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Disclaimer;

Sadly, I do not own Hetalia nor do I own any of the characters in Hetalia either. This applies to future chapters as well.
I do not own the cover image – it was drawn by akitokun1 on DeviantArt.

Enjoy!~

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"Never close your lips to those whom you have already opened your heart."

-Charles Dickens

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Prologue
First Kisses

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1564

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First kisses were, allegedly, important messages of both intimacy and a loss of innocence. Some viewed them as a half-open door, ajar and awaiting on its hinges to unveil the wondrous world beyond. Others saw them as a mountain to climb, a challenge that, once they conquered, they could marvel at a spectacular view as their prize – or, in cases of kissing, the fact that they'd accomplished something big and received a few ounces of self-satisfaction, as well as a contented partner. A few people saw their first kiss as an enemy, something large and looming, swathed in shadows and just waiting to haul them into darkness. They shied away, terrified, until somebody gentle would plant a tender touch to their mouth that they couldn't resist or despise. Either way, somebody's first kiss, whether it was given to them, stolen from them or claimed by them, was a big deal that involved a lot of worrying and relationship-related stress.

When was the right time to do it? How should it be done? Would it be too soon, or too late?

Why people made such big fusses about them, Alfred never knew. He was perfectly happy in the knowing that he'd never kissed, or been kissed, by anybody. He was, after all, only young and he had the rest of his life to explore the many levels of both affectionate and ravenous kissing and, considering he was a young colony only born about a hundred years ago, it was guaranteed that he was going to live a very, very long time. Therefore, he'd have a wagonload of years to find the perfect opportunity to lean in and give somebody that vital peck, or allow somebody special to embrace his mouth in a sweet gesture that would ultimately label him as a 'kissed' individual. Too bad that he didn't quite understand the significance of different types of kissing.

Alfred, more commonly known as America, dearly loved his adoptive older brother. Having met him way back in 1492, when the strange white people had buried the hulls of their ships into the eastern coast's golden sand banks, he'd instantly forged an unbreakable connection with Arthur, partly because he was immensely curious about all of the phenomena that the more experienced nation had brought with him, as well as the fact that he had the same pale skin and fair hair as he, and partly because of the indescribable warmth that he'd immediately been engulfed in upon allowing himself to be held in those arms. There was no limit to how much Alfred adored Arthur and everything about him, from his softly curving smile and the zealousness behind his glittering gemstone eyes. Hence why he was sprinting as fast as he could to the docks, a stupendously large grin plastered to his maw as he called out a familiar name over and over again.

"Arthur! Arthur!"

The day was fine, sunshine rippling off of his hair as he ran, dashing between the locals. Women stared wistfully at him as he ran, blinking and muttering either subdued curses at his boundless energy or positive comments about how he was growing rapidly to become the country that they needed him to be. His feet scuffed upon the ground, leaving a trail of dust in their wake as he bolted forwards, eyes vivid and rippling like the ocean blue. He had never run so fast before and he mentally swore that he was flying, just like in his dreams, where he soared high up in the ether, across the sea towards the isles of Great Britain, where he knew he'd find his brother waiting for him. He'd dressed especially for the day that he knew Arthur arrived, opting to wear the best clothes that he'd been able to scavenge in the monstrous house that he'd been banished to live alone in, save for his servants and maids.

The long sleeved shirt and dun-coloured waistcoat that he'd tugged on in his haste were at least two sizes too big, drooping over his small frame and trailing down past his thighs. Luckily, he'd managed to find a suitable belt to wrap around his waist in order to secure his breeches and ensure that they didn't slip down his legs as he ran. He'd pulled on a pair of black socks, tugging them up until they were just below his knees and finished his smart attire with his usual, slightly worn-out brown shoes, complete with various scuff-marks and a few scratches and scrapes pockmarking the leather. All that he could hope was that Arthur would be glad that he'd be wearing the clothes that he'd personally given to him the last time he'd visited.

Alfred never stopped for breath, not even when he saw the white sails and the red crossed flag rising up on the skyline and pushed his muscles to the limit as he propelled himself up towards the crest of the hill. His breathing was slightly erratic, escaping in ragged breaths, but he couldn't find the capacity in his mind to care. All that mattered at that moment was that he was going to see Arthur again, after countless hours of staying up all night and staring at the myriads of glowing stars above and hoping, wishing, praying that he'd come back across the Atlantic to see him again. He sorely missed him. Those fathomless eyes, filled to the brim with warmth so tender that Alfred could literally smother himself in it and fall into a deep slumber. That gentle smile, a silent motion of pure happiness that filled his stomach with fluttering butterflies and an unearthly sensation of vertigo, like his whole world had been turned upside down.

The second that he reached the peak of the hill, he halted, the sight as breath-taking as ever. A vast expanse of rolling waves, foaming slightly and sparkling, not unlike a sheet of sapphires, under the midday sunlight stretched outwards across Alfred's vision, looking as though it reached out to every corner of the world and beyond. He could only stare, awestruck as he always was, his own cerulean irises reflecting the deep aqua of the ocean and the distant sky, blending into the horizon until he was unsure whether the sea really existed, or if he was just looking out over the edge of the Earth. The only thing that reminded him of where he was and wrenched him from his state of momentary wonder, were the billowing white sails of a monstrous, wooden ship, docked in the harbour as a collection of crates and barrels were being offloaded from its deck via a long, sloping ramp. Bulky men rolled and hauled various implements from inside as well, most shirtless as they wrapped handkerchiefs around their foreheads to stem their perspiration.

Alfred barely had time to register what they were doing as he made his own way down the hill, being careful not to trip and sully his smart outfit, as he'd spotted something far more interesting. At he drew closer to the man, quite lean and with a mess of unruly, straw-coloured locks situated on top of his head, he began to really believe what his eyes were telling him. There, clad in a long tawny tunic with navy breeches was the personification of England, standing with his regularly sophisticated deportment as he appeared to be checking over a wrinkled piece of parchment with an expression of placid neutrality. Just the spectacle of him was enough to evoke a burst of elation in Alfred's chest, and before he knew it, he was running headlong down the steepest part of the hill, even faster than before, yelling out at the top of his lungs.

"Arthur! Arthur!"

Before the older nation had enough time to properly turn and find out just who was calling his name out so loudly, he'd been tackled quite forcefully in the side by the little bundle of vigour, the force of the impact so great that it took all of the poise he could muster not to topple over into the sand. Barely registering what had just happened, he glanced down at a muddle of goldenrod hair, belonging to the short boy who had just rammed into him and who was currently hugging his waist so tight that he doubted he'd ever be able to let go. He immediately recognised the owner of the thick locks (including that one cowlick that utterly refused to stay down not matter how many times it was combed) and a wide smile broke out across his face. Forgetting the parchment that had slipped from his fingers earlier in his surprise and lay amongst the grains of sand by his feet, Arthur bent down and hoisted the boy up until he'd settled him in a comfortable position in his arms and allowed a lenient grin to grace his juvenile face.

"Alfred!" he cried out joyously, pleasure etched into every groove on his face as he held said boy close to him, his laughter resembling wind chimes.

"I missed you!" he replied, burying his face into the crook of Arthur's neck, unable to hide how giddy he was in his delight at seeing his older brother after so long. It was after the jubilance had died down to a feeling of everlasting contentment that settled deep in both of the boys' stomachs and the location had changed from the bustling coastline to quiet meadows of long grass that swayed in unison, swept by an almost non-existent breeze, when Alfred stole his first kiss.

They walked side by side, the dying sun's final rays bleeding through the sky, merging into a concoction of wonderful sunset colours. Following a brief lunch and numerous words exchanged between them about what they'd missed without each other's company, they decided to seize the rest of the pleasant weather by immersing themselves on a long walk through the countryside. Alfred grasped Arthur hand with fervour, unwilling to let go for anything, even when they passed a whole herd of bison roaming the plains and bellowing at each other as they grazed. From then on, the duo walked in blissful silence, just glad for the companionship. Every now and then, Arthur would glance down at the beaming child, his vivid blue eyes glowing ardently as he drunk in their surroundings, and spread his mouth into a smile of his own.

Finally, they stopped, the fields coming to an end at the base of a moderate slope which they'd clambered upwards. Their destination immediately brought back jolts of nostalgia, a gnarled oak tree overlooking as the two of them settled down amongst its twisting roots. Hazy sunlight filtered through the leaves, adding an unnaturally beautiful sheen to Arthur's eyes, yet he only stared out across the farmland with an expression of fondness, recalling the first time he and Alfred went for a walk together. Back then the boy had been smaller, dressed only in a silken white tunic and a blue bow fastened at his neck, and they'd halted at the foot of that very same oak tree, where Arthur had told him all sorts of magical tales about princes and princesses, pirates and mermaids, kings and castles…..it had been like a fairytale. It was still like a fairytale.

"Arthur?" At the sound of his name, the older nation turned, his gaze sweeping over to Alfred, comfortably sat in his lap. He had an obscure twinkle in his eyes, almost as though he were expecting something. "Can you tell me a story?"

From the passion blazing behind his irises and the enthusiasm rippling through his hopeful grin, he found it impossible to refuse, and just chuckled light-heartedly as he drew the child closer to himself. Running slender fingers through his hair, marvelling silently at how imperfectly it fell, yet how much more adorable it made the boy look, Arthur leaned back into the bark of the oak tree, allowing Alfred to rest his head on his chest . He listened avidly to his heartbeat, noting the thumps and thrums, and instantly relaxed into his older brother, cushioned by both his torso and his loving arms.

"'Bendigeidfran, son of Llŷr, was chosen King of the Island of Britain, which was called 'the Island of the Mighty'; and he was crowned in London. One afternoon, he was in Harlech –'"

He recited each line like a poem, never missing a beat or mispronouncing any of the long, Celtic names. Images of great kings entered his mind, life being breathed into them by the words of the story. He pictured a young, beautiful maiden, with long white hair and a great giant of a man with hulking muscles and thick, auburn hair. Arthur's voice was soft as he described each one in full detail, and combined with the fingers running smoothly over his head, Alfred could slowly feel his eyelids grow heavy, as though they were weighed down by lead. Lulled by the sweetness and sincerity in Arthur's voice and cocooned by his mysteriously calming dialect, he was soon breathing heavily, his eyes fluttering closed as he slumped across the Brit's body.

"'- the memory of their lord Bendigeidfran was most painful of all. And from that time they could not remain there, but set out for London taking the head with them. At last they reached London and they buried the head in the White Hill –' hm?"

Arthur paused, his gaze flickering down to the sleep form of Alfred against his chest. It was rather endearing, his head nuzzled into his ribcage as his mouth hung open slightly and the sound of air passing through his parted lips with every breath interrupted the silence. He wasn't snoring, per say, and instead just breathing quite heavily in such a manner that was so irresistibly cute that Arthur couldn't help but smile. He decided to lay there for a few moments longer, his hand still massaging Alfred's locks, until he risked a look at the rapidly darkening sky. A few stars dared to shine, speckling the deep violent haze above with light. Beautiful and entrancing, but Arthur did have more important things to attend to, such as the dozing child on his body. He could probably carry him back if he didn't rouse him from his slumber. However, he was not so fortunate, and cursed inwardly as the boy stirred from his carelessness in trying to move him, and sat up, his eyes bleary as he stared uncertainly ahead.

"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured gently. "Did I wake you?"

Alfred could only respond with a wide yawn.
"I wasn't asleep," he mumbled indignantly. The was only a short chuckle in response to that and another bout of movement as the elder scooped the younger up in his arms, resting him against his shoulder so that they were eye level. And what happened next was something that neither of them would forget for a long, long time.

At first, Arthur just thought that the boy had been dazed, so dazed that he'd started to tip his head forwards to his shoulder to fall back into a deeper sleep. But, he was wrong, for he soon found, by an inexplicable force, that something incredibly soft was pressed against his maw. Alfred's lips touched his brain as they locked onto his mouth, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, weaker than sound or odour. It was like blissful oblivion had swamped over the two of them, Arthur's eyes widening as his brain finally started to click into place.

Alfred was kissing him. Alfred was kissing him.

There was nothing to it, really. The boy broke away after a collection of seconds had passed, his eyelids pulling backwards to reveal two sparkling eyes as his mouth stretched into an impish grin. Arthur could only stare, stupefied, as he lightly fingered his lower lip with two of his digits, feeling along the sensitive skin. It wasn't that he'd never been kissed before, no…but, it was the fact that Alfred – his little brother – had just pressed his mouth to his in a chaste connection, so innocent and virtuous that he hesitated to even call it a kiss.

"...uhm…Alfred…?"

"That was a kiss, right?" he interrupted thoughtfully. "Did I do it right?"

Arthur frowned. "Yes. Alfred, why did you just kiss me?"

"That's how people show that they love each other. And I love you, Arthur!" The child beamed, his incorruptibility so untarnished and unfathomable that Arthur could scarcely believe that he didn't understand the severity of his actions. In fact, he couldn't even find the heart in himself to scold the boy, nor could he try to reprimand him. Instead, he just furrowed his brow and scowled, searching for the correct words to say.

"I…Alfred." The serious finality in his tone caught his brother off guard. "There are different types of love."

The child perked up, his curiosity piqued. "Really?"

"Yes. A kiss on the lips signifies romantic love…"

"Romantic…?"

Arthur sighed heavily. Explaining how various people loved each other was going to be a lot harder than he originally thought. "Romantic love is between a couple. Such as, a man and a woman together. You see couples all of the time, yes?" Of course, that wasn't entirely true, but the Brit rigorously doubted that the boy would've ever seen an intimate relationship between two men or two women on the street. Of course, pairings of those types were unheard of between humans, and quite rare between nations, even those who were married through political or economic purposes. Nonetheless, Alfred thought long and hard before answering.

"Yes, but –"

Arthur cut across him before he could elaborate. "So there you have it. We are not a couple, so we don't kiss on the lips, okay?" By this time, he'd overcome his brief shock and started to walk, supporting the boy with both of his arms as he worked his way back through the long grass and towards the manor house where he'd be living with him for a couple of weeks.
Alfred looked uncertainly at his older brother, before mumbling in agreement and resting his chin on his shoulder, staring wistfully at the gradually receding oak tree. The place where he'd had his very first kiss. It belonged to Arthur, and for that he was happy.

However, he silently made his own new goal, starting to fade out of consciousness from the gentle cradling movements that began to rock him back to sleep. He was determined to love Arthur in every way, whether the Brit liked it or not. As for the kiss they'd shared underneath the watchful leaves of the oak tree…

…it would be the first of many.

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A/N:

This story is based off of a US/UK kiss meme I saw on DeviantArt by JustTheThing, meaning there will be about 22 short drabbles following this prologue. I'm not sure when they'll be published, but I'll work on them when I feel like it. I just felt in a fluffy mood today so I decided to write a quick snippet of what might happen if Colonial!America kissed Britain on the lips.

The story that Britain was telling was a tale from the Mabinogion, about Brawnwen and Bendigeidfran. For those of you who don't know, they're Welsh legends and I have a little book containing three stories.

The rating of this fic will be subject to change as we get closer to the more intimate types of kissing e.g on the waist, stomach, inner thigh etc.

And finally for their ages! Alfred has the appearance and mind of an eight-year-old boy in this, whereas I imagine Britain would be around sixteen-years-old. They call each other by their human names because they find it's more comfortable. As they get older, that might change though.

Please leave a review! I'd really appreciate it!

~ NekoMushi