to rub it in my face!"

It hurts. It hurts so much and America was laughing. At least now the boy has the decency to look upset, shaking his head. "I didn't – I mean – well – I did move on – but it's more -" America can't seem to form words, and he sighs. "Here."

And then the shock of the century crashes into him. It happens so fast, it takes a moment for his brain to catch up. Lips against his own. Innocent. Honest. A kiss. What? A kiss?

Finally, he has enough fire to react, pushing America back harshly, stepping away, eyes wide and breath catching. "Wh-what the bloody hell was that about?"

"Didn't I hint to it earlier?" America says, his face slightly flushed, though nothing compared to what Arthur's own face must look like. "That I'm only happy when I'm with you."

He brings a hand to his head, not sure he wants to believe this. Not sure what to think of this. A confession? On this day of all days? What is he thinking? Why? What? It doesn't make sense! It just doesn't make a lick of sense! "B-But why? Why now? Why me?"

America shrugs. "I don't know. I've wanted to say something for a while now, but – heh – when you showed up to my birthday party, I just, I thought – well – never mind, it's all bad timing."

He frowns. That doesn't answer anything. Wanted to say something for a while now... "Then why are you acting like this? Like it's a huge surprise I showed up when you're the one who invited me?"

"I – uhm – I didn't exactly mean to -" Arthur raises an eyebrow when those words come out of America's mouth, but the young man is shaking his head. "It doesn't matter! Did you ever think that maybe breaking away like that hurt me too? I wanted you to see me as an adult, not...not cause all that pain, damn it! And then, tonight, when you said I'd grown up I thought maybe I could take a chance."

He can feel his eyes widen, and he looks away. "I'm sorry, America. I suppose I have always been bitter towards you and your people for what happened long ago." Looking up at him, he drops everything and gives the boy a smile. "I'm proud of you."

The truth. After so long, it sounds strange, especially saying it now in this situation when so much else is going on, when all this other confusion is running around. It takes him a moment, but he does recognize that it is the truth. He is proud of America. He is proud of the great nation the little boy has grown into. It hurts to admit that America has grown up without him, but...he's still proud.

America smiles back. "Hey...I haven't seen that smile in a long time."

With a blink, feeling his face heat again, he looks away and mutters, "Whose fault is that?"

Hands grab his own again, thumbs rubbing against his skin, warm touches that send mixed signals. "I'm sorry," America says, leaning in closer. "Forgive me?"

Instead of answering, he looks up and blinks. "America...when did you get so big?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, I mean..." Unable to find the words, Arthur lifts a hand and makes a gesture above America's head.

"Oh, hah, isn't that what happens when you grow up?"

"But when did you grow up?" He can feel his breath catch. "Where did the time go?"

All the regrets soar back. All the time he hasn't spent with America because he was bitter about their separation. All the time he has missed because he was too busy to worry about the rebellious kid. All the time...

"It's been over two hundred years, Arthur..."

He sighs and drops his hand. "I know...two hundred and twenty-six."

"Yeah, something like that," America laughs.

And then that strange feeling is back. Lips touching his own. Another kiss. Another kiss. His eyes widen and he puts his hands against America's chest, intending to push him back. Too quick. What is this? What is he supposed to do? Why is America moving so fast? They haven't even agreed on anything yet, and already America is rushing forward.

But something else hits him and he finds himself pressing back into the kiss. Accepting it. Letting America rush ahead. His emotions are all jumbled up, but this feels...this feels...he doesn't know what it feels...good, he supposes. A hand goes behind his head and starts to run through his hair, gently, intimate. So intimate without any warning. Yet he's relaxing at the touch and closing his eyes and relishing the moment even though half of his brain is screaming at him.

The kiss drops and America breathes. "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."

He blinks, stares up at him, taking a moment to recognize that arms have successfully wrapped around him, pulling him close. "What do you mean? How long have you wanted to...to kiss me?"

"Mmm, I forget," America murmurs. "But a long time. I just couldn't ever get the right moment."

The fire comes back. "And this is the right moment?" He snaps. "This day where the proof of us not working is all around?"

The nerve of this brat. Toying with him like this. It's absurd. "No," America says, at least having the decency to wince back at the statement. "I was thinking more like this is the best time to say no matter what I'll always love you?"

He blinks. Now this makes no sense. For sure this makes no sense. Why can America not ever make sense? "There's no way you mean that."

"Huh? Why wouldn't I?"

"Afred, why would anybody say that to me? The only one's who have ever said such a thing to me were my monarchs."

And America won't understand that...he probably never had loving relations with his bosses. Not in that sense.

"Well, I said it now," America insists, leaning over to press his forehead against Arthur's, forcing their eyes to connect. "No matter what I'll always love you."

Something cracks inside him. The facade breaks. The pressure behind his eyes finally gives. A single tear escapes despite all efforts to hold it back. Damn it all, but the boy knows just how to say the right thing at the right time to make him break apart.

"You...You really mean that..."

"Yeah," America says. "I really do."

There's another kiss, and he welcomes this one, giving in, letting the pressure release, the pressure from this day, this night, fall apart as he clings to America. Fireworks explode in the night sky around them, but he ignores them. He allows himself this. Finally allows his feelings to be free. So long of holding back, of being frustrated. To see this child grow up, to finally have him here. Love...

America pulls back and smiles. "Sorry I waited forever to do something."

"Damn right you're sorry," he says, bringing his hands up to cup Alfred's face, smiling as the unexplained emotion takes him through a high, and this time he initiates the kiss, finding that he wants more, that he never wants to break apart. America ruins the moment, though, holding him closer, squeezing too tightly, being the bigger nation that doesn't realize his own strength. "Ah, Alfred, too tight."

"S-sorry," America says as he drops his arms. "My bad."

"Uhm..." Now that the moment is broken, he realizes where they are, what they were doing beforehand. "Don't you have a party to be at?"

"Oh. Right. That."

Unable to meet Alfred's eye, he turns his head to the side, feeling the heat attack his face. "Unless you'd rather ignore that and go somewhere else instead." There is that hotel room, after all.

"Hmm," America hums and scratches at his cheek. "It is the same thing every year." A hand touches Arthur's shoulder. "And you're here this time. Hmm, I dunno, what do you want to do?"

"I-I don't know! It's your birthday, isn't it?" Honestly, America couldn't pick up the mood if it slapped him in the face. Arthur crosses his arms and turns away, grumbling to himself. "I'd rather just go for a walk."

Alfred moves quickly to stand beside him, tearing one of his hands free to walk with their hands entwined, causing Arthur to blush as much as he fights it. "Okay. We can go for a walk. I'd really just like to spend a birthday with you so ~"

He sighs, forcing his thoughts and emotions to get under control, forcing himself to think. "Alfred, if we start to be a...couple...can you promise me something?"

"Hm? What is it?"

"Promise me," he says, squeezing America's hand. "Promise me that you won't leave me like you did all those years ago."

His greatest fear. Being left. Being hated. Giving so much and having it thrown back in his face. It makes social interaction difficult. He is guarded and hard to talk to nowadays, because everyone he has ever loved has torn him up and spat him back out. And now America is here...

"Yeah, never again. I promise," America says, squeezing his hand back. "And I won't abandon you, either."

He stops walking. Steps in front of America. Smiling, tears rolling down his face, he reaches out and pulls the lad into another kiss. Pushes against him. Opens his mouth. Makes it meaningful. America follows his lead and answers the kiss just as forcefully. Suddenly, Arthur feels his feet leave the ground and he knows America has picked him up. Damn that kid and his super human strength.

But he goes with it. Keeping the kiss locked, he wraps arms around America's neck, fingers toying with the necklace, the dog tags hiding underneath the suit, what America always seems to be wearing. The breath gets knocked out of him when he feels his back slammed against a wall, some brick building, he's sure. The most he does is gasp, groan, and lift his legs, wrapping those around Alfred's waist.

On some level, he's lost himself. Lost in the feeling. In the moment. The present.

But then he notices that one of Alfred's hands is tugging at his tie, pulling his collar loose. "H-hah. Alfred...what...?"

He can feel the air on his neck. Cool breeze in the July heat. America pants as he continues to loosen the tie, continues to pull his shirt back. "They say Americans are hasty," he mutters. "But I've been waiting for this..."

And then those lips are against his neck and Arthur finds himself setting a gasp loose into the night air. A warm tongue tickling his skin. "Ah-ah-Alfred...wait..."

"Hm?" America hums against his neck.

A completely different kind of heat begins to grow and he feels his eyelids flutter, his hands digging into the collar of Alfred's shirt even without realizing. "A-America..." he all but whimpers, giving in, his brain turning into mush as the heat begins to take over his better sense of judgment.

Teeth add to the touch on his neck, light nibbling, making him moan. It has been a long time since anyone has touched him like this, and he doesn't know what to think of it. He isn't sure how to respond anymore. He's been so guarded against feelings, this old but familiar sensation is almost new. This heat in his body is similar but so different from the anger he is accustomed to carrying around.

It isn't until he feels hands popping the buttons of his shirt that he realizes where this is going...and where they are... "Nng-n-no. Wait. Not here..."

America pulls back, smirking, blue eyes gleaming behind those glasses. "Hm?"

"I-Inside," he pants. "I have a hotel room. We can...go there."

America chuckles. "Have a problem with where we are?"

He can feel his face flush at the implications of such a statement. "Y-you perverted idiot."

With a shrug, America appears to ignore him, leaning in to kiss him once more. Arthur narrows his eyes and bites down – lightly – on the tongue in his mouth. It successfully makes America pull back, holding his tongue, but it also makes Arthur realize he's up against a wall and clinging to America so the only thing keeping him from falling is the hands that almost dropped him.

"Ow! Hey, why'd you go and do that?"

"I told you," he huffs. "Not here."

"Fine," America says, sticking his tongue out. "You gonna let go or should I carry you 'cause I don't mind -"

He quickly drops his legs and arms, blushing madly, shuffling away, putting a hand to his heart, amazed at how fast it's beating. Bloody idiot. Bleeding impatient kid. Like a horny teenager...

Appearing beside him, America kisses his cheek. "So...hotel?"

"Y-yes," he clears his throat. "Let's just get a cab then, shall we?"

Once more, America grabs his hand, squeezing gently even as his other hand starts trying to flag down a taxi. Leaning in close to his ear, Alfred whispers. "As you wish," as if it means something more than what it seems.

~!~

A/N: Don't worry – there's more to come – as soon as I can finish writing it. I wanted to have all of it written out for Independence Day, but this part alone took almost 9000 words so I'm a little shocked. There's a lot more to it than I originally thought. So, those of you wanting happy smex times, just be patient. The set up took a lot longer than I was expecting, haha.