Disclaimer: I would love it if Himaruya decided to appear on my door at my birthday with the copyright to Hetalia as a gift. It hasn't happened yet.

Warning: Minor characters' death, Anti-comunism sentiment, slight racism, slight homophobe talks, bad grammar until the beta'd version is out, etc.

A/N: This is one of those cases where I would go: WHAT AM I DOING WRITING THIS UP. I haven't visited the States before, haven't gone to NY, has little to no knowledge about America in the fifties, and have a strong urge to procrastinate that usually stops me from writing on-going fics. Yes, I have never completed a single ongoing fic throughout my life. I just hope that this one would work. I actually love the plot, after all. The rating may go up, but I can never guess since I have never completed a real smut scene before. I tend to stop at the foreplay bit. Anyway, thanks a lot for themadnavigator who's the beta to this story. I'm going to replace this with the beta'd version later.

I would have liked to start this story with a 'once upon a time', except that it would not fit at all. This story is not one in the slightest. I can, after all, remember the date very, very clearly. The third of March 1953. 3-3-3. I've always known that the number three is very special. It is a magical number after all. 'In a place far, far away' is not very accurate either, however neat it may sounds. New York, the United States of America is not very far from here. At least I don't think so.

To start a story is very hard indeed, and I have put hours of deep thought, all for the perfect first sentence; the start of the end. The first sentences are very important after all. It determines the process the characters in said story will go through, just like the birth of a man. Oh, they will all die. But the start will determine a good portion of their said deaths, won't it? Back to the topic, I, very proudly may I add, have finally decided on the start which I dearly hope is correct.

A long time ago, there lived three strapping young men in a small, lovely house in New York. The house was painted with bright white and merry yellow, white picket fences protecting the colourful roses inside their small, yet beautiful yard which the eldest took great care upon. But there were not always the three of them in the house. Once, there were four, then three, then two. And exactly at the fourth of April 1954, there were three again.

But all of it started at the third of March, 1953. The triple three.

There were only two people in the small, lovely house.

To be frank, Arthur can't remember the exact story either. It felt like centuries ago, like it belongs in a different world entirely. But the number 'three' rings like warning bells inside his head. Again and again, echoes, filling the empty space. The first date that was written on the research notes for one of his books, about an American soldier who went to a war and should have died there ('should have', because in the end Arthur did not have the heart to kill the golden boy after all), screams importance to Arthur. Pulsing, shimmering on the moth-eaten pages of tens of years worth of time.

He remembered his German editor, a few weeks from then. It was when his other work, 'Serendipity', hit the bookstores. The tenth of February.

He remembered going into the publishing company like he has done quite frequently. He also remembered being led by the meak Italian assistant of his editor even though he surely did not need any help finding the man's office. He opened the fine wooden door, and there he found the man sat behind his desk. Hands folded on the desk and eyes trained on him as if he has long expected him to come from that door. "Good morning, sir Kirkland." Said the burly man, still as polite as ever. He must have offered him a seat, and a cup of tea, because the next thing Arthur remembered, he was already sitting on the leather couch in his editor's office, the Italian secretary bringing him a cup of steaming tea with a shaky smile. Ludwig, his editor, also congratulated him for his book somewhere in the conversation, although he can never be sure where exactly.

Ludwig's icy blue eyes were firm, staring deep into Arthur's emerald ones, making the British man uneasy throughout the conversation. He remembered the air to still be cool and pleasant remembering the time of the year, but the fan on the wall behind the man was turned on. The fan whirred and whirred, and Arthur found the perpetual sound to be almost irritating. It must have been a Tuesday or a Thursday, he noted, because the tea that he sipped was Darjeeling instead of Earl Grey or Mint.

He did not take any notes during their conversation, so Arthur is now clueless as to how exactly their conversation went. He regrets never paying real attention to what the other man says. Ludwig asked him to write a book, that is for sure. A book about war, he said at that time. About an American soldier who went to the war and died protecting his country. He remembered scoffing and asking the man why he wanted him to write such a book. The man starred deep into his eyes, even harder than he already had been since the start of their conversation. Ludwig has always been like this since their first meeting, and Arthur found himself to be wondering why on earth that this man chose the literature business to be his career. He could pass as such a brilliant, menacing soldier. Arthur still remembers his answer. Still do and probably to the grave.

"I'm German, sir Kirkland, and you know that our American friends are not so kind to us after the Great War, more so after the second. No matter how sorry I am for the cruelty my country had projected, I can't say much for I will always love my home country. Just as much as you love your England. But that does not mean that I harbour any kind of hatred towards this country, sir. Just as the rest of the people who seeks protection and shelter under the great eagle's wings, I too, have learned to love this country as much as fellow Americans. I want people to know that. I'm still German by heart, but my home is here."

The next morning the editor and his assistant were found dead with bullet wounds on their heads.

But that Friday, Ludwig's albino brother Gilbert who was a very rude and uncouth man of twenty-seven, rung Arthur up. His little brother Peter had picked up the phone and gave it to him with a muttered 'jerk Arthur'. West had contacted a soldier who just went home from the war, the albino man said. And before Arthur managed to ask him who 'West' was, he continued on. "He said his name is Alfred, or something, which really sucks since that name is nowhere as awesome as Gilbert. He's an aviator who just came home from the war. The awesome me can't remember which war it is, but it must not be awesome enough for me to remember. More point of unawesomeness. An explosion or something ruined his eyesight, so he got sent home. Ha! Lame."

And that was when Arthur remembered Ludwig and his book. Apparently Ludwig had arranged a meeting for him and the aviator at a cafe in Manhattan, near the aviator's flat. Arthur screamed at Peter for his notebook and a pen, which was answered with a "Why should I, jerk?" and the desired notebook and pen. He wrote down the address. Now the words on the piece of paper are ruined with age and tears, and Arthur can't recognize the writings anymore. But he used to glance at the address again and again as he watched the space where his golden boy fell asleep by his side. He asked the German man (Prussian, the albino man corrected him somewhere along their phone call. Germany is not as awesome) of what he would do now that Ludwig isn't there. The other man paused for the first time in their conversation.

"I will move back home."

And he cut the line.

Tuesday. The third of March 1953 was a Tuesday. Of that, he was sure. The 'Brown Coffee' only serves scones at Tuesday, and that was what Arthur ordered. He remembered waiting for a very long time, sitting there while listening to the record of a Bebop song which title he can never remember for the life of him. As a gentleman, he had arrived at their meeting place fifteen minutes earlier than their scheduled meeting, but the man was nearly an hour late. He regretted not bringing Peter along.

Someone stood in front of him. And as he lifted his head to see what it is that blocked the sunlight, he was greeted by the bluest eyes under thick glasses and the widest grin he has ever seen. The man's cheeks were chubby and red, tanned skin glistening under a thin layer of sweat. The slight pants in his breath were evidence that he had been running to this place. "Hey, mate! You're that writer guy, ain't cha? M'name's Alfred F Jones, at your service!"

The thick southern accent and grammar-butchering annoyed Arthur. Most of all, though, he was irritated at the American's obnoxious choice of clothing: a bomber jacket over a simple white shirt. But he then remembered that this bloke here was actually helping him without any sort of payment. 'Just order him some damned doughnuts and a mug of coffee.', he remembered Gilbert said. So he cleared his throat and motioned for the American to sit in front of him, of which the sunny blonde eagerly complied. Arthur offered his hand for a shake, and he smiled politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones. My name is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The American stared at him without blinking for a few seconds, and it worried Arthur if there was something wrong with what he said. It was his turn to stare at the other man unblinking when he suddenly threw his head back in a laugh. The blue-eyed man's laughter shook the room in its strength, resulting in quite a lot of pairs of eyes to be directed to their seat. After his laughter died down, he grabbed the British man's outstretched hand in a deathly grip. "No need to be so uptight, man! Just Alfred's okay. Just loosen up, won't cha?" he winked at Arthur.

Arthur coughed, willing the angry blush on his cheeks away. "Yes, yes, quite. But it would be more easy for me to 'loosen up' if we know each other more, won't I? Now, if you don't mind, tell me about yourself, Mr. Jones." He said as he made a gesture at the waiter to bring him the menu. The man grinned widely, the dim light from the cafe's lamps reflected on his shiny white row of teeth.

"Ya see, I came from Dallas, Texas. When my mom was young, she…"

Alfred came from Dallas, Texas. His mom was a local, daughter of a farmer on the outskirts of town. His father was a traveller, visiting various places at the states after he got kicked out by his dad for some 'family problems'. Long story short, he set eyes on the shy southern girl and hung up his travel boots permanently. Alfred was born and raised there from the fourth of July 1931 to the eighteenth of June 1948. He went away to sign up for a role in the army, he said. He has always dreamed of joining the air-forces. His family were farmers, and they got hit very badly from the Great Depression. Living life in poverty, his parents has always taught him to enjoy what he had. They had little money, so one morning in 1939 his father left his family to join the army for 21$ a month to never set foot onto their porch ever again. A Japanese submarine, 1941, brought down their ship and his father with it. Arthur (and he is ashamed of admitting this) suddenly had an image of a captain, shouting "I will go down with this ship!" as his wooden ship sinks down into the cold, murky seawater.

When he left, a part of his mother went away with him; and when he died, that part died with him too. It got so bad that after his father died at war, he and his brother Matthew were practically the ones who ran the farm, even when they were both just 10 years old. The American said out the name of his brother in such fashion, that it seemed as if he just remembered that his brother even existed. How someone could forgot about his own (twin) brother until so far into the story was beyond Arthur.

It was when Alfred was in the middle of a story about how a bull once chased him around the farm because he forgot and put on a red shirt for work, that a couple of men sat on the table beside the two, distracting him. He glanced at the group of men in worker's uniforms for a fraction of seconds before he redirected his gaze to an old, battered watch on his wrist, and clicked his tounge in disappointment.

"Seems I've got no time left, Artie! Gotta go now! It's nice meeting ya." His blue eyes were filled with genuine apology, and Arthur smiled politely at him and shook his hand. The American's hand was rough and caloused from years of hard work, and he found himself believing the man's story so far. "It was nice talking to you, Mr. Jones." He offered a small smile. The other man flashed him that wide-grin of his that he has been showing off since the last three hours. "Hey, I kinda heard 'bout this neat place in the island that got great seafood and sandwich and the like. What d'you say 'bout goin' there next time? Saturday, next week, eleven?"

Arthur thought of the offer for a bit. His neighbours are usually staying at their home at Saturdays―hopefully they won't change their plans next week, and he supposed he could ask them to watch an eye on Peter. He gave another polite smile and nodded in acceptance. The man grinned at him again, say something alongside of 'Great! See ya!' and ran out of the cafe. The American kept flailing his arms around, waving a rather obnoxious goodbye even as he raced down the street. Arthur kept his polite, strained smile intact. It was only after the other has disappeared from his sight for a few good seconds that he let go of a small sigh. The man gave him a good view of what kind of a story he would later write, but he strayed off-topic too often for his liking. Talking to the man was like talking to a child. Even Peter was not this hard.

"Hey, what are you reading?"

Arthur looked at the group of men sitting beside him, and one of them was indeed holding a newspaper. The men must have just came home from work, he thought. Then again, he has not been told about what the American is doing now that he has gone out of the forces. He supposed that could make an interesting topic for their next meeting."Nothing. Some German guy shot himself at his apartment. Apparently the chap's brother just died a few days ago or something like that."

The tea in Arthur's teacup was bitter and cold. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth as he sipped it for the last time.

I would appreciate it if any reader who lives in NY or know anything about NY in the fifties (good cafes, restaurants, great singers, streets, what kind of people live in these places, slangs, popular songs, foods served at restaurants and probably the waiter's uniforms, etc, etc. Anything, really) are willing to inform me about it. It would help a lot with the writing. Oh, and please do tell me about Dallas, Texas if you know anything about it too. There are things that sites like Wikipedia and such can't explain about cities.

I've finished chapter two, and chapter three is nearly finished. And yet I posted the first one just recently, why is that? Ask FFn and why the hell it hates me so much.

RnR?