Here's a story idea I've had rolling around in my skull for quite a while; do let me know how it turned out. If you care about triggerz, here's your disclaimer: coarse language, violence, transphobia, substance and sexual abuse, and... well, Prussia is in it, so expect the usual craziness associated with him. Quite obviously, I do not own Hetalia. Also, regarding the specifics of SRS: I have been vague, but there is still little accuracy in my representation of the process. And, last but not least, thanks for your eyeballs!

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ARTHUR

Sometimes I feel like I could be dead for a century and I'd still be completely exhausted.

Tonight, the largest blight on my existence is this party. Are they even called parties anymore? Last year they were parties, the year before they were called socials, and I think the year before that they were get-togethers. Who knows what they've come up with this year. As with the clothes, the decor, the food, language goes in and out of style. Fortunately, as the only Brit among thirty-odd American businessmen, I'm considered exotic. The things that come out of my mouth are simply amusement; nothing to put any serious thought into. Just something for the wives to comment about on the way home. My, doesn't Mr. Jones have an odd way of speaking? A good thing he spoke slowly, or I'd have difficulty understanding the poor man!

No, scratch the last bit. They wouldn't take pity on me. And for good reason.

On the surface, my life is a joyful one. A young, disowned Brit moved back to the Colonies, only to meet a bright, handsome American man fresh out of university. My white knight, rescuing me from whatever hideous mistakes I would have made if I stayed in that "hole-in-the-wall" pub. He took me home like I was a stray mutt, which I suppose I was. Cleaned me up, fed me until my ribs weren't so painfully visible, and accompanied me to AA until, on the anniversary of our relationship's drunken origin, he proposed to me with a band of pure gold. My name was engraved on the ring, as well: Arthur in elegant cursive.

Shame, I told him, that it doesn't have your address and phone number on, in case I run away.

He slipped the promise ring onto my finger and smiled that gorgeous smile. You'll never run away. You're a good boy.

Oh, yes. I'm a good boy. Trained to sit, stay when Alfred has business abroad. Heel when we go out in public. And when the bowtied waitstaff walk by with champagne flutes on silver trays, the bubbling alcohol so close I can just taste it?

"Hey," Alfred says, gently grasping my wrist as I reach for a glass. He's smiling, but his brow is furrowed. Everyone has to smile here. The mouths stay the same. The eyes are what to watch.

"I was getting it for you," I say, letting my tone be convincingly defensive. "Simply trying to be polite to my tosser of a husband."

You'd think he would get cross at me for this, for mouthing off. But I know he won't, and he doesn't; he smiles fondly at me and touches my chin with his thumb. His eyes, the blue of a summer sky, hold nothing but adoration in them.

"You're so cute when you're mad," Alfred says, low enough that passersby can't easily hear the flirtation. It's not entirely appropriate, especially since some of the silver-haired businessmen are quietly homophobic.

"I think you mean angry," I say, raising my eyebrows at him. "Mad means insane."

Behind us, the pianist starts a slow song, and couples begin to gather in the area cleared for dancing. I wonder what they do, whatever idly rich pair owns this McMansion, when this dandy lot isn't clustered in it. Does it feel as empty as the grand house Alfred's parents bought us as a ludicrous wedding present?

"Well," Alfred says, taking my hands in his warm, strong ones, "I am crazy about you."

I roll my eyes like he expects, and reluctantly let him drag me onto the formal crowd's version of a dancefloor. Even this, acting as I have always acted around Alfred, makes me feel so tired. It's not because of the night air pressed close to the bay windows, either. I've been playing this part all my life. Only now, now that I've found someone who loves me because of it, do I feel trapped in the personality I've created.

It was so much easier before, when I could just be a bastard and get drunk and be even more of a bastard. It was so much easier when people hated me, and I could say into my glass of Guinness, I agree with you.

But Alfred Jones loves me because I take the piss out of him, because I'm a mountain to climb, a lion for him to tame. He loves me because I'm an inside joke, and only he knows it. Because we speak in code. You wanker means I love you. Bloody Yank is you're so sexy. And sod off, of course, translates to make love to me right now.

Alfred smiles down at me as we embrace in our slowdance, blue eyes twinkling. His lips brush my temple as he murmurs, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

This isn't true. He's the best thing for me, my miracle. But how could I ever compare to the privilege Alfred was born into? What makes me any better than the other lovers he's brought home to his parents?

It's heartbreaking, and it's exhausting, that he can be so happy while I feel so empty. Even now, as his hands hold my waist and mine his broad shoulders, as he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, as we slowly rotate on this shining polished floor beneath golden, diamond-dangling chandeliers . . .

"I love you," Alfred whispers.

. . . I'm just playing a part.

But I owe it to him. So I rest my face against his neck, blocking his view of the dead look in my eyes, and I tell him what he wants to hear.

"Wanker."