Greetings, beautiful Hetalia fans~! My name is Mademoiselle K.G and I am glad that you decided to grace my humble story with your presence. This is my first Hetalia fiction although I've been a fan for quite some time now. USUK is my OTP and I'm so glad to be able to write and get my ideas out of my cluttered mind :D Now, to explain my plans for this story.

Twenty-Four will be a series of one-shots of England's failed attempts at telling America his feelings for him. It's inspired by the song "Twenty-Four" by Switchfoot. (If you haven't heard it, I recommend it! :D) So, there will be 24 chapters plus 1 epilogue~ Each chapter will take place in a different time period and some might be reversed and have America try his hand at a confession instead. I haven't made my mind up yet. As a USUK shipper, (I DON'T KNOW IF THIS IS CONSIDERED A SPOILER SO I WILL PUT A WARNING ANYWAY!) I want nothing more than for these two lovely boys to be happy so yes, this will have a happy ending for both~ (OK "SPOILER" OVER!)

Also, this fic will be rated 'M' on counts of violence, language and smut in various chapters. USUK/UKUS

-WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Some gore-y content, language and mild 'Nazi Germany' bashing. -

Ok, enough for boring Author's Notes~ ENJOY!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters~!

Darling, don't be afraid~

September 7, 1940

Screaming. So much screaming. An endless deafening ring.

The landscape of the great British Empire is forever altered, diminished to nothing but rubble and painted in red. Red and black. Blood and soot. The buzzing of Junkers and He 111's droned across the grey polluted skies, casting their intimidating shadows over the heart of all England. The merciless bombings of London were the worst of its kind.

None of the noise mattered. The dead bodies cast aside the desolate streets were all ignored by one man running; running and breathless. He had no confirmation or communication with anyone so all he was relying on was his gut instinct. The cowlick at the front of his hair bounced as his worn out boots padded against the gravel. All he could focus on was finding one person. His mentor, his brother, his friend, his lov-

The American shook his head. No time to let his thoughts get to him. His main objective right now was to find England and make sure he was safe. The search felt like a lifetime. An eternity until he found what he was both praying and dreading to find.
England.

"Arthur…" the name escaped him in a whisper.

"ARTHUR!" He ran again, his chest aching with grief as all that ran through his mind was 'Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…'

Only for a second did America doubt the identity of the person in front of him. Certainly this figure wasn't the England he knew. It wasn't because he couldn't see the blonde peeping out underneath the crusted blood and dirt matting his hair. It also wasn't the fact that he couldn't recognize the ever-prominent eyebrows that rested above his closed eyes that from memory, knew beneath those eyelids were eyes the most beautiful shade of green that he had ever seen. No, this wasn't England at all. Broken and depleted…looking so small. For the second time in his life, the mere sight of the Englishman had made him sick. His body was leaning against the wall of what used to be a building, arms lying limp at his sides and his head lolled over his left shoulder. America was scared to touch him, afraid that he would break and shatter into nothing.

"Artie...?" he called out, kneeling beside the broken body.

No response. The American's breath hitched into what would have been a sob until he heard a slight wheezing emitting from the wounded country.

'He's alive!'

Ever so carefully he inched his hands beneath the Briton, settling his weight across his arms, England's head hanging loosely over the crook of America's arm. Tears carelessly fell down the hero's face, washing his cheeks clean of grime and ash that polluted the air. He felt his heart pounding out of his chest. It was so loud, he thought that England would have heard it and woken up just to complain about all the noise he was making. A strangled cry mixed with a laugh escaped his mouth as he looked down and took a breath. Blood. There was so much blood. Too much, in fact. If Arthur were human it would have been seconds until Death took him for his own. Alfred quickly settled Arthur down on some moist dirt, removing his own shirt to roll up into a makeshift pillow to rest England's head. He had to stop the bleeding and all he had was a roll of gauze that he carried in his back pocket for emergencies.

With gentle hands, he unbuttoned England's uniform shirt slowly, his fingers dark with blood.

"Fuck…the blood is still flowing..." he gulped as he found the source of the blood.

The wound on England's chest looked like someone had tried to claw a hole through his body, the edges raw and tattered and the center a clotted bloody mess. It's a wonder his heart was still beating. Germany had attacked the heart of England that day, and everyone knows that the capital is the heart of the nation. It counts in the physical sense as well. London was England's heart. Weak and wounded but beating nonetheless.

He gulped, sending the rising bile back down his throat. His hands shook as he wrapped England's pale body with the gauze, blood still seeping through the bandages. America gritted his teeth; angry at the world. He clicked his tongue, regretting his last thought. It wasn't the world's fault that his Arthur was like this…the Hero was never supposed to blame anybody.

'Focus on Artie…' he sighed as he tied off the last of the gauze.

Kneeling, he stared at the limp body, the low rumble of bombs sounded like thunder in the background. Vision blurry with tears, he pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms furiously.

"…'Fred?"

He thought he imagined it. After all, it was so soft and weak and so NOT Arthur that he almost didn't look up to meet his half-lidded gaze.

"Ame…ri—"

"Shh..England…don't speak. You need your strength." He interrupted.

The broken country's eyes flickered down to his bandaged torso that was nearly drenched in his blood.

"Fucking…kraut…arse—" He coughed harshly into his fist, seeing some blood splattered on it after he pulled away. Arthur's eyes widened yet said nothing. He looked back to America who was just staring at him like if he was a ghost. He raised his hand shakily to cup Alfred's face.

"Alfred—"

"No, Artie." He paused to not let his voice crack again. "I'm going to take you to a hospital to get help."

Arthur shook his head lazily. "Listen to me…need…to tell you…important."

Alfred's eyes were locked onto the British man's face signaling to continue. England tried sitting himself up but he gave up as pain wracked his body.

"Alfred…look…I realize that I have treated you like a child throughout the years but I—" Cough. Wheeze. Hack. Cough.

"…I just want to tell you that I…I…" he opened and closed his mouth in failed attempts to speak.

Alfred noticed a trail of blood dripping out the corner of Arthur's mouth.

"I love you." Arthur's gaze was like stone as he watched Alfred.

America felt like crying. He wanted to embrace England into his arms and coddle him to his chest. To smooth out his ever messy hair and tell him that he loved him too. That he had loved him for so long that it nearly hurt. Instead, he just shook his head.

"England…you're in so much pain…you've lost a lot of blood…you're…you're delusional."

England furrowed his brows and took a breath, "No. I love you, Alfred. Really—"

"NO, ARTHUR! You…you're just saying that because you think you're dying! Listen to me!"

Tears were falling shamelessly as he spoke.

"You're going to pull through this! I just know you will! You are such a defiant, stubborn bastard that you don't let anyone push you down without a fight!"

Arthur's breath hitched, " No, Alfred. I love you. America, I really do love you. I have loved you…so long…"

His voice trailed off as his eyes started to roll back. America panicked and shook his shoulders.

"England? England, stay with me!"

Emerald eyes met bright sapphire for only a moment.

"Darling…don't be afraid…" He fell back into unconsciousness.

The next time he awoke, he was cold and alone in a bland and lifeless hospital room. He gritted his teeth as he felt hot angry tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Before they could fall, he caught sight of a leather bomber jacket that he could only associate with one person. It was lying across his legs atop the white bed sheets. He took it weakly into his fist and held it close.

"I do love you, America...just let me show you."
.

.

xX

AN: Junker J's and He 111's were German bomber aircraft during the Blitzkrieg of London. I chose the date to be Sept. 7th because it was the beginning of the Blitz and when the bombings were at their worst.

I'm working on the next chapter now and I'm debating whether it should have some smut or not. It will come! Just not yet~ XD Also, please pardon if these chapters don't come in chronological order in terms of year...I write them as soon as an idea pops up and fits the the theme I'm going for. I hope you enjoyed it and your feedback is greatly appreciated! I won't know unless you review~! Thanks again for reading!
-K.G