Author: Leave it to me to post a not so merry USUK fic two days before Christmas. I am an overall optimistic person, really I am. Things just happened this way, I guess.

I've realized that writing for me is like pulling teeth. So please tell me if you like in order for me to commence with the pulling and produce new chapters D;

Alfred = America, Arthur = England. I will use interchangeably

Writing intimate scenes is awkward, and I don't know if I should label it "M" ._.

Summary: Grief-stricken, lovesick, and unstable, America falls to internal turmoil as his fears and regrets literally tear him into two. Can England put behind his own broken heart and broken pride in order to save his former brother from self destruction? USUK

And If You Don't Love Me

Prologue I

"Do you love me, Arthur?" A twelve year old Alfred asked, clinging tight to his brother's side.

"Of course I do. You're my brother." An innocent answer to an innocent question.

"You always say the same thing."

"It's always true."

Alfred buried his face into Arthur's white linen sleeve. "Why do you have to leave, then?"

"I…" Arthur could have said many things—war, trade, duties to the king—but instead, he settled with, "…I'm sorry. I promise to be back as soon as I can. Do your best and be strong."

Alfred nodded, averting his gaze and fighting back tears. The last thing he wanted was for Arthur to see him cry. Big boys didn't cry, and Alfred wished he was stronger for Arthur. After all, Arthur was all that mattered.

By the time Arthur returned, Alfred had sprouted like a weed. Although he was a bit on the thin side, still not fully grown into his height, he managed to peak his forehead above his brother's unruly hair, much to Arthur's initial disbelief. Alfred was awkward at first, uncertain of how to behave around Arthur. He was too mature, both physically and mentally, to be hanging on to Arthur's arm or leaning onto his shoulder like he used to in his boyhood. Nevertheless, he still had the same undeniable urge to touch Arthur, to feel his hand, his clothes, and his hair, to hold and be held.

One mild afternoon, as they lounged on the bench of the porch, Alfred rested his head on Arthur's lap and felt a hand gently threading through his hair. The autumn air was cool against his skin, a pleasant alteration from the suffocating heat of the summer, and the leaves were gradually changing hues, from deep green to various tinges of red, yellow, and brown. That was when Alfred tentatively concluded that he had always seen Arthur as someone much more than a brother. He had a crush on Arthur ever since he was eight years old, and grew to accept it ever since fifteen. Now at nineteen, he was stronger, braver, more confident, and more reckless—no longer shy in conveying just how he felt, for better or for worse.

He wondered if Arthur knew. He must have known. It was pitifully obvious how Alfred would brush his hand across Arthur's every time they passed, or how he would hang on to good-night-kisses much longer than he should. But Arthur always ignored it, brushing it off as a phase, or puberty, or anything but love. They were brothers, and nothing hurt Alfred as much as that.

"Do you love me, Arthur?" Alfred, resting his head on Arthur's lap, looked up into a pair of emerald green eyes.

"Of course I do. You're my brother." A disappointing answer to a silent plea.

"I love you too," Alfred said softly before taking Arthur's hand and bringing it to his lips, placing butterfly kisses on Arthur's fingertips.

Arthur's eyes, above him, dimmed.

It was cruel how Arthur denied Alfred in that subtle manner of his, refusing to acknowledge Alfred's feelings and yet showering him with the same brotherly affection as he always did. Alfred had placed Arthur in a tough situation, he admitted, but if Arthur had a modicum of courage and sympathy, he would not toy with him so. Alfred wondered just how long Arthur could sustain this game of pretend. False illusions fade and die, and he had to confront reality sometime.

"Can I sleep with you tonight, Arthur?"

Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing drowsiness out of his eyes. "Did you read a scary book again?"

"Yes." Alfred lied.

"That's why I told you to stop," Arthur yawned, motioning for the other to come, "You really shouldn't be scared of books anymore."

Alfred slipped under the covers, nodding solemnly.

"It's funny, you know," Arthur mused, drifting into light sleep already, "Even though you're big now, you're still a kid. You never change…"

You're wrong. Alfred stared wistfully at Arthur's unconscious face. You never change. You refuse change. I want change, and you can't ignore me forever. He hovered above Arthur, hands resting on either side of his Arthur's head. His fingers brushed pass a lock of blond hair panned out against the pillow. Lightly veiled with silvery moonlight, Arthur's pale face gave off an almost ethereal glow—unworldly, untouchable, beautiful. Alfred wondered if Arthur was really asleep.

He pressed his lips against other's, biting softly. Arthur's eyes shot wide open.

"Alfred. W-What are you doing!" Arthur pushed at Alfred's shoulders as Alfred traced his lips across the other's face in a series of wet kisses. "Stop!"

"Why?" Alfred whispered into Arthur's ear, his breath ghosting over his ear.

Arthur gasped, struggling with renewed vigor. "What do you mean why? Do you have any idea what you're doing? We're brothers! Y-You can't do this!"

"But I want to." Alfred pinned down Arthur's resisting arms by the wrists, and lowered his body on top, careful not to apply too much weight. He slid his tongue across Arthur's jaw line and down his neck. "We're not really brothers." It was not a lie; they did not share the same blood or lineage. They were not really brothers.

"I raised you!" Arthur protested, fighting against Alfred's grip. "I found you, and I raised you! Ever since that day, we're brothers!"

Alfred did not retort but bit down into Arthur's neck, leaving a mark. Arthur thrashed about violently below with little success; their strengths were evenly matched. However, when Alfred began unbuttoning Arthur's shirt, kissing from his collarbone to his chest, Arthur drew the line.

"Alfred, you insolent child! Do you have any idea how angry I am? Get off of me this instant!" Arthur shouted in his most threatening and authoritative tone and Alfred froze, giving Arthur enough time to push the younger man off. He quickly maneuvered himself to the opposite end of the bed, ready to evade and possibly assault if Alfred made another advance.

"I do not know what possessed you to do this," Arthur said dangerously, panting, "but you had no right. How dare you try to force yourself on me, of all people? I'm your brother, Alfred, and I have no intention of doing that sort of thing with you."

Arthur left the bed and stalked angrily out the door before slamming it. "Don't follow me!"

Afterwards, Alfred lay awake alone, staring blankly at the ceiling. Whatever warmth Arthur had left behind was gone. He knew he got himself into a world of trouble with this little antic, but he had no regrets. He was not Arthur's cute, innocent, little brother anymore, and he didn't want to be. He needed to be acknowledged, and neither of them could go on pretending otherwise. Alfred slept as much as he could that night, ignoring the tiny pain in his chest that panged with every heartbeat.

Alfred cautiously descended down the stairs and into the kitchen the following morning, expecting calamity. He found Arthur by the stove, struggling with breakfast.

"Good morning, Arthur," Alfred swallowed, fully prepared to confront any fury Arthur might unleash.

"Oh, good morning," Arthur said without even averting his attention from the pan and spatula, "Go sit over there. I'll be done with breakfast shortly."

Arthur placed a plate of charred and mysteriously unidentifiable foods before Alfred. Alfred had given up guessing his meals a long time ago, and simply dubbed them 'breakfast,' 'lunch,' or 'dinner' according to the time of day. He poked listlessly at his plate with his fork as Arthur made idle chit-chat, smiling.

Arthur was such a good actor, speaking with his usual calmness and articulation that even Alfred wondered, for a brief moment, if everything that happened last night were merely a dream. However, when he noticed a red bite mark bright against Arthur's neck, far too up for his shirt collar to cover, Alfred knew it was far from being one. How could he act as if nothing had happened?

Realizing the source of Alfred's distraction, Arthur covered his neck with his hand immediately. "Don't worry about it."

"You're not mad?"

"No." Arthur gave a woeful smile. "You're my brother, after all."

You can be really cruel sometimes, Arthur.

It rained that day, and rain had always been a bad omen. It had rained after the death of Julius Caesar, the death of Jesus, the death of greatness, and the death of heroes. But, this day was supposed to be a happy day. America achieved freedom and independence, no longer bound to Great Britain as a colony and finally able to gain a modicum of respect from the other nations. So why did it rain?

Alfred wondered solemnly, trying his best to suppress his regret as he towered over Arthur's defeated figure, pretending that Arthur's tears were merely rainwater. As much as Alfred wanted to kneel beside the defeated nation, to block the rain and the cold, he knew it was useless. Their bond was already severed, and Arthur would not take him back.

After the merriment and celebration settled, Alfred lay awake in his tent, bathed in the dull amber glow of candle light. The British fleet sailed off by now, and Arthur was gone. Alfred contemplated over the grim reality of never seeing Arthur again, or at least not for a very long time. He wondered if Arthur would ever forgive him. Does time really heal all wounds? If so, how long would it take to mend a broken heart? Nonetheless, Alfred needed time. He needed to emerge stronger, richer, more influential, and more respected, so that when he took Arthur's hand again, he would not be shelved as an adolescent in the midst of puberty and hormones. America would become a splendid nation, so splendid that even Arthur's pride and aloofness could not dismiss. Everything was for Arthur, Alfred decided. After all, he really loved him.

Author: Just a writing prompt to get my writing juices going. Tell me if anyone likes D;