Author's Notes:

Ok, here's another one-shot because I'm getting too lazy to update my other story. I have situational writer's block, if that make sense? I can write this stuff but can't think up anything for my other story. *sigh*

And of course, thanks goes to my wonderful beta, LupinandHarry! Such a big help with all my stuff!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this because it's all I have right now. :(

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia

Alfred can't help but crack up every time he sees pictures of Arthur from the 1960's through the 1980's. They're hard to find. The paranoid Briton keeps them under lock and key in his house. Lock and key!

Even that can't stop the curious nation.

Sure, those years had been crazy in America but England must have been on something insane during that time.

Nothing beats seeing Arthur in leather pants, piercings in almost any patch of free skin, and hair all colors of the rainbow.

If he had pictures like this of himself he would have them on display. Alfred thinks it's important to learn to laugh at yourself. Plus, anyone who came over to his house would get a laugh out of it too.

So, here he is. In Arthur's attic. Looking at photo albums. If Arthur really hates the pictures he should have burned them. Just about anyone can pick a lock these days.

He stares at the pages and pages of ridiculous outfits, hamburger in one hand, album resting on his lap. He's so engrossed he doesn't even hear the door slamming downstairs or the angry mutterings of the Englishman who had just arrived home. He doesn't notice the soft, classical music that has been put on either.

One particular picture, Arthur in pants so tight it's a wonder he could get them on (or off for that matter), makes Alfred bust out laughing, rather loudly. And of course, the pants are bright red.

'I bet he still wears them under his normal clothes because he couldn't get them off'

he thinks.

Alfred makes a mental note to look into this (somehow) as he finishes off his hamburger.

Then he notices the silence. It's quiet. Too quiet. Just like a scary movie where the victim realizes the murderer is in the house with them. He's the hero though, he can't be the victim. Then again, some movies have the hero and the victim as the same person.

He tries to convince himself he is still the hero. Caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't detect the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs until they are too close.

Alfred tucks himself into the darkest corner of the attic; a few spiders don't bother a hero. He ducks as low as he can, hoping not to be seen. He can just barely see the door as it opens to reveal Arthur, who looks rather annoyed.

'You can't see me. You can't see me. You can't see me'

Alfred thinks these thoughts toward Arthur, hoping his mind control powers will finally activate (after all, what's a hero without his mind control powers?).

Unfortunately, it doesn't work. Arthur stares around for a couple seconds before spotting Nantucket sticking up between a few boxes near the more shadowy corner of his attic.

"ALFRED! GET OUT OF MY BLOODY ATTIC! You aren't allowed up here. What are you doing?"

Realization dawns on Arthur. Alfred flinches as he continues.

"ARE THOSE MY PHOTO ALBUMS! WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT THOSE?"

Alfred is panicking a little. Maybe if he plays dead it'll go away.

Then it comes to him.

Carefully (and quietly) Alfred slides the album between a couple of boxes and the runs his hands through his hair, making it uncombed and tousled. He then begins his act.

Timidly, he stands up, using the skills of all the actors from his country to bring tears to his eyes. The American puts on his best fearful expression and faces Arthur.

The gentleman stares at the usually smiling face of the proud nation in alarm.

"Alfred? Are you crying?" concern fills his voice, "Don't cry. I wasn't…I didn't…It came out wrong. I didn't mean to yell. Are you feeling all right? You don't normally cry"

'Here comes the hard part' Alfred thinks.

He focuses on softening his voice and responds.

"Oh, England, I'm sorry. I—" pause for a rather loud sniffle "—I was over visiting France when he started flirting with me too much. I got s-s-sc-scared so I thought I would be safe hiding up here." More sniffles and a wipe of the eyes, done clumsily with both hands, like a child would (he's such a good actor, he is going to get out of this, no doubt).

"What? You were visiting France? And you were scared? America, are you sure you're not sick? Did your stock market crash again?"

And now the real kicker:

"Wha-what? I-I-I'm not America."

"Oh, right. Of course you're not. How silly of me. You're…er…just a minute…I know it… Who are you again?"

"C-C-Ca-Canada."

"Oh" confusion was evident on his face as he continued. "Well, you're free to stay here, lad. That wine crazed frog needs to learn some boundaries."

"Th-thanks. Now that I think about it, I told Alfred I would be home in a couple hours, so I should probably go."

He comes out from behind the boxes that were blocking most of his body. He just about at the door to the stairs when England stops him.

"Canada," Crap. That sounded sarcastic, "what in the world are you wearing?"

Alfred looks down, examining his attire. He doesn't see anything wrong with it.

T-shirt under grey sweatshirt. Normal? Check

Worn sneakers. Normal? Check.

Baggy jeans with belt through them. Normal? Check.

Jeans almost falling of his butt, revealing checkered boxers. Normal? Maybe not.

'Dang it! I was so close!'

America bounds down the stairs, not even bothering to keep up the act.

"Well, you know. Times are changing! Haha!" he hollers as he races toward the door.

"ALFRED F. JONES! GET YOUR BADLY CLOTHED SELF BACK HERE! DON'T RUN WHEN I'M TRYING TO CATCH YOU!" Arthur screams.

America bolts through the door and doesn't stop running. He looks over his shoulder to see Arthur running after him but he's too slow. Alfred laughs at his luck and doesn't look back.

Two Weeks Later:

Alfred can't help himself and is back in Arthur's attic. The photo album was still where he had hidden it.

He spends a couple hours up there with a large supply of hamburgers as well as drinks. The pictures are just as funny as they always are.

Then he hears it.

It's not footsteps. It's not classical music.

Rock.

He hears rock music. This peaks his curiosity. Quietly he opens the attic door and tip toes down the stairs. They squeak but can't be heard over the blaring music. He would have never guessed Arthur still listened to this kind of music.

The lyrics begin, blasting into his ears along with Arthur's voice as he sings along.

"When I get high, I get high on speed. Top fuel funny cars. A drug for me. My heart, my heart, kickstart my heart"

"Wha-what! Did he just say get high on speed! I knew he was on something!'

Alfred dares himself to look around the corner and can't believe his eyes.

Arthur.

Arthur in tight leather pants.

Arthur in tight, red, leather pants.

Arthur in the tight, red, leather pants.

And he doesn't even notice Alfred standing there. He's really into his air guitar and singing. His hair is spiked in all directions and there is dark make up around his eyes. Only one thing comes to the American's mind at this point.

Blackmail.

He whips out his phone and starts taking pictures, thankful that the music is loud enough to drown out the sound of the fake camera clicks.

As the song ends, Arthur turns. Alfred sees the anger in his face through the screen on his phone and is sure the look of pure delight on his face is very clear on his own. He takes one last picture before scrambling toward the door, a smug smile on his face.

Arthur stands at the door, too embarrassed to follow.

He marvels at how fitting the song that is now playing is.

'It's the same ole, Same ole situation. It's the same ole, same ole ball and chain'

AN: So…review please? If not, go read my other stories and review those.

I'm desperate for feedback, if you can't tell. XP