Author's note: This is my first fanfic, so I hope you guys enjoy it! *o* USUK and human names are used.

[Edit] Also, I wanna point out that I didn't originally have the year and war in the story, but I eventually went back and added it since there's a bit of confusion about it. So, yes. Sorry about that. o: I should've added this little edit thinger when I updated it.
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Bang.

Bang. Bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Smoke covered the field, appearing to rest on the blades of grass as muskets and canons were fired. Bloodcurdling screams could be heard weakly between shots. The British were falling rapidly, their army nearly sliced in half by the Americans. A plan had been set in place, but a Colonel had forgotten the ladders, an important part of the plan, leaving the troops scrambling uphill only to be quickly shot down.

After roughly an hour, the battle had been won. The British suffered from 2,000 casualties, losing Generals, Colonels, Lieutenants, and soldiers. On the other hand, Americans only suffered from 13 casualties. Whooping and hollering could be heard from the winning, American side. They had successfully defeated the British and kept New Orleans, allowing their economy to prosper. This would later become known as the Battle of New Orleans, the last major battle of the War of 1812.

"We won! We won!" a voice called triumphantly. It belonged to a young American boy named Alfred. He was tall and good looking, around 17 years of age, with sandy blonde hair and vast, ocean-like eyes that were slightly obstructed by his glasses. He stood looking over the battle field, watching for any of the scattered bodies to move. Now, Alfred, of course, assumed that most were dead, but he knew there was always a chance for survivors. At first, the red coast didn't move. They just laid there, forming a sea of red. Once the smoke had cleared fully, however, a few did rise. The men crawled over to the Americans, willingly surrendering. One of the Brits caught Alfred's eye.

The boy obviously was wounded, for he couldn't even walk. He had to drag himself towards his enemy, hoping for medical care. Alfred watched him. The Brit had been shot in the left thigh, his white pants turning the same color as his jacket. For some odd reason, Alfred ran toward the man. It must have been instinctual. Why else would he run to help his enemy?

"Hey! Don't push yourself!" Alfred called. The Brit looked up at him before collapsing into the mud. Alfred rushed over, rolled the other over, and held him in his arms. "Hm, y'know?" the American smiled, examining the Brit, "You've got such a pretty face. It's a shame that you were shot." His already large ego was swelling with pride after another victory, leaving him quite cocky. Little did he know, however, that he was the one who shot the Brit. But, then again, he probably shot many more as their bodies littered the field. "What's your name?"

"Excuse me?" the red coat hissed in response, his accent thick. His blonde hair was pasted to his forehead and his deep, green eyes appeared tired. He was fairly small compared to Alfred, as well.

"I asked for your name." Alfred stated simply and innocently.

"Shut up and put me down, you Yankee. I'm not a lady."

"I just want to know your name."

"No!"

"Hey, I'm your enemy and I can easily do whatever I want to you. Now tell me your name," the blue-eyed man threatened as he picked up a nearby musket and rested the bayonet near the Brit's chest.

"My…my name's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland," he muttered, not wanting the other soldiers to hear. Alfred tossed the musket aside casually and looked around, like a cat searching for a mouse. An idea had popped into his head, but it was only going to work if he found a dead American soldier.

"Ah-ha! Found one!" Alfred rushed over to a body, still carrying Arthur. Gently, he set Arthur on the ground next to him, and started undressing the fallen soldier.

"You're absolutely disgusting," the other mumbled as he watched, unwillingly.

"Here," Alfred handed Arthur the soldier's blue jacket, hat, and shoes, "put these on." He made a mental note to pay his respects later.

"…Why?"

"Just do it or I'll shoot you."

And with that, Arthur was soon dressed like an American soldier. Alfred had everything planned out in that little brain of his. Everything down to the slightest detail. He was also determined to fulfill his plan, not letting other Americans stop him. Step one of his plan was to dress the Brit as an American. Check. Step two was to make sure that they both received medical treatment. That was easy. There was a little medical tent set up not far from where they were. The only problem was that Alfred would need to find a way to get his new, wounded friend over there. Another problem that could easily be solved. Much to Arthur's dismay, he was swiftly thrown over the taller's shoulder and carried toward said tent.

"You're hurting my leg!" Arthur cried. From what he could tell, the American had no intentions of being gentle. His large hands gripped the other's legs tightly, only adding to the pain. Suddenly, one of the hands loosened its grip. Sighing in relief, Arthur thought the idiot had finally noticed his tight grasp. The hand slowly moved up, however. Up…And up…And up…until said hand rested on a perfectly shaped ass.

"Ahh! Don't touch me there!"

"Sorry," was all he received for a reply, "you were slipping. I didn't want you to fall." With a slight jerk, Arthur was, once again, safely positioned on the American's shoulder. "Oh, by the way," Alfred warned, "don't speak when we reach the 'hospital'. If they know that you're British, they won't treat you. If, and only if, you have to say something, say it with your best American accent." This was something the Brit would happily oblige to. If removing the bullet from his leg meant sitting there in silence, then he'd do it. Sweet, sweet silence. Alfred could do all the talking if any needed to be done. This was a chance for Arthur to rest. Besides, it's not like Alfred would just leave him there…Right?

Upon reaching and entering the tent, the two found that it was nearly vacant. Only a few soldiers and doctors resided there. Most of the soldiers only suffered from minor injuries. After looking around, Alfred found an unoccupied, makeshift bed tucked away in the corner. A perfect spot for the smaller man. He'd be in his own little space, away from the others, allowing little to no conversation.

Arthur, nearly asleep, felt himself starting to slide off of the other. His mind was foggy and he was unable to think clearly, so he was unaware that the American was just laying him down. When he felt himself completely off of the other's shoulder, his eyes shot open and he wrapped his arms around the other's midsection. "Don't drop me! I'm already in enough pain as is, got that? Just hurry up an-"

Smack.

"Shhh! I didn't drop you and I told you not to say anything!" Alfred whispered as his hand speedily made its way to Arthur's mouth, cutting off the rest of his rant. Somewhat embarrassed, Arthur scanned the room. The others were staring at him, not only because of his accent and sudden outburst, but because he was hugging another man. Upon connecting the dots and realizing the situation, he immediately let go.

"S-Sorry. I-I didn't mean to…" the Brit mumbled, tripping over his words. He could feel his face burning. The sensation has started somewhere in his chest and made its way up his neck and onto his cheeks, making them tingle.

"Just be quiet and lay down, will you?" There was a hint of a threatening tone in the other's voice.

Gulp.

Not wanting to draw more attention to himself, Arthur laid on the cot and tried to relax. Oh, what he'd give to go home. His leg was throbbing and burning, he had just completely humiliated himself in front of his enemy, and, as if things couldn't get any worse, he was still stuck with some obnoxious, overly self-confident American. Heck, he didn't even know the guy's name. At least he seemed friendly and appeared to have good intentions, though. Being with him was much better than lying in a muddy field, waiting to die. Arthur slowly started to nod off, lost in thought.