Author's Note: This is late. Very late. I wanted to have this out in time for Valentine's Day, but I'm a lazy piece of work...so I didn't have it out in time. So sorry. ;_;

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Hetalia: the characters, the names, the story, etc. Nothing is mine. I don't own history either. I will own England, though. Stay tuned for my hostile takeover of their tea supply. Enjoy!

It wasn't as if England did this regularly for his boyfriend, honest. His compliance wasn't due to any sort of girlish pleasure at the prospect that America would sweep him off his feet and straight into the romantic fantasies England never dared speak of. He wasn't even sure what he was ultimately trying to accomplish by doing this: "acting more feminine than usual" the git would probably say, trying to impress his boyfriend by acting like a girl when said boyfriend was in a homosexual relationship to begin with.

And frankly…eyebrow mascara? The Brit could hardly comprehend what went on in Kate's mind, particularly when she found it necessary to give him romantic advice. Though, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself...he probably needed all the help he could get. England had never been the country of romance – that had always been France's forte. He'd much rather spend the upcoming Valentine's Day indoors with his lover, perhaps engaging in a bit of silent reading before retiring to the bedroom for some much needed coitus. Unfortunately the lad was a hopeless romantic at heart, no matter how many times he denied it, and so England knew from experience that he would be treated to something either extremely sappy or extremely over-the-top. You could never really tell with America, and England supposed…somewhere deep down…that the spontaneity factored into why he loved the younger nation so bloody much.

That being said, he presumed the only reason he was standing here right now…in front of the bathroom mirror…applicator in hand…grim expectations ever present in his mind…was because he was currently carrying a very distressing amount of guilt for his inability to treat America as any normal person would treat their lover on a day like this. America probably expected chocolates, flowers, clichéd love-making, etc. And while they had been together for decades now without a failed Valentine's Day despite England's misgivings, he knew the lad was probably disappointed even if he wouldn't show it.

"You're all I need, baby," America would always smile softly, gently ruffling England's hair. Then the older man would sputter and blush in a way he knew America found adorable, and then the common bickering would start-up again.

"Do I look like a toddler to you? Don't call me baby."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

"My heart is not sweet, you pretentious, egocentric…"

England would never admit that he actually liked the pet names. To be perfectly honest, he liked everything America did for him. Sometimes the lad would try reading Shakespeare in a failed attempt at being romantic, but it never failed to put a smile on England's face. Sometimes he'd purposefully use a cologne he hated simply because England liked it. There were many mornings he'd make a very large breakfast for the two of them, some even consisting of British specialties. Granted, America could have been avoiding having England cook, though England preferred to ignore that little epiphany.

When all was said and done, England knew he wanted to do something for his boy. As cliché as it was, England desperately wanted America to want him. He wanted to put effort into his appearance…to give America a bit of eye candy…to leave his comfort zone and treat his lover to a new side of him. Why that was only possible through feminine beauty products, England had no idea. His eyebrows were already thick enough, and yet America had always expressed his adoration of them during very private moments.

Besides,England reasoned, they bring out my eyes.

It was currently the middle of the night and England was shuffling through America's bathroom. He had bought the mascara in secret earlier that day, and while America had pushed and pushed to know what the Brit had purchased, the former Empire had concealed it flawlessly. He unwrapped the tiny tube and studied it, grimacing slightly.

Honestly, the things he did for love.

Sparing one last glance into the darkness to be sure the American was still fast asleep, England finally decided he had stalled long enough. It was only eyebrow makeup, after all. It wasn't as if he was going to put on lipstick and eyeliner as well.

He huffed and glanced once more at the mirror before unscrewing the top of the tube and pulling the brush out slowly, brows furrowing at the sticky gel. He was really doing this. He closed his eyes at first, but ended up opening them again out of fear. His wrist flicked twice, running the tip against his left brow in a quick test run. He studied himself, turning his face to examine his work from every possible angle, and continued when he was satisfied with the result. It certainly made his brows look fuller, and there was a bubble of excitement in his chest that someone, hopefully America, would notice the effort he was putting into his appearance. He tried it again with the right brow, and then returned to the left brow to add even more gel. Before he even realized what had happened the bottle was nearly dry and his eyebrow game was on point, if he did say so himself. Winking at himself, England tossed the bottle into the trash bin and proceeded to bed.

England snuck into bed behind America, who was snoring quite loudly, and gripped at his form from behind, shifting and pulling at the warm body until he was finally comfortable. Arm draped across America's waist, face buried in his golden locks, and excitement bubbling in his chest for the morning, England fell into a welcomed slumber.

He woke up the next morning before America, which was unsurprising considering the git had been up for hours the night before playing video games. England had been too excited to sleep. He yawned and stretched, a happy smile spreading across his face as he gazed at his lover's sleeping form. America's arm was twisted over his head, one leg sticking out from under the covers, and his mouth opened only slightly with a nice trail of drool running down his chin. Such a lovely fool. England leaned down to plant a soft kiss on his forehead before forcing himself up and into the bathroom to examine how well the makeup lasted. It looked decent enough, especially after a good night's sleep, but it was still lacking in some respects. England thanked his lucky stars that he had purchased an extra bottle.

After dressing his eyebrows once more, England sauntered into America's kitchen. The fool had broken his last electric tea kettle, and so England was forced to rummage through various cabinets until he found a suitable pot. He flipped the dial on the stove, a gas stove, and watched the flame rise…then die just as quickly as it started. He scowled, leaning forward and flipping the dial back and forth frantically.

"I want my bloody tea. Stupid fecking stov-," he began, but was cut off by an audible click. He paused, staring down at the burner, and then promptly leaped back in surprise as a cloud of heat exploded all over his face. "Shit!" he screamed, hands flying to his face in panic. He clawed and scrambled around the kitchen, yelping like an excited pup, before finally stopping in the middle of the room to catch his breath. In. Out. In. Out.

"What the fuck is going on?" America screeched, galloping into the kitchen at an impressive pace – and completely in the nude. England didn't have time to blush; his face was still buried in his hands. He groaned. America in the mean-time looked back and forth from England to his stove. "…did you accidentally drink my coffee?" England didn't move. "Hey," America cooed, approaching his unresponsive lover. "England?"

England took a deep breath, stood there a moment longer, and finally released his face. He didn't look at America, he was too focused on the wafting smell of burning hair, but in his peripheral vision he saw the younger nation's hands fly to his own face. England knew his eyebrows were probably smeared, not to mention any damage that came from the flames. He wasn't surprised if America was shocked, even disturbed perhaps. He was surprised, however, when he heard tiny giggles coming from America's direction.

"What are you laughing at?" England mumbled. He could still feel the heat on his face.

"I-I," the American gasped and choked behind his hands. "I'm so sorry, bro!" he broke then, falling to his knees in unconcealed guffaws. "God, I-I barely even recognize you! Haha!"

"What…" England started, hands flying back to his face. "What are you talking about? Do you not like my makeup?" He couldn't help but feel upset. He had worked hard on his eyebrows.

"What makeup?"

"My eyebrow makeup, you asshat! I only did it for you."

"Dude, your eyebrows are, like, gone."

The Brit stared at him for a moment, a long moment. His eye twitched a little, and he was obviously trying to process the mere fact that he no longer had eyebrows. He didn't run to the bathroom, didn't immediately grab for a mirror or a reflective item, rather he just stood there in stunned silence. It only took a few moments for America to reason that his boyfriend was completely dead inside, and that was when England finally reacted. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, and then opened it again all the while making various whines and choking sounds.

"…wha…wha- I don't…huh?" he whispered, eyes glancing upward nervously as his fingers felt for any surviving hairs.

"Well, I guess there's still a little hair there. Still, you've got, like, a ton of room up there now. You could sell that as advertising space, dude!"

Indeed there was a few lines of leftover brow hair, but the uneven patches made it obvious that England's new look was entirely accidental rather than purposeful grooming. England, meanwhile, was speechless. America stood there, having gotten past the initial humor that was England without his trademark brows, and waited for the oncoming string of profanities and misguided anger. Still, moments came and went and that anger never came. Instead, England began to stare off worriedly into space, and America saw the slightest trace of tears in his eyes.

Oh shit.

"England?" he gaped, "Are you crying?"

"N-No," he sniffled, dragging a sleeve across his face. He obviously was crying, though his pride would never allow him to admit it. "I'm – hiccup – I'm fucking pissed."

"At me?" America questioned in a small voice.

"No," England shook his head. "No, at myself. I should've – sniffle – should've known that I'd fuck everything up today."

"What are you talking about? Yeah, you look a bit different, but your eyebrows will grow back. I mean, I still have a lot of things planne-,"

"No," England snapped, glancing to the side irritably. "I'm not going outside like this. You can't make me. That stupid fucking eyebrow mascara-,"

"Wait, what? You were using eyebrow mascara? Why?" America looked as though he was on the verge of breaking into laughter once more, though he quickly swallowed the first laugh when he saw the ferocious glare England was giving him.

England sighed, his cheeks tinted red from tears and embarrassment. "I wanted to impress you. I don't know, I have no clue why I thought doing my eyebrows would somehow…make me more attractive, or…" he trailed off. He was too bloody emotional to talk about these kinds of things. America wasn't looking at him though, his eyes were fixed on the stove.

"Wait…" he mumbled, finally piecing things together. "Did you try to use my stove without letting the eyebrow gel dry first?"

"It…it was supposed to dry?" The Brit, as humiliating as it was, was honestly unaware of this.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, that gel is fucking flammable, dude."

England wanted to smack himself in the face. No, scratch that. He wanted to shut himself away in the bedroom and never come out. No, scratch that again. He wanted to catch the next flight home, naturally while wearing a bag over his head, and practice severe isolationism for the next two-hundred years…or however long it took to grow his eyebrows back. This is what he got. This was his punishment for not reading the fucking labels.

America sighed, momentarily pulling England out of his self-loathing. Still, the younger nation was smiling, if only in exasperation. Maybe they could still have a happy Valentine's Day after all.

"Look, sweetheart, I know you're embarrassed but you have no reason to be. You don't look too different-,"

"You were laughing earlier…"

"- and besides, all you really need to impress is me," America waggled his brows. "And you do that every night." The blush in England's cheeks flared up again, and he pushed at America's shoulder playfully. Still, a very small and crooked smile appeared on his face.

"And you're certain being with a brow-less Brit won't…embarrass you? I fear my own embarrassment may ruin the evening as it is."

"Nah, I've dealt with worse from you." England's face faded back into his usual scowl.

"Right."

"I mean, remember the nurse outfit?"
"America," England growled, "Don't push it."

America laughed, wrapping an arm around England's shoulder and guiding him out of the kitchen and towards the door. England allowed himself to be led, but his hesitancy to follow America was duly noted.

"Not pushing," America forced the largest, happiest grin he could muster.

"Come on England, loosen up a bit. Today's gonna be great!"