Hey Everybody-who-is-reading! This is my first fanfic so please don't be brutal.
This is a UKUS fanfic and it very angsty and slightly smutty so please read it and tell me what you think.

It's always been him.

Ever since I can remember it's always been him.

He fills my thoughts all day, every day. I can't seem to get rid of him.

I see him when I'm walking down the street. I see him when I'm at the movies. I see him at McDonalds even though I know he'd never be caught stepping foot in one. I see him everywhere.

Even sleep brings me no relief. All my dreams are about him. Every night I feel his arms around me, his gentle touch, his soft kiss and I feel at peace. But eventually morning comes and I'm forced to leave him and all the lies I've created in my head.

How is it that he can make me feel this way? How is it that he can hold me together and break me at the same time?

The alarm rang for the third time and I figured there was no point in avoiding it any longer. I got out of bed and took a shower. As the cold water ran down my body my thoughts couldn't help but wander over to him.

His beautiful golden hair, which always smelled fruity, the language that he spoke so eloquently and had spared no expense to teach me, his beautiful green eyes and even those damn caterpillars on his forehead. I loved everything about him.

As I sit down for breakfast, I can't help think about him again. We're supposed to have this so-called "Special Relationship", so why is it that he's always so cold to me. He hardly speaks to me nowadays and when he does he's distant. Our conversations never pan out the way I want them to. We always end up arguing. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. It's fun to fight with England. It's the only time he's ever real with me, the only time he not cold and calculated. In this treacherous world of secrets, lies and politics, our silly arguments are my only distractions. And besides, don't they say that you always fight more with the ones you love?

I'm just afraid he's growing weary of it. He hardly puts up a fight these days. Sometimes, he just walks off, leaving me.

Alone.

I realize my schedule is clear all day and sigh. I guess it'll just be another day of pining over England. I burry my face in my hands.

That's when all the melodramatic inspirational movies I've watched rush through my head. If you want something, go get it. You won't achieve anything if you don't fight for it, yada yada. So I decide to get off the couch and go to England's house.

I knock on the door several times before he opens it. His clothes are arranged haphazardly like he had just thrown them on and his hair is disheveled. He's also out of breath.

"America? What are you doing here? And this early?" he asked panting a little.

"Uhh… I'm here to visit. Duh." I say giving myself an internal face palm. I don't mean to come of rude or irritating but somehow everything that comes out of my mouth is always…..wrong.

"No need to be grouchy."

We both stand there in silence for a minute.

"Well… Are you going to invite me in?" I ask seeing as how his mind was elsewhere.

"Oh! Of course. Right," he said stepping back from the door frame. "Do come in."

As I walk in I notice his clothes are crumpled, like they spent the night lying on the floor. England is a huge neat freak. He'd never wear clothes that were crumpled like that.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" he asked looking at up to the next floor.

"I think we both know the answer to that." I said, following his gaze to his bedroom door.

"Right I'll put the kettle on." he said tearing his gaze away from his door and walking briskly into the kitchen. I followed him in and was about to say something when I heard a door slam shut.

"Is anyone else here?" I asked.

England's face went red as a tomato. Before he could answer, France walked it while shaking his hands dry.

"Oh mon dieu! Angleterre making coffee? Haz hell frozen over?"

"It's called being a gentleman, not that you would know anything about being a good host. And you do know I have towels in the bathroom right?"

"Oui. But this annoys you more no?"

"Bloody frog." England mutters before he turns back to the stove.

"America? I wouldn't have thought you'd be up this early." France says while giving me his most rape face-ey grin.

"Yeah. Too much caffeine I guess", I say shrugging my shoulders and moving towards England. I don't know what I'm saying. Any excuse to get away from France is good enough.

My mind is racing with a million questions. Why is France here? Him being here this early in the morning and England's disheveled appearance, could only mean one thing : They slept together. Sure France's clothes looked impeccable but he probably has a lot of practice with that sort of thing. And I know England is an adult who has, for lack of a better word, needs. (Internal cringe) But France? Really? France? Are you serious?

"Well anyway Angleterre, I must be leaving." France says turning away.

"Why when did you get here?" I ask already knowing the answer.

England visibly stiffens. He's quick to recover but I noticed it.

"Even a minute is too long to tolerate this frogs company"

France feigns a hurt expression. "You words pierce me like a knife in ze heart."

"Whatever", England says shaking his head. "I'll walk you out."

He started to herd France to his front door. As soon as they were out of sight I raced up to my old spying spot. You could see everything that was happening outside. England seemed to be arguing with France. It wasn't long before he started to beat him with his tiny balled up fists. They're so tiny and cute. They inflict like practically no damage. France started to laugh and after a few seconds so did England. England flashed him that amazing smile of his. Not the cocky annoying one. But the one that bewitched people. It quite literally made hearts and panties melt. Not a single person could resist that smile, the smile you could only ever see when he was truly happy.

I've been waiting for so long for him to flash that smile at me again, to hold me in his arms like he did when I was a child. Or maybe I'll be the one holding him in my arms since I'm bigger. Whatever. It doesn't matter. I just want to be close to him again.

I know it's my fault that we're like this. It's my fault he can never flash that smile at me again. Maybe, I closed that door forever when I rebelled. All the hatred, the violence, the betrayal. How do you just sweep that under the rug? I'm not very articulate as I'm sure you'll know, and somehow everything I say and do just seems to pull me further away from him.

France plants a chaste kiss on England's lips and then leaves. England stands there for a moment while his hands linger on his lips. Somehow this hurt me a thousand times more than the implication they slept together ever did. I'm not naïve. I know England has slept with other people. I've even seen him take people home. But that's all it ever was. One night stands and cheap thrills. Wham Bam Thank you ma'am. They were out the next day and he never spoke of them again. I doubt he ever really kissed any one of them. But this, this was different. People don't kiss like that unless they're in relationships.

Could it be? Could England really be with France? I mean they argue so much and have so many awkward moments filled with sexual tension that they could have their own rom-com T.V. series but it would never work right?

I mean me and England – England and I, sorry – fight a lot too. But not like France I guess. And he never walks away from France, no matter how incoherent and ridiculous the argument gets. I had the sinking feeling that it could be true. So what did that mean for me and England?

I watched England walk back in and I realized it was too late for me to get back downstairs without him noticing so instead I walked into some random old room. It looked vaguely familiar, but I could see England was in the process of cleaning it. I walked around picking through stuff when I looked under a desk and realized that I recognized something. I looked underneath the old desk and saw that all my old drawings had been neatly preserved in files between water-proof pieces of plastic. All the idiotic gifts I had given to England—ranging from paperclips to pretty rocks – all carefully placed in labeled boxes.

Had England really treasured these so much that he had kept them all these years? That sentimental old fool. Doesn't he realize that clinging to the past won't bring it back? I'm not a little boy anymore. I'm a man who loves him. An equal right?

An equal whose only desire is to be back in his arms.

I'm stuck wondering if there was any point to the rebellion. What was the point if it cost me the most precious thing in my life?

England pops his head in through the door looking around.

"Oh! There you are. I was wondering where you had gone off to." He says while he brings in two cups on a tray. He offers me one before realizing what I had found. I expected him to flee or throw me out. But instead he just had this sad reminiscent look on his face.

He started flipping through my old drawings. He came upon an extremely crude one. It was me as a small child standing next to England holding hands, with our names written neatly below us in ink. Our real names.

"This one's always been my favorite." He says. "You were so cute back then. So simple, so sweet… You would always listen to what I'd say and do whatever I told you to. No questions asked."

He looks over at the rocks and says, "And you always remembered my birthday." He chuckled.

"Hey! I remember your birthday!" I said.

His expression turned sour. "Really? Then, when is it?"

I struggled to recollect it but it was just one of those thing you know, stuff that no one ever knows. And it's not like England has a parade to commemorate the event, or fireworks. Wait, does he?

"So what? I bet you don't remember m—"

"Fourth of July. I'm not likely to forget America."

His face turns into the emotionless mask I've seen so often. We both look down at the floor and let the silence creep in.

"Look England I'm sorry" I start off but I know he's not listening.

I don't know if he still knows I'm in the room. He's holding on to that drawing like it's his greatest treasure , gazing at it with the same dazed look, the same sad smile that I'm beginning to hate. And suddenly I realize why the rebellion had been so important.

I couldn't let him see me as a colony anymore. All he sees when he looks as me is the little child he raised. Or maybe the rebellious teenager who betrayed him. Nothing more, unless he's drunk.

It needed to stop, for the sake of my sanity.

I pulled the drawing out of the file. The paper was already so flimsy it didn't take an effort to tear it up and let the pieces fall to the floor.

England looked at me with disbelief. It took him a lot of time to find the right words.

"A-America. Why did you do that?"

"Why did you bang France?" Great. I'm terrible at expressing my feelings but when it comes to being crass I'm amazing.

"W-Wh-What are you talking about? H-How does that have anything, anything to do" England spluttered.

"So, I'm assuming you did." I feel my heart break even as I say the words.

England took a minute to gain composure.

"So what? It's not like we've never done it before."

I internally flinch. It's true I think back to those nights, those horrible yet wonderful nights. When the alcohol flowed freely and so did the emotions. They always started off the same way. England would be totally drunk and he would start crying over how much of a 'bloody git' or 'stupid tosser' I was. And how I didn't deserve someone like him for a brother and should have gotten someone like France. Then if I let him have too much, I would have to face the anger, the foul words that did more damage than his blows ever could. Then, he would go off in search of a lay.

Before I used to let him go, I used to let him torment me. I watched him night after night taking home beautiful men and women – really anyone who'd agree, but unfortunately, there were a lot of takers. In the morning he'd kick them out and vow never to drink again, but the night would come –all too soon— when he'd decide to go out again. He'd always use the same excuse. He'd always say he could handle it and walk off.

He'd always leave me alone, drowning in my misery.

So one night I decided to get him home instead of watching him stomp all over my heart. The first few nights we mostly filled with insult and shouts of "Leave me alone" or "I don't need you" or "I can tell when I've had enough". Sometimes there were even pleas for alcohol and promises of trades that I wouldn't regret if I let him have one more drink. Then came the lingering caresses. I loved the way he would move his arms up and down my body. I craved it. It didn't take long for us both to give in. But it we didn't make love. No. We fucked. We fucked rough and hard.

Every kiss. Every touch was filled with anger, hatred. A lust, too dark to be called passion. A strange form of revenge, that filled you up and satisfied you for a moment before taking it all away, leaving you empty and broken. But I was so desperate for his affection. That one moment of pure bliss I felt when he was in me was worth all the pain I felt when he left.

That's why I would let him take me, anytime , anyplace. On the bed, against a wall, on the bathroom floor. He wouldn't talk. He wouldn't look me in the eyes. We may as well have been perfect strangers. Sometimes we didn't even take off our clothes. But it was worth it.

It was something so primal and animal it could never be called love. It was something driven by need not want.

When he pushed my down on the bed, I enjoyed it, because for that one second I was the only thing that mattered. He would kiss my neck and bite me, almost as if he was marking me as his own and I would scream in ecstasy at the thought that I was his. When he would slick his fingers with whatever he had at hand I would shiver in anticipation. The pain I felt when he penetrated me was nothing compared to the feel of his skin against mine. When our moans intermingled and filled the room, when I heard the erotic sound of wet skin slapping against each other…I was in heaven because it was the only time I had him all to myself. The only time I got to experience a taste of what I wanted. My only wish was to live in that moment forever.

But it never lasted. We would both eventually reach our climax. He would collapse next to me, his body radiating heat. Sometimes we would lie there in a heap of entangled limbs and I would feel…Happy. But it felt like as soon as I fell asleep in his arms I would wake up to find him gone.

And he would leave me again. Alone.

If I woke up at his house I'd always linger. But he would never come back. Not until he was sure I was gone. And we'd never speak of it.

"Yes. But we never kiss" I said to England. "Not like that."

"Kiss? Wait. You were spying on me?" he asked in utter disbelief.

I shrug and then England shakes his head.

"Look. It's not what you think, all right? Besides we've kissed plenty of times."

"Then what is it. What are you thinking anyway? Getting involved with France! France! You hate him and now what you're in a relationship with him? And FYI It's more tonsil tennis, than kissing really.

"I told you it's not like that. And what do you care anyway? Huh? And I am a very good kisser."

"Well excuse me for trying to save from Herpes or AIDS or something. P.S. You're a terrible kisser. And you're delusional if you think your relationship with France has any future."

England seemed to get upset at that. Me and my big mouth.

"Look America. I'm a big boy. I can handle myself and I don't need you poking your nose in my business. And if you had such a big problem with what we did then you should have said so. And I didn't hear any complaints from you at the time. So you live your life and let me live mine. That's what you wanted to accomplish with your war right?"

I'm stunned at England's words. He never speaks about the rebellion when he's sober. But what hurts me more is that he thinks I regret what we did.

"Look that's not what… I mean…. What I want…To say that"

Articulate right?

England lost his temper.

"Well what the bloody hell do you want!" he shouted.

His words shocked me out of my stammering. I picked up the drawings and threw them across the room.

"I want you to see that those days are over. That kid is never coming back. I want you to look at me" but England's eyes were still following his precious memories of the colony he once loved.

"Look at me!" I screamed bringing his attention back to me. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I want you to see who I am. I want you to call me Alfred and go to the movies with me. I want you to forget that stupid war. I want you back in my life, for good."

I took a deep breath.

"I want you to love me." I said as I crashed my lips against his.