Right then! My first story on FF. I hope that y'all like it. It was just a drabble kind of thing that I was inspired to write while watching the HBO series Band of Brothers. That is an amazing show/move/whatever it is, guys, and I highly recommend it. No joke, it's so heartwarming and just... Ugh. It's too much.

Without further ado, I present to you a rambling.

Disclaimer: I don't own any bit of these characters, or the forests and areas that are surrounding them. Essentially, I don't own Bastogne, Hetalia, Alfred, or Arthur. What I do own are the words I used to make them function as human beings.

A Silent Night of Frozen Fingertips

"Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well-trained, well equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely."

General Dwight Eisenhower - 6th June 1944

Alfred stuffed himself deeper into his foxhole, paying no heed to the mortars and shells that were shrieking their way across the skies in streams of rivers bright as the sun. No, Alfred was much too concerned with the lack of feeling in his toes and fingers, and his endless, ceaseless shivering. His teeth chattered, the cold chafing in thick white streaks against his skin, nose red and bright and screaming with a pain all its own. His eyelids were drooping, and he found himself having a rather difficult time staying awake. But it was his watch. He couldn't just go to sleep and let the other men down. Taking in one shattering, chest-rattling breath, he slowly drew his hands up to his face and began to try to blow on them, in a fruitless attempt to thaw, or at least coax feeling back into his rosy fingertips. He was so centered on this task that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching behind him. It wasn't until he saw the small landslide of dirt spilling into his fox hole that he noticed the approaching man, and within seconds he had his gun whipped around and sighting the space between the perpetrator's eyes with a surprising steadiness considering how cold he was.

"Easy, Alfred, it's just me," came a British voice from the other side of his gun, and it was only then that his fear, frostbite-addled brain recognized the shape and size, and uniform of the figure in front of him.

"Shit, Arthur," he breathed shakily, lowering his gun back to the floor of the foxhole, "you can't do that."

Arthur shrugged and slipped into the foxhole, noticing Alfred's shivering out of the corner of his eye.

"It's hardly my concern to make enough racket to let you know that I'm approaching. Anything you can hear, the Jerries can probably hear as well," he stated simply, holding his own gun across his lap as he leaned back against the earthen walls of the foxhole.

"Shut up," Alfred finally said, turning from his emerald-eyed companion. There was no movement on the front other than the shells, and the mortars, but those were on a completely different side of the line, a section far enough from where they were to not incite much concern from anybody.

Arthur's chipped-jade eyes hopped along the still front as well, in tired familiarity. He'd been in this war since the beginning, and to be frank, he was getting very, very sick of it.

"Alfred, you're shivering," he mentioned offhandedly, moving his arm to get a look at some dried blood on the cloth of his uniform.

Alfred mimed Arthur's earlier shrug.

"So what? A lot of us are shivering. I'm not an exception," he responded petulantly, trying desperately to hide the shaking of his body as a consequence. He kicked his boots against the earth, watching the little hillocks of dirt form around each impressment. His clothes chafed uncomfortably against his cold skin, enough sensation in it to react but not much more.

Arthur sighed.

"You'll be of no use to the American forces if you're too cold to shoot your own bloody gun," he told the American very matter-of-factly, resting his head back on the dirt wall and closing his eyes. His blond hair shone, very faintly, in the small amount of moonlight gifted them from a waning crescent. The same moonlight licked along the black metal of both of the men's guns, and touched each splinter of every half-demolished tree.

"What do you care, huh?" a sulky tone. "Just go back to bed. What makes you think I want your company?" each word was bit out between a chatter of teeth, his hands wiggling their ways into the armpits of his uniform. Anything to keep warm. He only had an hour or two more before he could wake the next unfortunate soul and finally get some shut-eye. But, alas, Arthur paid his suggestion no mind.

"I don't care if you want my company. You're stuck with it for the rest of the night," responded the man, reluctant to admit that he wanted the American's society. He could be as rude, and stubborn as he wished to be, but he knew Alfred was grateful to have someone to sit the watch with him as well. It was never good for a man to be alone for too long in the middle of a war. His mind would start curdling, asinine thoughts pedaling about in a fear-riddled brain.

Alfred grumbled something that sounded vaguely like "fucking limey" before the two descended into a relative silence once more; a silence broken only by the chattering of Alfred's teeth, the rustle of clothes, the ever present sounds of mortars and gun fire, and the clomping of boots against the dirt of the foxhole. Their breath pillowed out in front of them, the constant moonlight, and occasional, flashes of brightness the only things interrupting the otherwise dark night. Each sharp snap of a shell echoed across the quiet, solemn forest, interrupting soldiers who were drifting off, or asleep. It was almost impossible to have a full night's rest these days, too many bombs and gunshots breaking the chance for peace. Every arc of light across the sky outlined Alfred's and Arthur's faces in eerie crags, hollowing out the divots of their eyes.

Finally, Arthur could take Alfred's stubborn chattering no longer. Reaching, over, with his gun sitting idly on his lap, he grabbed the younger man's hands and began to rub his own, glove clad, fingers and palms over them. Alfred said nothing, just watched, curiosity and a sense of gratitude keeping him from uttering a word against Arthur's actions. The British soldier was glad that Alfred chose to refrain from breaking the tentative silence with his voice, and his often poor word choice. Sometimes, silence was better, and as his fingers worked over the bare fingers of Alfred's hands, he allowed himself to relax for what felt like the first time in weeks. He was still in the same position he had taken on after he'd slid into the foxhole, with his legs spread out in front of him and his back leaning on the wall, but he had moved closer to more easily reach Alfred's icy hands.

Alfred was struggling to keep his attention on the front lines as his foxhole companion worked on his frozen fingers. He knew that he should have asked the medic to get him a pair of gloves before the man had gone back to the medicine base, but he'd forgotten. And maybe he just couldn't bear the thought of having to wear a dead man's gloves. Either way, Alfred knew that it was a stupid decision. Gloves were necessary in this temperature, and at this time of night. Hell, he knew that the water in his canteen was probably frozen by now, the metal had frosted over with its miniature little icicles, and he was still desperately trying to get feeling into his toes, though they were sufficiently covered with boots and a nice pair of thick socks. Many men envied him for those well-fitting boots, and those thick woolen socks. They were helpful in most situations.

Alfred was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Arthur pressing his fingers between his palms and bringing them to his mouth before he felt the other man's hot breath ghosting over the frozen, but still sensitive skin. His head whipped, eyes widening like an owls as he watched the blond-haired soldier. His other hand had fallen to his gun, resting on the sleek nozzle.

"Er, Arthur?" he asked hesitantly, unsure what the man was going to do next. But it seemed that the only goal was to melt Alfred's hands, and the only way to do that was to breathe some warmer air on them. Arthur gave him a look that said as much, and so Alfred chose not to pursue the topic, or his question.

It was only about five minutes later that his hand fell back to his lap and then Arthur picked up his other, more neglected one. This same treatment was then bestowed upon it, and Alfred did his best to make sure that the warmth he'd gotten on the first hand stayed in the said first hand. He didn't notice the way Arthur's fingers lingered on his ring finger, how the Brit's mouth dropped closer to the skin of that hand than the other one, how his lips brushed, almost feather-light, over the frosted fingertips.

"Alfred," said Arthur, setting the American's left hand down on the man's lap, "where did you live before this whole hubbub started up?"

Alfred took a moment to respond, slow thinking in his cold body temperature. "I lived…" he trailed off, shivering rather violently before continuing, "I lived in a tiny town in the middle-of-nowhere Virginia." He responded.

Arthur nodded slowly, "Ah, yes. How old were you when you joined"

A hesitation. "Well, erm… I was about… Oh," he took a deep breath, though it shattered on its way out of his mouth, "I was about eighteen. Not a day older, not a day younger."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Your birthday, then? Someone was eager to join the military," he commented dryly.

"You could say that," grumbled Alfred, almost embarrassed. "I couldn't get myself a gun fast enough. I wanted to be a hero, kill a German. Now I feel like I've killed too many, and I'm no more heroic for it." He shrugged halfheartedly, in a what can you do gesture.

It took a moment for Arthur to start another conversation. It was obvious that Alfred didn't exactly have the mental capacity or wherewithal at the moment to do anything of that nature. "Did you leave anyone special behind?" he asked eventually, waiting with bated breath to see what the American's response would be. He fiercely hoped Alfred hadn't. He didn't want to share the man, and he'd certainly taken a liking to the obnoxious, know-it-all.

"Naw," responded Alfred slowly. "I don't think so. We broke up two days before I joined, anyhow. Who knows if she's waiting for me." He shrugged and scuffed harder at the ground with one booted toe. He was noticing that his fingers were numbing again, though he tried not to fidget so much. "But I did leave behind my family. Mom, Dad, and little Amelia."

"Amelia's your sister then, I presume?" said Arthur, cocking his head in an almost catlike gesture at his comrade. Alfred nodded desolately in response.

"She was so proud to know that her brother was going off to war, to win the big shindig in Europe." He laughed humorlessly. "No one thinks of winning the war, hell, of fighting it, as sitting on your ass in some shitty foxhole waiting for a shell or Kraut to find you and put you out of your goddamn misery." His voice was suddenly bitter, frighteningly so.

Arthur said nothing.

Alfred took a moment before shifting slightly closer to the other man. He noticed the warmth that he was throwing off, and couldn't help but attracted to it, like a moth to flame. Warming up sounded awfully swell right now. "I fucking hate this war. What is it with you Europeans, always jumping at one another's throats? Why don't y'all take up a hobby or somethin'?" grumbled Alfred, shaking his hands, trying to bring sensation back to them.

Arthur chuckled. "We tried that. For some reason, knitting just could not hold a candle to shooting another man's head off," he responded, teasingly.

Alfred shot him a bland expression in response. He gave up trying to wave his hands around and bring warmth back to them, so he began to mime Arthur's earlier gesture, blowing hot air on them. It didn't seem to work half as well, though.

Arthur noticed Alfred's difficulty again, and moved closer to the blue-eyed man, close enough so that their sides were touching. It probably didn't mean much to the American, but Arthur felt every nerve ending light up at the contact.

"Here, Alfred, let me see," he said calmly, holding a hand out for one of the boy's hands. Alfred hesitated before relinquishing his left hand into Arthur's control.

Arthur resumed his earlier treatment, pressing the hand between his two palms and blowing his warm breath on the frigid skin. His gloves pressed into the purpling digits, and he sighed, glancing up at Alfred.

"I meant to ask, why don't you have gloves?"

Alfred shrugged. "I don't know. I don't like taking gloves from some dead man. I'd be wearing a dead guy's stuff. That's kind of creepy, ya know?" He said, knowing that Arthur would not agree with him. Sure enough, he was right.

"So, you'd rather lose fingers than wear a so-called 'dead guy's stuff'?" responded Arthur, one eyebrow raised, again, in exasperation.

Alfred huffed and glared at the empty fields. "Whatever. I didn't ask for your opinion," he responded angrily.

Arthur chuckled, his breath coming out in short pauses over the bare skin of Alfred's hand.

"Of course not." He said, before pressing a kiss to one of the American's fingertips.

Alfred started, having felt that, and glanced at the British man out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what was going on, or how he really felt about it. It's not like he wouldn't admit to the obvious attractiveness of the guy. He was certainly very alluring. But could he just as readily admit to his own attraction to Arthur? The fingers of his right hand curled nervously into and out of a fist.

"Arthur…" Alfred said slowly, totally at a loss about what to do. Arthur just responded by pressing another kiss to another fingertip, ignoring the American's confused tone.

And, though Alfred would hate to admit it, he rather liked the feeling of Arthur's lips on his skin. It was nice, and comforting, and yet somehow energized at the same time. More kisses followed the first two, spreading out along his fingers and over his palm, before Arthur took up his right hand and gave it the same treatment.

It wasn't long before Alfred noticed how much closer they were, and how Arthur's face was not too far from his own. He eyed him uncertainly, blue eyes flicking from his lips to the opposing green eyes, and then back again. But before he could decide anything, the crack of gun fire echoed through the forest, and then the pinging of bullets against the dirt and into the woods echoed around.

Both started, freezing and staring out at the frosted grass. No figures appeared, nothing to cause concern. So Alfred tore his gaze from Arthur's, with a great amount of difficulty, and resumed watching the front line. However, there was something different in his actions, and movements now. Something more strained, confused. He'd ducked down in the foxhole a bit, not exactly wanting to get his head blown off, and so he didn't notice the pleased facial expression flit across Arthur's face.

"Alfred," said the other man, dropping down next to Alfred. He got no reply, so he decided to take things a step forward. He moved just behind the other man and pressed a kiss to the back of his dirt-lined neck. That got the reaction he was looking for. He'd taken his helmet off to do the task, and now that he had Alfred's full attention again, because he always wanted Alfred's attention to belong to him, he carefully took the American's helmet off as well. It was a foolish action, he knew, but a necessary one. He wanted to see just how far the boy could be pushed before he attempted to stop Arthur.

And so, his experiment commenced. He started off with kissing his hands again, before abandoning those and moving his fingers to brush along Alfred's uniform-clad side. The flaps of the pockets snagged at each nimble digit, but that didn't hinder Arthur for too long.

His hands eventually worked their way up to Alfred's face, circling his wide, innocent blue eyes before dipping down to his lips and tracing their shape. Arthur leaned forward then, his eyes flickering from Alfred's, to Alfred's lips, and back again. The man said nothing, so Arthur moved his head forward, brushing his lips along Alfred's cheek before moving them closer to their intended destination. With only a brief hesitation, he was pressing Alfred into a kiss. It started out tentative, light, but quickly morphed into something a little more feral, a little more desperate. Arthur pushed Alfred back into the floor of the foxhole, crouching over him in a predatory silhouette. Hands shifted wildly through two sets of blond hair, fingers tugged at clothes, pressing at bared skin. All thoughts of cold were gone.

But before they could continue longer, footsteps were heard. Both sat up within seconds, Arthur moving off of Alfred, with his gun in hand. Simultaneously, they whipped to face the newcomer, their appearance rather disheveled. The man who was to come and relieve Alfred from his watch gave them a confused look before motioning for Alfred to get to a foxhole further back in the line. The American hopped all-too-happily out of the one he and Arthur had shared and fled off to find one that was clear of any seductive Brits.

Arthur watched Alfred go, an amused and sly grin hanging on his lips. This would make for an interesting campaign indeed. With that being said, he went off to go find his own foxhole, sleep dragging at his eyelids now. It was funny how hours in the right company could do the right thing towards putting ones nerves off.

Both men woke the next morning to the screams of falling shells, the raining of broken dirt, and the screeches of dying, or soon-to-be-dead men.

This ending though. Truly, it is atrocious. It makes me want to cry. Thank you for reading! Um, the title just was inspired by stuff in the actual writing. And yeah. I may not have gotten a lot right, I will admit that I didn't research all that much for this. I might continue this in a drabble collection kind of thing, and I might not. I have no clue. Anywho, yeah.

Au revoir, mes amis.