A/N: Quick short disgustingly fluffly cheesy oneshot, inspired by an AMV with the same song. 'Cause I'm crazy and completely smitten with this song and video. And I have a punk!England obsession. h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v=CsOPLFXX- bc&feature= related
Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words may or may not be fixed. Sorry. =.=;;
Okay, no more crappy fics like this (just kidding. I'M GOING TO POST THEM ALL I WANT LOL). I had to get this out of my system. Argh, I have to write my friend's story, too…oTL||| Don't wanna do it…
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or American Dream Man.
Arthur was acting strange.
It wasn't just him not shouting at the American for his stupidity or loudness; he was quiet throughout the entirety of the meeting, barely noticing Francis's advances or Peter, who had snuck into the room and hid himself behind Tino and Berwald. There were no burnt scones being shoved in Alfred's face, no fighting with Francis, no reaction to Germany yelling his lungs out.
Nothing. The Brit sat in his chair, silently contemplating something with his hand on his lips, apparently somewhat distressed. He was unusually quiet, even though he was the one hosting the meeting.
And naturally, Alfred began to worry.
"How come you're not saying anything, Iggy?" he exclaimed, waving a hand to caught the other man's attention. "Are you too amazed over my idea of building a superhero to revert global warming?"
Alfred totally expected an irritated answer, but instead, Arthur slowly looked up, his green eyes dazed and glassy. "Interesting idea, America…" he murmured without sarcasm.
Alfred furrowed his brows together and found it difficult to speak. "R-really?" He paused, composing himself. "I mean, of course, because I'm the hero!" He cleared his throat a couple times and sat down, too surprised to say any more.
The meeting was then adjourned 'til the next day, for Italy had been shaking Germany's arm insistently and rambling to the annoyed blond about pasta and lunch. Alfred was glad, because he had trouble comprehending Arthur's reply and actually needed to clear his head.
What could Arthur have been so preoccupied about to answer so calmly to Alfred?
The next day, the meeting continued the same as yesterday with no reaction from Arthur whatsoever. Alfred noticed Arthur sighing a lot more often and massaging his right ear with one hand, as if it hurt. Then he suddenly stopped and started muttering under his breath, his fingers moving in a rhythmic motion, like he was strumming an invisible guitar.
Alfred laughed mockingly, hoping to catch Arthur's attention. "What are you saying, Iggy?" he blurted. "You look so weird doing that!"
The rest of the nations could care less about the meeting; they were up and about, milling around the room and chatting with each other. For the most part, they paid little attention to Alfred.
Arthur raised his head, blinking. "Doing what?"
It was already four and not a single British insult from him, a whole new record. Alfred managed to stammer out, "U-uh, nothing. Never mind."
Francis wrapped his arms around the Brit's shoulders and blew on Arthur's ear, but he hardly noticed. Alfred felt something inside him twitch as he slammed the table with his palms. "What are you doing, England? Francis is going to—"
The man glowered at Alfred as he wriggled in Francis's embrace, obviously irritated by now. "Will you be quiet, America? I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"But—"
He scowled, nearly oblivious to Francis. "Do be quiet, America, and go bother someone else."
And Arthur went right back to playing his imaginary guitar with Francis hanging off of him like a leech. Alfred glared and gathered his papers, promptly exiting the room then, his face flushed with envy. But he wasn't going to leave things like this; he was definitely going to get to the bottom of this, because there is no way he was going to let the Frenchman touch his Arthur like—
No! He was simply concerned for England, that was all…
And his so-called brilliant idea was to keep track of Arthur's every move, which proved to be a monotonous activity, given that the Brit did not seem to go anywhere of interest to Alfred. He just went to the meetings, visited the library and stayed there for quite some time, and then back home at nine in the evening. Five days of spying brought him this much information (along with knowing the fact that Arthur literally wore wool vests almost everyday) and Alfred was disappointed.
Then came Saturday. Alfred was ready to give up at this point; he'd been loitering outside Arthur's office for at least three hours now, and it was already nine, the sky dark and a cold wind blowing right in his face. He kicked a pebble on the ground aimlessly and was about to leave when the front door opened and Arthur, wearing all black with a fedora covering his face, stepped out carrying a guitar case.
Alfred had to scramble to hide behind a tree, but Arthur didn't notice, apparently too intent on wherever he was going. Keeping his head low, Arthur shuffled down the street and turned a block, disappearing into the night.
Shit! The American jumped up and dashed after him, following Arthur past restaurants and bookstores and apartments to a brick building, the entrance guarded by two men and filled with giggly girls with thick makeup in loose t-shirts and tight jeans, complete with stiletto heels, waiting in line with their punk rocker boyfriends. Alfred recognized this place—it was the downtown club that he'd heard the teenagers crowing about (it wasn't like he was eavesdropping when he was in the café, he just happened to hear them). A few of these girls called out to Arthur suggestively, but he kept his head low and showed the bodyguard a card, granting him immediate access.
Alfred found it weird that girls would call out to Arthur, the most reclusive person he knew. He had to get into that building and see what Arthur was up to in such a place. After all, the only places he knew Arthur to frequent were bookstores and libraries. Gliding to the entrance of the club as nonchalantly as possible, he slipped one of the bodyguards a thick stack of cash, earning a hesitant nod. Alfred pushed through the doors, ignoring the furious people waiting in line.
It was a nightclub, the music blasting into Alfred's ears and blinding neon lights flashing everywhere as soon as he entered. A group of young women, moving wildly along to the beat, instantly grabbed Alfred onto the dance floor and began crowding around him and dancing. What could he do? It hadn't been a minute yet and he'd already lost sight of Arthur. But then the music faded and a voice from the speakers shouted, "Arthur Kirkland!"
The crowd responded with an enthusiastic yell, waving and jumping as they surged forward to the stage, bringing Alfred along in the process. And when Alfred steadied himself, he did not see Arthur Kirkland on the stage.
Instead, the one who the speakers announced as "Arthur Kirkland" was a young man with messy blond hair highlighted with red and green, multiple earrings and piercings lined on the shell of his ear, wearing tight black leather pants and a ripped white shirt dotted with paint and sprayed with graffiti. The only things that identified him as England were his eyebrows, and even then he appeared extremely alluring.
Alfred's eyes widened as Arthur deftly caught an electric guitar thrown at him, slinging it on his shoulders and playing it with a practiced hand. He made a small gesture to the other people on the stage to begin, throwing the crowd a seductive smirk that probably would've attracted a million Francis from every shady corner of the world.
He leaned towards the microphone as the people below started to dance again, and Alfred was once again squished between the current of dancers and to the very front. The girl who pulled him in from before reached out and pulled his hoodie up, laughing at Alfred's distress, but the man was absolutely mesmerized by the Brit, most of all the words that he was belting out.
Arthur did not seem to recognize Alfred in the sea of partygoers. He closed his eyes as he held the microphone; he hadn't performed since the punk era went out of style, but he could not refuse the lead singer when she asked him to be her substitute. She'd met him in a café, saying that she'd caught a bad cough, and Arthur, being the gentleman he was, could not say no, but inside he thought the lyrics he was singing embarrassing, and he was extremely glad Alfred did not know where he was.
"I don't have to worry, have to worry whether or not you would love me
If I just started packing, started packing, baby, weight on my body,
'Cause you are the American dream man,
Your love is stronger than your need for unrealistic demands,
That's not the end of his good deeds."
Alfred blinked again. This was Arthur? Arthur was supposed to be that boring old "gentleman" who drank tea all day, not this sexy punk rocker—No, not sexy! What was he thinking? But he soon found himself raising his arms to Arthur along with the crowd, reaching to touch him, to catch him—
Arthur's lashes lowered as he gazed at the crowd, hand stretched out to a sea of eager dancers. By mere luck and chance, he grasped Alfred's hand among the many reaching out and pulled him up to the stage, abandoning his guitar and pressing his back to the surprised American. Alfred's overly large hoodie concealed his face rather well, since Arthur still did not recognize him as he sang to him, his head resting in the crook of Alfred's neck.
"He always smells good, like they all should
Keeps his clothes folded up in a drawer,
Comes up behind me, kisses my neck as he starts sweeping the floor, because
He is the ultimate clean man.
Come one, come all and feast your eyes on this here dying breed man.
Hands in your pockets, 'cause this one's mine."
The crowd screeched in delight as Arthur wrapped himself around Alfred, the green-eyed man amused at the "stranger's" reaction. He was moving so awkwardly…then again, so was this song, especially with him singing it. And a certain someone kept popping up in his mind, too...
"And did I forget to mention that he instinctively knows just where to be focusing energies,
Ladies, if you know what I mean.
Shall we raise up our glasses,
Here's to all my dreams come true in the form of an American man!"
Just to humor the audience, Arthur pulled the other man's hoodie back and was about to plant a kiss on his cheek when he was greeted by a red-faced Alfred, smiling at him nervously. And in that moment, Arthur thought his heart would pop out from his mouth. But he couldn't stop, he had to finish the song. Signaling to the other band members, he skipped a couple of lines and went straight to the ending, pushing Alfred away roughly in the process and returning to his microphone.
"I-if you know what I mean, shall we raise up our glasses
Here's to what my friends refer to as a 'bonus'
We're talking brains over brawn and his shoulders are plenty wide enough to lean on, and upstairs, he's got it going on!
After all, he is the American dream man, he is the ultimate clean man
He is the American dream man."
Arthur wetted his lips, suddenly self-conscious of his clothes and the nonsense he was spouting and Alfred standing behind him, watching him dance and sing and oh, this was a disaster. He wanted to crawl in a hole and rot there.
He sucked in a deep breath and smiled at the audience, his face feeling hot and knowing that Alfred would never let him live it down if he heard this. But the audience was expectant, and he promised to not let the girl down, and he'd been bloody muttering this during the meetings to actually remember the lyrics…
"Here's to all my dreams come true
In the form of an American man!"
Arthur did not stay to throw himself on the screaming crowd, as he'd originally planned to. He didn't dare to look at Alfred as he picked up his guitar and excused himself hastily, his whole body trembling and feeling lightheaded.
"England!"
Arthur stared down at the sidewalk as he sped away from the nightclub, his guitar case feeling heavier than it ought to. "Stop following me!"
Alfred darted in front of him and blocked the man. "No! England, listen to me—"
He raised his eyebrows and laughed, his voice sounding hysterical, even to him. "I've just had the most embarrassing night of my life. Now then, America, let me go home because all I'm wearing is this ridiculous t-shirt and I forgot to take my jacket because of you!"
The American sighed in exasperation, having no intention to move out of the way. He held his cheeks and made Arthur look up at him; his eyes were red as he scowled at Alfred. "Look, I'm sorry if I ruined your show—"
"It's not my show!" he shrieked, shocking himself when he realized how shrill his voice was. "I was only stepping in for the lead singer. She was sick and—"
"I liked your song."
The blond's frown fell, his mouth gaping open in an O-shape. "I-I didn't pick the song—"
Alfred beamed at him, bringing Arthur into a hug. "Are my shoulders wide enough for you to lean on?"
To hell with the song, Arthur thought, the lyrics hitting him like a bomb. "You stupid git." But he allowed Alfred to hold him, burying his face into the American's jacket.
"So am I your American dream man?" Alfred asks, meaning for it to be a joke and hoping the Brit would not punch his lights out.
But it had been a long day for Arthur, after all. If he had been willing to humor the crowd with his getup and actions, he could humor Alfred. "Yes," he said, his voice muffled. "You are."
And Alfred patted his lover's hair, smiling to himself.