Disclaimer: Hetalia doesn't belong to me. I swear.

A/N: This fic was based off of a novel I had read a while ago and once I can remember the title, I will post it. I promise. XD

P.S. Sorry if they're a little OOC. I just kept thinking of the characters that were in the novel.

Anyways, sorry 'bout the rant! Hope you enjoy!

The streets of Manhattan were slick with downpour, gutters greedily chugging down the filthy water as the midnight clouds flashed light incessantly just as the paparazzi that crowded around a homely coffee shop nestled between 3rd and 5th avenue did. Alfred Jones stumbled out of the bistro, only ten had been trailing him during daylight, but now there were more than twenty, pursuing him like raging hounds, cameras unsheathed, pearly teeth threatening him, ready to swallow him whole.

The flashes overwhelmed him. They began shouting over one another, asking questions to the hazy actor, their sentences mingling together, words running until the last click of their tongues signaled their defeat. One roared a question at his earlobe. "How do you feel about your fiancé cheating on you with another man?" The blood rushed from his heart to his head. He nervously smiled to no avail then allowed a frown to take its place. The bulbs fired around him and finally he shielded his navy eyes from the heat swimming around him.

The cameras caught him, stealing his murmurs and the hand over his eyes, ready to publicize his misery in every tabloid, the headlines of an actor who lost everything. The smell clogged his nose-musk, rain, black coffee. A heel landed unceremoniously on his foot, a hand pressed against his back. They were way too close for comfort.

Arthur Kirkland cocked an eyebrow at the nasty scene before him. He had just exited a restaurant next door when he noticed a meshed group of people stretching their hands, cameras locked. He paused from his vantage point upon the stairs. He hadn't seen Alfred Jones for many years. To say that the American had not appeared on television would be a lie, just that his maid would hurriedly switch the channel when blue eyes popped on the screen. Bitter feelings crawled up his throat in the form of bile.

The shutterbugs hadn't spotted him for they were too busy shoving lens into the other man's face. He wasn't on their radar these days, not that he minded at that moment however. Four years ago, he emerged from a sit-com called Parting Ways. Now a long-ended show, people still watched reruns of the famous daytime television drama. No one had forgotten it, especially when it came to World's favorite jock, Alex Cooper, in real life known as Alfred Jones.

His mouth twisted sourly as he gazed down at the man. Arthur hadn't gained any popularity throughout the show, and he was the second lead, Scott Fields! Popularity was always your strong suit Alex; he could hear Scott echo in his mind.To say the least, appearing on-screen with Alfred Jones meant that you would most likely not become any more famous than you had been in High School.

Suddenly, things began to turn ugly. Two reporters were now elbowing each other, trying desperately to remain front. They pulled and tugged at each other, feet scraping the ground, eyes locked in a silent duel. "Ah! Look out!" Then they bumped into a certain actor.

He teetered dangerously then pummeled and fell back on his butt, his coffee now drenched over him and the two arguing reporters. Then he noticed a man who stood thirty feet away, an amused smirk played on his lips. Shit. Arthur-fucking-Kirkland. He was humiliated, cheeks stained cherry red. He pleaded for his co-star to help him with puppy eyes. The other man just gazed at him wide-eyed, before scrunching up his thick wiry eyebrows. Alfred knew already that the B-rated actor wouldn't help him, but he still gave an effort. Finally, with a dangerous glare and a huff, Alfred forced his way through the hot bulbs and sweaty paparazzi.

One friend would help him through his troubles and maybe even put an end to this scandal.

-^J^-

Alfred Jones wished desperately that he could rip his hair out; yet as he tried he realized that his amber locks wouldn't appreciate it, and decided bitterly to dig his nails into the steering wheel of his vehicle. A few years back, he was the perky-faced teenager of a hit show. Now, however, he was nothing more than a gay horny teen's wall poster to jerk off to. Even when his fiancé's affair was plastered on every magazine cover and radio station, Alfred had grinned sheepishly and continued shooting photographs for the public. He had remained sane. Yet now today, his anger welled up in his insides and he had been close to snapping, which included the smashing of lens and swelling of noses. And, of all people, Arthur Kirkland had been there. He had witnessed the falter in his easy smile, something that he had not even wanted the closest of relatives to notice.

He had seen Arthur years ago, before they appeared in the same sit-com, chatting up some broad with blonde locks and instantly he felt a dislike towards him. No-not because of the damn whore hanging off him, but simply for the fact that he acted so damn high and mighty. Stupid B-rated actors.

He smacked a hand against his steering wheel, horn blaring to signal the cross walker in front of him to speed up. She glared at him before dragging her kids away from the view of his windshield. Alfred was unconsciously driving to the Bronx to meet up with his longtime friend, Francis Bonnefoy. Francis was indescribable; his golden hair was always tied with a thick red ribbon, face showing sparkling cerulean eyes that shouted lust. He wore flashy clothes, sometimes with, dare he think it, frills.

He shuddered when he thought of his last Christmas party. Trying desperately to sponge his innocent mind, he plucked his keys out of the ignition and pocketed them before slamming his car door shut. Regardless of his odd moments, Alfred hadn't seen him in some years and was mildly grateful to see that lecherous grin again. He tapped his knuckles on the wood of the door and stood patiently. He heard a few murmured clicks of the locks before it swung open to reveal a slightly disheveled French man.

"Get In here." Francis responded half-heartedly, unsure whether to smile at the unexpected surprise or frown at his unfinished 'business' in his bedroom. Alfred gratefully stumbled in, sighing as the secure air enveloped him. "I'll have you know the hero has been very stressed lately." Francis sighed in agreement, for he had been watching the news the past weeks. He immediately poured frothy soda into a wine glass, being that was all he had washed at the moment, and handed it over to the snorting American. "By the end of the day, the news will have 'Alfred F. Jones raped by erotica novelist Francis Bonnefoy', spreading the nation. You better hope they didn't follow you." Alfred snickered and watched as his friend scurried off, murmuring something along the lines of, 'I just have to clean up my bedroom, I'll be right back.'

Still confused as to why his friend had a reason to clean his bedroom, he glanced at himself in the mirror. He didn't look distraught, per say, just really worn out. Large black pupils and deep blue irises stared back at him. He had golden skin and grain-colored hair that sat flat minus the stubborn hair near his forehead, which perked out wistfully. "Dude," he said to himself, "you look like shit. 'Specially your clothes." He glanced down at his muscular build and found that he still donned a coal-black casual suit that he had been forced to wear. Damn to those commercials about looking 'right' for all the right reasons.

Francis returned shortly after to scrub his hands clean. He motioned for the puzzled American to follow him before clicking his TV off and strutting lazily outside onto the wooden platform that hung over the gurgling sea. "I heard about your fiancé." Alfred grew stiff, the skin of his knuckles stretched and white. "Y-yeah?" He couldn't keep the stutter out of his voice, even if he tried. "Yes. Alfred, you need to show these gossip queens that you can feel l'amour. Why not find someone to offset this depression your heart is going through?" Alfred shot a heated glare at him that said, 'This is real life, you damn horny novelist'. Francis snickered and wrapped a thin arm around his friend's shoulders. "Don't worry. I know how awkward you get around new women. It's understandable. But you need a new woman!" Francis cooed, now lightly squeezing his shoulder.

"Dude, are you hitting on me? I'm getting the creeps." Alfred half-heartedly smacked at his hand and shoved it off. "Oh, woe is me, you have caught my advances." Alfred grinned wildly and stepped away from him, knowing that if he did not blatantly deny the French man offers, he would be attacked without mercy. In only a way the French can. He added in his thoughts.

Francis snagged their cups up and retreated to his backdoor to put them away. Alfred relaxed and allowed his thoughts to carry him away. He choked back a cough. Him and Ally York (His ex-girlfriend and former fiancé) had been the ideal couple, a hero and heroine. She had been the Mary Jane to his Spiderman or the Catwoman to his Batman. They could have fought crime together in sleek black suits and marveled over the simplicity of Joker's schemes. "But," Alfred whispered to himself, "I don't wanna Catwoman, I want a Robin." He stretched his jaw and yawned, ruffling his feathery hair. Ally had left him, cheated on him, for some secretive man in his forties. The thought disgusted him, but soon he decided that she wasn't worth his time anyways. All of the Catwoman's were going to leave him, he expected that, which is why he yearned for someone as trusty as Robin, a side-kick who will never leave his side.

Ally had told the media that Alfred was 'too busy getting drunk with his buddies' to take time out of his day to care for her. When the journalists had asked him for a response he left with a mere, 'She's a grown woman and can take care of herself if need be.' Easy to say that that wasn't the correct thing to say at that moment and ever since Alfred and his fiancé had been playing rumor tag.

"Le bar is officially open." Alfred whirled around and took the frosty margarita from him, even though he promised himself he would never drink a woman's drink. Francis set his beverage on the off-white patio table and smirked at the tumbling waves. "We finished Love Again. Didn't even hit the theaters, can you believe that?" He couldn't afford another box-office failure and unconsciously he sipped at the alcohol. "Boss is really upset about the vacation I'm takin'. I tried to tell him with my awesome heroic voice that I'd be back soon but he didn't buy it." Francis sank into the plush velvet chair and his smooth French accent played in the wind. "Mister Vargas? (A/N: Romano/ South Italy) Yeah, he's quite ze character, barking an order at everyone iz quite humorous, non?" Alfred beamed and craned his neck to the side, humming in agreement. "Hear any good gossip lately?" He asked, for he knew the rant that his friend would babble on would send him into a fury of giggles. "My novel iz getting more dramatic. Next time I write about two men fighting over a woman only to fall in love, remind me zat zeir arguing will only strain my nerves."

"I wonder if I could find 'The One'. Then I can stop this crazy fiasco with my ex-girlfriend." Alfred pondered, now chugging his icy margarita down greedily. "Well," Francis responded, "I'm not going to marry you." "Same goes for me." A light horrifyingly familiar British accent drawled behind him, "I'd rather ban bitter from my house." Alfred's face contorted into pure fury, his forehead wrinkled and eyes once baby blue became cloudy grey. "Oh, hey dude, what're you doing here? It's been a few years." Alfred had maintained a relatively friendly atmosphere with all those outside of his immediate family, and he wasn't going to start now with the bitterness. "If you are wondering if I was eavesdropping," He paused, "I wasn't. Merely stopping by to greet my new neighbor." What a liar .Alfred thought, how stupid does this guy think I am? Francis started chatting up Arthur, who was dismissing him with a glare.

Alfred knew he didn't like Arthur, yet he didn't know why he felt a need to grate on the other's nerves. It's not his looks. Alfred gazed at British man through narrowed eyes. He really wasn't that attractive, with bushy eyebrows that swallowed up his forehead, sharp green eyes flecked with gold, and unkempt sandy blonde hair that begged desperately for a comb. And his outfits are gay. A forest green vest and brown slacks. B-O-R-I-N-G. And he doesn't even have a good personality. Arthur was known for always having a deep frown on his face, which perfectly complimented his eyebrows for all the wrong reasons. He isn't biased, he treated everyone like shit. Dammit. I hate him but he's cute looking-America grimaced at his thought-in that drowned cat you pity because it's so ugly way.

He needed to get out of here. He glanced over at the glass panes of the sliding doors, yet the small shred of pride forced his feet to stay planted. Trying to ignore the small steps of feet coming closer to him, he gazed over the private beach; photographers wouldn't come to this beach, right? He turned around from the ledge when he heard a slow pronounced statement ring in his ear. "Wha-?"

"I heard about your wife." Arthur clipped each syllable. "Fiancé, dummy," Alfred corrected, before choosing to ignore him. "You both looked so-content at the last outing. I'm guessing-She couldn't handle a bloke like you?" Alfred knew not to react to his taunting, or he would continue. "You know, in Parting Ways, that git of a director wanted our characters to fall in love because of something that happened one time in their pasts. Good thing they pulled the plug on that idea, or else we would have to shag one another every fucking episode, not sure I could stand you snapping me in two." After months of torture, Alfred had enough of the shit everyone insisted on throwing at him, and replied bitterly, "You would probably enjoy it, every second of it." Arthur grimaced, obviously not expecting the sharp reply he was given. "Alfred, ignore him," Francis chimed in, "Just go relax in my-study, do not go in ze bedroom, understood?" Alfred raised an eyebrow, then shrugged his shoulders and sauntered back into the house.

-^J^-

By the time Alfred reached the small city of Newark, near the border of Canada, he was stiff and achy. He ignored the hushed clicks of cameras behind the hedges on the road and swiveled into a cobble driveway that curled into a homely ranch nestled between masses of trees, hidden from view by the road. He had been kicked out of his former apartment, Courtesy of his lovely former fiancé, he added bitterly in his thoughts, and now was stuck in a rental home with low roofs and wooden beds adorned by red plaid comforters.

After lugging his bags into the wooden cabin, he swung open a bedroom window and whipped out his cellphone to check his voicemails.

"Alfred-san, I know you're hav-"

Delete

"Yo! Alfred, don't listen to those bitchy unawesome-"

Delete

"Mi amigo, are you well? Whoosh, I saw the tele-"

Delete

Alfred loved his friends dearly; however he knew that a hero didn't accept sympathy. After all, the hero was the one to cradle the newborn orphan in his arms and gaze somberly at it, not the man who had just gotten laser-beamed.

"Alfred," his mother's breathy voice echoed through the phone, "I need to speak with you. Call me as soon as possible, okay?" Alfred didn't speak much to his mother these days, after the scandal he had hardly recognized that he even had her support. "I saw a photograph-" He deleted the message and leafed through the others until he made it to a name he recognized all too well. "Alfred, I'm sorry about the photograph and I," she began, "I didn't mean to leave you. I know that it was wrong and I'm so sorry, Alfred please-," she begged. He listened to her message from beginning to end, sniffing up his anger and sadness. Not even Ally could act out such sadness; she truly wanted to be forgiven. Alfred however, could care less about her well-being as he had stated many times before. The one thing he wanted more than anything else was-revenge.

"Would a hero do something like that? Protect his pride?" He questioned to himself, plopping his butt on the bed and absently rubbing his fingers over the blonde stubble that had formed over his chin. "Fuck, I dunno." He slurred, slamming his back to the mattress wearily, "Damn, I could use some sleep." He forced out softly, his eyes blinking rapidly before succumbing to a welcoming darkness.

-^J^-

The next day Alfred sat serenely in a tearoom, his eyes half-massed and fingers smoothing out his unmanageable locks. He was waiting for his surprise date to show up, one that he begrudgingly agreed to, if only that agreement being because Francis forced him. He faintly noticed the cream of the walls and the red tablecloths as he swirled his milky coffee with his finger. He popped said finger into his mouth, testing the heat of his coffee, then began to sip at it thoughtfully. The plan was simple. The tabloids would find him with a smart, attractive woman and start a rumor of a 'budding love'. He would be seen as a single man enjoying his single life, accompanied with many pictures of many women and himself. Afterwards, everyone would forget the little fiasco of him losing his goods. He grinned when he saw the reporters inconspicuously lined up on the other side of the bustling street, gazing at store windows or hiding behind newspapers. How stupid do they think I am?

Ten minutes ticked by. He dressed exactly for the occasion with dark slacks and a cloudy gray shirt with rolled up sleeves. He wore clumpy black boots and had sunglasses perched on his head. This casual demeanor was perfect for him, not overbearingly simple but not too much Hollywood.

Another three minutes. Tino spotted him and waved cheerfully. Alfred waved back, equally enthusiastic. Four years earlier, during the second season of Parting Ways, Tino had been a lowly assistant, but now he was head of the Finnish Studios and was one of the most powerful men in the show business. He knew Tino wouldn't make fun of him; however it was slightly un-manly of him to sit there without a woman to accompany him.

Alfred pretended not to notice the curious eyes that kept glancing his way, but he'd started to get upset. It had been another twenty minutes of being a lonely man at a tearoom, which soon would equal to a public shunning, that he flipped open his cell from under the tablecloth and skimmed his messages. What the hell? No text?

Across the patio, a group of giggling red-eared women gathered for lunch. The girls were famous for being yaoi writers. Alfred had never known exactly what yaoi was, but often he was offered a role to appear in a movie of that sort. Their leader suddenly hopped out of her chair and glided over to Alfred, who by now could only act preoccupied.

"Hi. I'm Elizaveta! (A/N: Hungary) I write manga for a living." She clasped her hands in front of her and smiled warmly at him. "I just wanted to say that I loved you in Parting Ways, Alex Cooper was definitely every woman's dream. Too bad they chose not to include the romance between him and Scott Fields, I would have loved that!" Alfred cringed, she was a kind girl, but the way her sharp green eyes sparked at that thought scared him. "Uh-huh. I agree." She nodded wildly and hastily invited him to eat lunch with them. "Seeing as how you are sitting alone," she added with a wink. He quickly composed himself. "I'm good. The chick couldn't decide what to wear, so she's runnin' a bit late. At least she cares," he lied, fingering his silver watch in nervousness. "Maybe you need a-," she started, holding out the last letter for him to answer. "Robin? Yeah, I know I do." She grinned from ear-to-ear, obviously understanding something he had yet to comprehend. "Hm, I see. Ta-ta for now, Alfred." She waved and hurried back to her seat.

"Why is it the weirdos who always hang around me?" he murmured into the palm of his hand. He had yet to see his date, and seeing as how there were many woman (and men) that would kill to be eating lunch with him, he had yet to understand why this particular woman hadn't arrived. Alfred's server popped up around that time. "Would you like anything else, Mister Alfred?" Why do people always call me that? It makes me feel old, he whined in his head. "Uh," he stammered, "another coffee, please." The server disappeared back into the kitchen. Alfred twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. He couldn't put it off. He needed to pretend to get a phone call.

Alfred scrolled through his phone and began booming a ringtone. Then, after a few seconds, gradually lifted the cell to his ear and began having a conversation with himself. "How's it going, dude? Yeah I'm good. No problem. What? She had an accident, oh my goodness. Is she okay?" He spent a few minutes talking loudly through his shell of a mobile, when he felt a sudden surge of electricity shoot through his veins and his spine shiver. He looked up and froze. Arthur Kirkland had just entered the tearoom.

Read and review, please! I love reviews, they just make me so *Cue crying* happy!