My Hero

Alfred is not entirely sure how he's wound up drunk-sitting Arthur, just that he has and he's extremely relieved that someone had the idea of sending a caretaker home with the small Brit because if there was nobody here right now, curled up on the harsh coolness of the bathroom floor with Arthur, then Arthur would be crying on his own.

Another thing Alfred isn't sure about is why Arthur's crying; one minute he'd been singing at the top of his lungs about some drunken sailor and the next he was sobbing his heart out, mindlessly clinging onto anything he could grab onto in order to stop himself from face-planting into the ground. Of course Alfred had asked, what kind of hero wouldn't, but drunkenness seems to only have worsened Arthur's stubbornness. Thus leaving the taller man to watch nervously as his companion shudders and shakes and sniffles with the force of emotions that he probably won't even remember in the morning.

They'd gone out together, England, America, France, Russia and a few other nations, but only America was willing to help England home despite all of them knowing that Arthur was in no fit state to be left alone.

It was only Alfred who was willing to be Arthur's hero.

So here he is, watching the twig-of-a-man writhe and tremble before him when he should by rights still be out having fun with those who can hold their drink far better than Arthur can. But Alfred can't bring himself to get mad about it, not with Arthur so open and completely fucking vulnerable, instead settling on the emotion of pity, sympathy. Maybe a tiny little bit of self-pity too, the feeling of watching England crying reminding him of a time he'd much rather forget.

All of a sudden, like a cat pouncing on it's unsuspecting prey, Arthur lurches towards the toilet, coughing and hacking in a way that makes Alfred wince. Sure, he knows that this is Arthur's own fault but he can't help feeling sorry for the guy, maybe even partially responsible. Responsible because he knew that this would happen, that poor Arthur would most likely be intoxicated before he'd even finished his first drink. Alfred thinks that it might have something to do with him being so small and skinny. And kind of ridiculously cute, now that he really thinks about it.

But Arthur's cuteness cannot distract Alfred from the fact that England is throwing up into the toilet, shivering from a coldness that isn't even present, so the American crawls forward and places a soothing hand on the older man's shoulder, rubbing his thumb over it gently. He can feel England's bones underneath the flimsy fabric of his shirt, feel the infrastructure of something that was once great as though it's nothing more than a bundle of lifeless twigs under his palm just begging to be snapped.

So… breakable.

"Hey, Artie, you okay?" Alfred tries his best to make his voice at least half of it's normal volume but the noise makes the addressed flinch anyway. Flinch and then melt into the comforting touch of his babysitter. "Easy there, dude." When England just carries on leaning back into the contact and then turns around to climb into America's lap, Alfred can't help the small smile that sneaks it's way onto his face. "Oh. You wanna hug? That's cool. I'll hug ya, Artie!"

Arthur wriggles around a bit, adjusting to the addition of Alfred's strong arms forming a fort around his incapacitated form, and finds himself with his face wedged firmly into the larger man's chest. Or rather, wedged firmly into the warmth of it. So warm, Arthur thinks, that it's practically radiating comfort. Comfort that Arthur can't quite remember why he needs.

Oh yeah. Everything.

He's lonely, not that he'd ever tell anyone, and whilst that's partially the fault of the person holding him he can only think right now to blame one person; himself. Because surely if he were a better, a nicer, a more America-like person then he'd have more friends hanging around him, right? Maybe then he wouldn't be so alone, so hated, so pathetic.

Pathetic.

Arthur feels a sob rumble in his chest before it breaks out into thunder, a storm of sorrow raging inside of him and manifesting itself as more tears. God, he feels stupid. But he can't do anything about it, just nuzzle into the warmth of the glowing comfort in front of him and hope to a God that probably doesn't exist that the warmth doesn't leave him too.

He knows it will though. Sooner or later, just like everyone else, it too will abandon him to the cold isolation of loneliness.

"D-don't leave me." He stutters, tongue seemingly too big for his drowsy mouth. "Please. Just. Don't leave me." Arthur sniffles, wiping his nose on Alfred's shirt without thinking about what he's doing and tightens his vicelike grip on the bigger, sturdier male. "Need you."

Alfred knows that Arthur's drunk, that he probably has no idea what he's really saying, but the tone to Arthur's voice all but breaks his heart. He sounds so broken, so sincere in his inner agony that America can practically feel it in the atmosphere of the dark room. Right here, right now, with Arthur snuggled in his lap and crying like he'll never stop, Alfred would give anything to make his smaller friend happy.

Doing the only thing he can think to do, Alfred presses a kiss into Arthur's sweat-dampened hair. When the idea first popped into America's head, he was pretty sure that it was meant to be a brotherly gesture of comfort, but now he's not so sure. Now, with his lips lingering a little longer than necessary, Alfred can't resist the thoughts of how it would feel if his lips were somewhere else on Arthur.

Feeling the trembles from the body nested firmly into his, Alfred knocks himself out of his head and gets to work on being the hero, being Arthur's hero, and comforting his drunken friend.

"Shush, it's a-okay, Artie! I'm not gonna leave you anytime soon, promise." Alfred looks Arthur in those breathtakingly vivid green eyes of his and thinks for a moment that he's drowning in them, not that he would mind. "Not gonna leave ya, not ever." He mumbles, repeating it over and over like it's an incantation that can magically make everything better if repeated enough times. "Y'know, you're kinda cute when you're all snuggled up. Real cute. Like a little doll."

It's just Alfred thinking out loud, not putting any thought into the declaration, but it still makes both nations blush furiously. It's not an uncomfortable blush though, not at all. America's blush is that of a kind of pride, burning bright in the glow of his cuddling companion. England's is one of taken-back appreciation, the compliment unexpected but more than welcome all the same.

Even in his current state Arthur can tell that Alfred has intentionally locked eyes with him, that those bottomless pools of blue want something from him and Arthur's sober enough to understand that he should give America whatever he wants. Why?

Because he sort of really wants to.

"You should." Arthur stops to hiccup, a stray tear making it's last-ditch bid for freedom. "You should kiss me right now. I really bloody want you to bloody kiss me, Alfred."

And God, does Alfred yearn to fulfil that want. It's something he aches for, burns for, and would willingly do if it wasn't for one thing; his conscience. That little voice in the back of his head that he only really listens to when it's talking to him about Arthur, about what's best for the smaller Brit. He only listens to it when it really matters and, right now, it really does.

"I can't do that, Artie. Not now, not like this." When Arthur looks like he's about to burst into wails anew, Alfred places his finger gently on his lips and treasures the softness of them. They lock eyes again, America just willing England to understand with everything that he has. "Cos right now, I think you'd say that to anyone."

Alfred is fully aware of what he's left unsaid, about how he wishes Arthur would only say it to him.

Arthur scrambles around in Alfred's lap, shuffling so that he's sat a little more upright rather than slumped against America's midsection, and nestles his face into the younger's neck. America may be the younger of the two, but he's so much more bigger than England, so much more vast that England can't help the primal need to get lost in him. Get lost in him and never surface again, just stay forever in the caring comfort of the nation he raised all those years ago.

"Are you. Are you calling me a slut?" Arthur giggles at the word, the noise a cross between adorable and terrifying to Alfred's ears. "Are you? Are you calling me a slut? Bloody wanker."

And with that Arthur starts crying again, fisting desperately at any part of America he can latch onto. In response, Alfred splays his hands across the Englishman's back and rubs them rhythmically over his spine, easing out some of the tension from his shuddering muscles. Poor guy, he thinks, poor little guy.

"I'm not calling you anything, Arthur. I'm just saying that you're drunk."

"Am not!"

"Are too." Alfred shoots back, unable to resist a smirk at Arthur's childlike tone and expression. Arthur sounds extremely pissed off, scandalised by America's accusation, and Alfred would maybe feel bad about it if only England wasn't still leeching onto him as though nothing else matters. Perhaps it doesn't. "You. Are. Drunk." Arthur heaves out a sigh of bored defeat and Alfred knows that it's the closest he's going to get to Arthur agreeing with him at the moment. "That's why I'm here. I'm looking after you."

There's a long silence, neither of them really knowing what to say or do. Of course America knows that he should probably carry Arthur to bed and then sit up all night making sure that the idiot doesn't choke on his own vomit, but he just can't bring himself to carry that idea out. He's more than content to simply sit here holding England in his arms like a beloved ragdoll and England seems more than happy with that plan too, so that's more than good enough for Alfred.

He's never really realised before now just how truly small England is; how his hands could fit into America's three times over, how his slight frame tucks perfectly into America's arms. They fit together like two puzzle pieces.

No.

Like a key in a lock.

Alfred thinks Arthur is asleep, deep in dreams about flying mint bunnies and unicorns when he feels something warm on his neck; Arthurs lips, puckered against his bare skin and pecking at it persistently, begging to be noticed. It feels like tiny little fireworks are blossoming on his neck, a trail of explosive celebration being left wherever Arthur's lips go and it feels like everything America wants to feel when he's with Arthur.

But this isn't Arthur; this is drunk Arthur. And it wouldn't be right to take advantage of him, no matter how much he seems to want it.

"S-stop it, Arthur." Alfred orders, trying his best to sound authoritative and failing miserably. "I'm here to make sure you don't choke on your own puke, nothing more. So stop it or I'll leave!"

Arthur can't stop quick enough, can't look up at Alfred quick enough to see if he really has angered the bigger man. What he sees when he looks up is neither the desired pleasure nor the feared fury, just pity. Pity because Arthur's crying. Again.

Crying like the pathetic, lonely, stupid, ho-

"Hey, don't cry! I'm here, it's okay." He can feel the guilt bubbling up inside of him, congealing in his throat as he realises what he's said; he told Arthur he was going to leave him. "I'm right here and I'm not going to leave." He smiles down reassuringly at the shaking bundle of nerves in his arms, just hoping that he hasn't already blown it with his carelessness. "I'm here to look after you, remember?"

Arthur blinks up at him like a new-born, soaking in his image and scrutinizing it in a way that makes it perfectly clear that he doesn't know whether to trust Alfred or not. And that hurts America like hell.

"Why?" It's barely a mewl, yet it's so much more than that; it's England begging America for something that he needs more than a man in the desert needs water.

He's asking for care. Care and love.

"Cos I'm the hero, of course!" America beams back down at him, eyes aglow just like they always are when he proclaims the statement. "And heroes take care of people."

"Why can't I be the bloody hero for once?" England snaps, clearly trying to get a rise out of America for reasons that neither one of them can fully comprehend. Perhaps it's Arthur's way of testing if Alfred really means it, his way of seeing if Alfred really does care. "Why can't I save the day, just for once? Why, why can't I be the one everyone loves?" America just stares at him speechlessly, unsure of how to reply to that in a way that won't set England off again. For his part, England looks to be holding back tears with such a look of sheer determination on his face that it almost frightens America. Or it would, if only he couldn't sense the desperation behind it. "But no! I'm never the hero and nobody loves me. They all leave, the bastards. Just like you."

Oh, America thinks, oh!

He's lonely, so lonely, America realises, hating himself for not seeing it sooner. He knows England well enough to know that the venom in his words isn't really directed at him, just at life and the world in general for being so utterly crappy towards him. It would be easier on Alfred if the venom was directed at him though because then he could at least fix it, apologise and make sure England knows that he won't ever have to be alone ever again.

Well, he can still make sure of that last point. Because now that he knows, well and truly knows, he won't be leaving England's side until he's convinced him that Arthur is the least lonely nation out there.

Because he has Alfred.

Alfred holds Arthur at arm's length, his blue eyes melting into bright green, and he brings a thumb up to gently sweep the tears away from England's defined face, wincing at the crying-induced heat radiating from Arthur's skin. It's worth it though, because the caring contact seems to be making Arthur smile, if only slightly.

"You're my hero, Artie." Alfred whispers, meaning it more than he's ever meant anything before. "Mine."

Both nations know the hidden meaning to that and accept it gladly, England falling back into America's arms; a silent beg to just be held, for America to never let go. The younger of the two obliges.

"Yours." Arthur murmurs sleepily, burying himself into America once more. "All yours."

"Mine."

A/N: So, I wrote this instead of doing Biology revision... Whoops. This is the first proper-sized thing I've written for Hetalia, so sorry if it isn't all that great, I just really wanted to write it. Also posted on my deviantART account.

Thank you very much for reading and please let me know what you think! :)