Excuse the piss-poor summary before you clicked this story as it is meant to be eye-catching and all. However, and as you can probably already tell: I'm terrible at them. In any case, the story will make up for everything, I promise.

*Note that I made Sealand slightly older in this story. He's originally 12 years old in the anime, but I bumped his age up to about 15 or so.

Pairing: England x Sealand (UKSL)

Genre: mid-core shonen-ai /Yaoi

POV: Sealand, first-person

Disclaimer: I do not own anything here except for the plot.

Slight warning: Explicit British swears, watch out.

Have fun reading.


He's drunk again like when he tried tricking America into drinking himself silly. It didn't work and it isn't working currently.

We sat together side-by-side with our knees chafing against the wall below the red oak counter holding our half-empty drinks. The gentleman slumped over my shoulder, moaning loudly about his personal issues as his fingers trailed clumsily over the ridges on his glass filled with his favorite drink waiting to be finished. My hands awkwardly tapped my cup full of a liquid that wasn't even decided upon by me: it was this shitfaced English barmpot that treated me to a beverage I am not meant to enjoy at my age. Sheepishly however, I complied and the bartender has yet to caw my arse out of his pub. I like to think that he saw me as an older gent like Britain over here – all pissed out using the worst parts of the English language. To me, it sounded more like his national anthem in drunken slurs and cracks. Shyly, I took another sip from my glass while avoiding a disturbance upon England.

Unfortunately, he reacted anyway by lifting his cumbersome head away from my shoulder and immediately wondering what time it was. I murmur the hour and he gawked at me critically as if I told him the world was round instead of flat. He pressed his throat for words, only to simply give up the matter, draining the remaining contents, slamming the butt of his cup onto the counter and screaming for another serving. Right then, I wanted to be the hero and impede his next drink's arrival – he is the one meant to be driving us back home, so why not speak up? Although this may be true to a fault since Britain's already sloshed out of hell into the next life. But I know he hates the aftermath. I always wondered why he goes out for a drink, aware of the consequences, yet he says it will only be two or three cups. Instead, he gets full of himself, competing against no one until he's…well, this. A man not able to tackle the hardships of alcohol by a single shot of vodka while aware of the overbearing hangovers is a man of courage and bravery. With this example, I'm a little afraid myself if I can manage the rest of my cup which I hardly drew my lips to. It was far too bitter against my tongue.

I noticed Britain downing the other half of his drink, tipping his head back and disapproving of his motions. When he returned his dejected slouch over the counter, his soulless green eyes snaked back at me, staring like a portrait. His lips curled in for a second until he finally opened his mouth, flaring his crooked teeth

"S-S-Sealand," He heinously addressed me as if I was all-important, yet in drunken slurs, ruining the proper mood "Yo-o-ou have… reall-ay goht to finish t-that… scrumptious dr-r-ink: it's-s good for you."

I stared through him at that point. Why should I listen to a man who is not aware of his own surroundings or even himself? I politely shook my head with the smallest smile I could hold. Behind my lips, I felt disgusting. Britain frowned at my response.

"Y-You're a growing lad, Sealand," Surprisingly, his words were clear while the gent leaned closer toward me, a serious tone crossing his sloppy features. "Finishing a g-…good hardy drink means you've grown to that of a man."

My polite smiles reoccur as I nod my head like agreeing on nothing more than the weather. Somehow, Britain caught onto this. He pointed the tip of his middle finger at me.

"Oi you plonk-ar: d-d…don't act like eets not impo-or-ant. You're a m-man auft-ah all. Live like a king."

The useless piss-artist took the cup between my twiddling fingers and shifted it toward my face, and almost smacking it into my nose. Quickly on a safe thought, I grabbed the glass away as if I'd saved my life, not wanting to take the implied offer. The Brit simply smiled shoddily and harshly clapped his hand onto my back, my face lunging into the counter. I lifted my head immediately, holding my nose, but England went crazy.

"Oh Gordon Bennett what have I done? Do tell me you're alright, Sealand." I hastily fanned him off politely as soon as his fingers grazed my white shirt.

"Please, don't bother with me." With discretion, I said quietly and went to stand up, tired of this nonsense. As I was about to take my leave, however, something yanked at my shirt and I stumbled backwards, crashing into the stool I had made warm. As soon as I reabsorbed my surroundings, immediately I noticed Britain's poignant stench of alcohol and an odd mix of tea. Stronger than usual, I realized just how close I was to my potential death.

"Wh-air do you think yo-r going, young man?" I could almost hear his critical frown as I carefully nudged my chin up to see Britain's stern yet forlorn face staring right back at me. Honestly, I was a little intimidated at the view.

"We're meant to be-y celebr-ait-ang yo-r manhood. Don't just scurry off."

"I want to go home." I stated firmly, clear and decisive. I didn't care to watch a not-so English gentleman grow deeper into a pit of sober failure.

"I won't let you wiff that attitude."

"You're not my brother to any further extent," I explained while slipping off the Brit's lap (or at least it felt like his lap after I realized the seat was too warm to be the stool) to make my leave, tired of all of this. "You can't rule me anymore than you can America."

"Well I con aund I will, you little anklebite-ar." Next thing I knew my forearms were pinned to the counter within a tight grip. I wince at the sudden shock and fearfully glance up at Britain's now dominating aura; quickly predicting the worst possible scenario out of this.

"Iggy that hurts." I pouted the only thing I could possibly think of. I didn't even want to complain: I just wanted to take control of the situation and leave this foul air.

"Nothang's gunna change my mind abou—"

"Get off the lad, why doncha?" The bartender cut in whilst cleaning out a tall glass cup with a stained white cloth. "This is a bar: not a boxing ring for useless drunks."

"Piss off," Britain snapped, keeping his grip on my arms, leaving the skin a deadly white.

"Do I have to throw you out?" For some reason, Britain immediately complied: he released me from confinement and stood back, seemingly realizing his mistake. I quickly picked myself up, thanked the bartender who only nodded in return, and scurried myself out of there, taking no heed to the surrounding men barricading the way to the door littered in posters facing outward through the window.

As soon as the bitter cold nipped my nose and my booted feet stomped into the messy snow, my backside jumped by a surprise bear hug enough to kill a small animal.

"Oi Little Britain, don't run away from yor su-pear-rior. I'm drivin' you bock home, rememb-ar?" England's familiar slur-filled voice struck at my ears by lips too close for comfort.

"I'd prefer to walk home if you're going to be in this condition." I said soft-spoken and displeased, a grimace forming my lips as I tried to break free from a suffocating embrace.

"Then what would happen to my car?" It wasn't a serious question – or at least he made it sound foolish. I furrowed my brows in annoyance.

"Go fetch it in the morning for all I care: I just want to get back home no matter how I return." I piped as I began dragging my feet along the icy ground, edging my way toward home, trying to ignore the man across my shoulders the best I could. "I just don't want to die today: so there is absolutely no chance of me climbing into that vehicle with the likes of you."

"But I don't want it to get cold…" Britain moaned as his feet shuffled closely behind mine. How irritating…

"'Tis already cold, you git: hasn't the snow given you any clue as to the temperature?"

"Don't address me wiff thaut t-tone, you wank-ar. D-Don't disrespect your elders-s."

"As if you hadn't been disrespecting me this entire evening? I think it only fair."

"I've got to teach you kids somehow."

I relented from replying any further to this slob, still longing to see the morning sun. He is meant to be a kind gentleman with high morals and strict manners, yet he goes completely off the trolley when a few drinks are passed his way. He may only be a true role model when he's completely sober, it would seem… I have to admit that I enjoy his company more when he has avoided a drink.

The sidewalk paved in a blanket of white crunched beneath our boots as the piss-artist and I made our way down it, hoping to see home again soon. Finally, Britain had released me, allowing me to breathe comfortably once again; walking directly beside me as my eyes watched the passing buildings. The empty streets echoed silence until the soft stomping of the minority of pedestrians walked along the streets, searching for shelter from a grey-filled sky. It would have been considered half-peaceful if Britain were to cut himself short of his little tune. "God Save the Queen" was his choice once more. I could hardly bear it any further as he turned several notes sour or even slipped on a certain verse. I wanted to make him stop, but I knew in the end what might happen – we've been through this before.

It felt as if hours passed until the two of us finally clambered through Britain's front door, shivering violently from the bitter cold and exhausted from the long walk. Or at least I was: Britain, on the other hand, looked as if he was the one to welcome me back home from a day's travel. Once he shut the door, I shot off my shoes and coat and immediately bolted up the stairs to my old room, not wanting to be around a man who has the potential of killing me in his pissed state. Behind me I immediately heard him shouting out my name is if I had gone missing. Not desiring to be chased and captured, I leapt into my bedroom and slammed the door, easing my back against the safeties of the other side within its protection.

It did not take long before clumsy footsteps waltzed up the wooden stairwell and ended at my door, the man's fists ramping against it without hesitation. I bit my lip hard, desperately wanting the beast to leave.

"Sealand, open this door, I say." His muffled words demanded through the thin door. He couldn't possibly be serious. Why must he have the need to further meet with my presence? My blood spiked when I heard the knob rattle close to my ear. I didn't want to be this close, not even through a door. With that fearful thought, I slid up the side of the door until I was on my feet, tentative now about my choice. To hide within the comforts of my own sheets, or to endure a sleepless night on the cold floor with a drunken madman roaring behind me through a wall. With a quick selfish thought, I jumped for my little bed and bundled into its sheets, covering myself from head to toe. How comforting the softness of this mattress combined with the familiar warm scent of tea weaving through the fabrics felt.

But the door still rattled with Britain's voice booming through the cracks. He kept yelling the same thing over and over. Every word pierced into my ears until I covered them, pounding them with sheets to mute the torturous clamours.

Suddenly, it was almost as if the night had become peaceful, like it had meant to be. Yet, I couldn't find complete comfort in this; still aware of the death sentence I will have to take part in since I'm the only soul invited. My eyes squeezed painfully shut. I don't want the last thing I see to be my own blood.

My heart stopped when I felt the cool air of my room embrace me and my ears ringing at the sudden sounds of everything all at once. I didn't want to, but my eyes snapped open until I saw a brown necktie heading straight for me. It gently smacked onto my nose and immediately I was aware of everything.

The white sheets pooled across my mattress, enclosing us together like some planned sculpture. The air wafted around us, cold and unforgiving.

"P-Please, Britain," I pleaded, imminent to cry as the Englishman crawled atop of me, pinning my back to the mattress with his hands clawing into my wrists. "I'm sorry!"

"Shuddup, you wank-ar." He said in a stern, yet sloppy voice as he leaned further over me, his tie tickling my face. "You've been naughty all evening. You deserve some sort of punishment."

"No, Britain, please!" I shook my head tempestuously "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to."

"And now you've taken up lying. Has everything I taught you gone in one ear and out the other? How dreadful."

"I'm truly very sorry Britain!" I beseeched, hot tears streaming across my face. "It won't happen again! I'm sorry! Please let me go."

"You're so rude, Sealand. Can't even open up the door for me: welcome every guest that arrives at your door and pretend to smile thoughtfully." The Englishman slouched over me with a face pretending to be sober as he leaned down, thinning the space between us. I backed up fearfully into more of the mattress; the only thing I wished for now was to see the next rising sun. My face tightened with displeasure as England's necktie folded over my collar.

"And don't think I haven't been paying attention," the Brit stated dangerously, pure darkness flooding his eyes. "You like me, don't you?"

My tears stopped flowing. What did he just say? Like..? Hesitantly, I nodded my head, not entirely aware of what I was answering.

"I-I…a-admire you: Yes, sir." I curled my lips in and waited for whatever painful response England had brewing.

"How much?"

"Uh…Auh…A lot, sir. Y-You're my role model, sir." Britain edged even closer, brushing his lower half into my buckling legs. What kind of punishment was this…?

"You bloody git," The man snapped softly with half lidded eyes. "I meant it in a manner of admiration; affection, if you will."

Finally, our eyes met at his response and I almost regretted doing so. I saw England's face, stoic and almost irked, frowning deeply with an unforgiving furrow between his fluffy brows. I wanted to slip out of his grip and leave this thick atmosphere. This was just too much for me to handle.

"Now, do I have to ask again?" I drastically shook my head.

"No, no, I-" My words choked within my throat. This pressure was too great. What did Britain want? A confession? I don't understand…

"Well, if you have no desire to speak yet, I guess I'll go first," The man sighed while softening his grip on my pale wrists, about to release one of them – or so it felt. He continued to stare at me with darkened eyes, never lessening his mood.

"I…I l-love you." Three simple words and yet I could not believe them. I stared at him with a bewildered look, ignoring now our awkward position.

"And it's not something equivalent to that of a brother's love," He added, nodding his head as if he understood himself. "I feel it deeper than that. I truly love you like crumpets to tea."

I politely shook my head at this; worried that England's confession was not proper. He is drunk, he cannot think like an abstemious gent. These could be messy words that don't compensate his true feelings. I really wish he were sober…

I swallowed something thick as I realized Britain was impatiently waiting for me to share my turn. I bit into my inner cheek, knowing that whatever I say won't apply to his irrational mind. In that case, however, I could say whatever it is I wanted and I could easily get away with it. But does alcohol really erase his memory like I imagine it to? What if it doesn't and England brings up my current words in the future at some point and makes me feel terrible about them? I suppose at that circumstance, I should only feel the need to spell out the truth and my honest feelings. But it's just too embarrassing to admit!

"I-Iai…I" I choked. My blue eyes squeezed shut, added with a displeased, pouting frown. "I-Ai…"

Suddenly, something pliable and soft gently took my lips. When my eyes shocked open, Britain's shut lids were the only things I could see. His usually irked brows covering his forehead eased, yet still seemed unsettled as he pulled away, allowing only centimeters to flow between us.

I stared at him in utter astonishment. What…? I can't even concede what just happened.

"Do you return the emotion, Sealand?" England's words were soft but his rank alcoholic breath pressed against my retracting nose. I wanted to take him seriously, but his foul mouth made me think otherwise. Instead of a worded reply, I simply nodded my head truthfully, not as tempted to leave from beneath England's towering figure as I had used to. What a weird feeling this was… So new.

The last thing I saw after my unarticulated confession was Britain's approving smile before he connected his mouth onto mine once more. His lips may have been sloppy but somehow I knew they told the sober truth behind the awful stench of alcohol.

My lips refused to open even as the eager ones of England jumped all over mine. I didn't know what to do. I did not want to taste more alcohol than I had already tonight: one sip was forbidden enough as it was. Somehow, I just could not find myself to open up properly. This is Britain we're talking about here and yet I can't help but feel put off.

My mind ripped out of my thoughts the instant I felt my wrists release. Was this relief I felt or was it something else? Everything turned sour as I felt my legs jerk apart. As if the air had knocked right out of me, I snapped my attention to the Brit whom lifted his hands away from my knees, about to take them somewhere I do not think I want them to go.

"I-Iggy, w-w-what-?" I squeezed my legs together, pulling them up to my stomach, hugging them as tears renewed against my cheeks. What on earth was this man doing?

"Relax, Sealand, relax…" England cooed with a crooked smile that was neither sincere nor mad. He gently crawled back up to me, placing his hands on mine and the top of my head.

"I'm sorry: I guess I am going a little too fast." He pressed a kiss to my forehead and finally made his departure. As soon as the gentleman stepped away from the bed, I didn't know whether to feel a sudden burst of loneliness or gratitude. In a quick thought, I simply curled into a ball and fell over toward my pillow, watching the man stand over me, looking intently at me in return.

Behind my flesh, I felt disgusting. Yet in some odd way, I felt okay. My mind churned with new emotions I never knew existed. Violated and scared shitless, completely relaxed and accepting of another man's embrace…

Do I have feelings for a man who was once my elder brother? I can't find myself to answer that…

At least now, as the gentleman slipped the sheets over my quivering body, I felt relieved that I could see the next sunrise.


Thank you for reading. c: Reviews are love.