A/N: I don't own Hetalia
Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland
Alfred F. Jones was walking down the street, looking for some sort of shelter. He didn't have any food, or water for a matter of fact... but you know, he wasn't doing too bad. He knew he would find something eventually. He may have been lonely, scared, and hungry, but he was alive. That's all that mattered.
He stepped into an abandoned gas station, looking around. The lights were dim, like they were about to go out. Rubble filled the room, and a fallen tree made a hole in the side. Alfred smiled to himself, thinking, home. Because this was his home. For now, anyway. He walked in furthur, moving away some of the asphalt and rubble, looking around for some left over food, or anything. What he found... wasn't what he thought would be there.
Lying in the mess, was a man bundled up in a blanket, looking up at him with tired, bloodshot eyes. He made a small noise that sounded like a choked sob, and he rolled over onto his stomach, shoving his face in the ground.
Alfred panicked slightly, carefully turning him back over. The man did not struggle. He just stayed still, staring at Alfred. Bottles of alcohol surrounded him, but his eyes were sober. He was shaking horribly. Alfred patted the dust from the man's matted blond hair, and looked into his dull green eyes. Those eyes, those eyes might have been stunning if they weren't so dead, so hopeless.
"Hey... are you okay?"
The man didn't say anything for a moment, then tears tumbled down his cheeks, and he was blushing in shame. "No I'm not!" he mumbled angrily, but the anger wasn't pointed toward Alfred, it was pointed to himself.
Alfred pulled him a bit further out of the rubble. "I can help you... I'm Alfred F. Jones. I'm a hero."
The British man looked at him blankly for a few seconds, before coughing and holding out his hand shakily. "Arthur Kirkland."