Due to popular demand (and all of those amazingly nice reviews, oh my gosh!), I have decided to go ahead and expand on this fic. =D I've planned out the story, and it's looking like there's going to be around 9 chapters, so I hope you'll be patient with me. I plan on trying to update once a week. Oh, and I can't make any guarantees about chapter length. I don't normally write chaptered fics, so I'm not sure how my pacing will be...
I'm happy with this chapter, in any case. I was listening to Alexander Rybak the entire time I was editing. He's kind of amazing. =P
This is America's ringtone: http:/ www. youtube . com /watch?v=lM7tSU2UFe0 without the spaces. =P
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Even though it was barely waxing five o'clock, the sun was already sinking low in the sky, ushering the oncoming of night. This mattered little to America, who had spent his day on the couch, huddled under at least three different blankets while he played video games, having been trapped inside by the harsh, chill, snow-filled January winds. He was surrounded by empty hamburger and candy bar wrappers, which implied that he hadn't moved from his spot on the sofa in quite some time. Tony sat next to him, a second controller in his small gray hands as he, too, focused on the television screen.
They were silent for a time, their vast concentration making the air between them tense; the only sound filling America's spacious living room being the music and sound effects from the fighting game they were currently playing, and the rapid clicking, signifying that some intense button mashing was going down between the two of them. In a matter of seconds, though, it was all over, with Tony jumping up onto the couch cushions, pumping his fist triumphantly in the air as America leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, pouting slightly, his controller still gripped loosely in his hand.
"Damn, Tony, that's the third one in a row! I just can't figure out how to do that one combo," he complained, looking vaguely put out. "I can't move my fingers fast enough…"
Tony plopped back down into his seat, done with his victory dance, and murmured something unintelligible. Despite this, America apparently understood him, because a look of understanding dawned on his face.
"Oooh, I get it!" he declared with a nod, holding his controller properly once again and looking down at his fingers, a look of concentration on his face. "You have to… pivot the thumb more…" He tried this a couple of times, trying to see how fast he could go now that he had learned this vital secret. "You up for another round?" he questioned, grinning determinedly at his alien friend. "I'm not going to lose this time, you can bet on that. The hero always wins in the end!"
Tony had just begun to nod enthusiastically when, suddenly, America's cell phone started ringing, and the sound of the old 1960's Captain America theme song began to emanate from somewhere around the sofa. The issue was, the young nation had no idea just where that was.
He started rifling around in his blankets, wrappers falling onto the floor as he fumbled around and finally answered the phone just as the theme song was about to go into its second cycle. He flipped the mobile open and brought it to his ear, not bothering to see who it was on the other line.
"Hey, America speaking!" He greeted, his voice cheerful and, quite possibly, just a little bit too loud.
"Bloody hell, you git! There's no need to shout!" Came the voice on the other line, irritated and friendly as ever.
The American just laughed, shaking his head. "Hey, Britain, what's up? Isn't it a little late for you to be calling me?" He questioned, checking his watch. It might have been just a little past five o'clock in America, but it should have been nearly ten in London by now. "Shouldn't you be, like, heading to bed or something now?"
"What? No, no," Britain scoffed, and America could just imagine him rolling his eyes. "It's still early."
"In London?" America questioned incredulously, his confusion apparent.
"No, not in London," the older nation responded, obviously beginning to grow impatient. He sighed deeply. "Listen, I was in the country today for some diplomatic meetings, and my flight back home was cancelled because of the snow—"
America cut him off again. "Wait, in the country? You mean in America? Why didn't you say so? You should have come to visit!"
"Augh, listen to me! That's what I'm trying to tell you, you wanker! I was supposed to go back to London tonight, but my plane was cancelled because of the snow! So now, I'm stranded in this bloody country, and I don't want to pay for a hotel! I was…" He hesitated now, and Alfred could imagine him shifting uncomfortably—he did that every time he got embarrassed. "I was wondering… that is… I was wondering if I could stay with you, so I wouldn't have to go to a hotel."
"Oooh, so that's what you wanted! Why didn't you say so in the first place?" America questioned, laughing, as though that would have been the simplest solution in the world.
Apparently Arthur didn't seem to feel the same way, because he sputtered angrily for a second, and Alfred could just imagine his angry, red-faced expression, which made him chuckle softly to himself. He quickly stopped laughing, though, once Britain seemed to have composed himself enough to form coherent sentences once again.
"If you would have simply shut up for a minute, you would have known that that's what I was trying to ask this entire time!" he nearly shouted, cutting himself off and taking a deep breath before continuing, willing himself to calm down and not make a scene. Always a gentleman. "In any case, is that alright?"
"Oh, yeah, that's fine," America responded quickly, trying not to sound too excited about the idea of having Britain to himself for the evening. "Need me to pick you up?"
"No, no; there's no need for that. I haven't returned my rental yet. I'll just use that."
"Alrighty. In that case, I'll see you in a bit! Ahahahaha!" And with that, the American hung up his phone, tossing it back down into the folds of his blankets with gusto.
He shifted slightly, disentangling himself from the mound of blankets that surrounded him, and got to his feet, stretching slowly. "Alright, Tony, let's get this place picked up! If we don't, we'll never hear the end of it!"
Tony began muttering under his breath while America dashed across the room. He busied himself with picking up the hamburger and candy wrappers here and there, making sure the appropriate cushions were on all of the chairs (there was a chance they had been mixed up after he had made a vast pillow fort a couple of nights ago after watching Paranormal Activity 2 with Tony) and folding the spare blankets that he wasn't currently using to hide from his bitter foe, Winter.
Alfred couldn't believe his luck. He had grown accustomed to only getting to see Britain at the various meetings and other diplomatic activities that they were forced to attend together. Of course, these occasions were generally supposed to be relatively serious, and were no place for socializing. So, even though he got to talk to Arthur for a little while before and after these events, they hadn't met in a purely social setting in a long, long time. As far as the American was concerned, they were long overdue for something like this, and as a result, he was practically bubbling with excitement. Finally, to get to see Britain for more than a few minutes at a time, to get to study his expressions from up close, to have him in his own home, sleeping just a room away from him, made America unbelievably happy.
Of course, this also made it hard for him to focus on getting the rest of his house presentable for the irritable Briton, and, after what seemed like no time flat, the cheerful ringing of the doorbell sounded throughout the house.
America dashed to the front door, blanket thrown around his shoulders like a cape, and flung it open, smiling widely at the shivering man on his doorstep.
"Hey there!" he greeted, stepping aside so that Arthur could come in. "Get in here, or your eyebrows will freeze off or something!"
Britain seemed like he was about to make some sort of snappy comeback, but he thought better of it at the last second, settling for doing as America suggested and, lifting his suitcase with a quiet grunt, stepped over the threshold into the house.
As soon as he was inside, Alfred shut the door again, blocking out the cold with a shiver. "It's like, way too cold out there," he stated, shaking his head. He blinked when he saw Arthur struggling to bring his hefty suitcase further into the entrance hall, and he dashed forward to help him. "Here, let me take that," he offered, reaching out to take the bag from the shorter nation, their fingertips brushing against each other.
All of a sudden, Britain jerked back, dropping the suitcase, which America hurriedly rushed to secure his grip on before it hit the ground.
"H-Hey! What was that all about?" America questioned, not sounding quite as annoyed as he had wanted too, his fingers tingling where, for a split second, his skin had come into contact with Britain's.
"N-Nothing!" Arthur stuttered, turning his back to Alfred and crossing his arms over his chest. Was he seeing things, or were Arthur's ears a little bit pink? "My hand just slipped," the Briton insisted, refusing to turn around. "Wh-where's the guest room?"
"S'this way," Alfred responded with a shrug, lifting the suitcase again and making his way down the hall. What the hell was that reaction just now? You'd think Britain was embarrassed or something, but he was the one who could barely stop the insane fluttering that had started in his chest.
Pushing these thoughts aside for now, America lead the way further into his house and up the stairs—all of the bedrooms were on the second floor. He stopped at the second door on the right.
"This is the guest room," he announced, pushing it open with his foot and stepping in. He stopped and set the suitcase down in the middle of the floor before turning to face Britain, who had, of course, followed him up. "My room's right next door, on the left," he added with a grin. "So I'll hear you if you snore."
"I-I bloody well do not snore!" the Briton declared, his face reddening. America only laughed in response, making his way back out of the room already.
"Well, anyway, make yourself at home and stuff!"
"Wait! Where are you going?" Arthur demanded, following the younger nation out of the room, stalking him as though his life depended on it. America thought it was amazingly cute.
"Chill out, man! I was just gonna play some more video games with Tony. I just figured out how to do this one combo move, and I wanna see if I can beat him now."
Britain blinked slowly, trying to comprehend the American's words as though he had been speaking a foreign language. Finally, he just shook his head with a huff. "In that case, do you mind if I borrow your kitchen? I haven't had anything to eat for dinner yet."
"Pssh. Do you think you can cook anything without exploding my house?" Alfred questioned, chuckling a bit to himself as the Briton bristled upon hearing his words. "More importantly, do you think that you can make anything edible? Last I checked, burned stuff isn't exactly good for you…"
"I'll have you know, I—" America cut him off before he could say anything else.
"Go for it," he invited, rolling his eyes at the completely annoyed look on Britain's face. He couldn't help but think that the way those ridiculous eyebrows pulled so dangerously close together when the older country got angry was adorable.
Britain looked like he wanted to protest and remind America of what a complete and total git he was, but he seemed to think better of it. "Where's the kitchen?" he demanded instead, hands on his hips as he gazed up at the slightly taller American. When did that happen?
"This way," Alfred instructed, once again taking the lead as he lead Arthur through his house. Back down the stairs and a couple of rooms later, they were standing in the middle of his, surprisingly clean, kitchen.
Britain took a moment to silently appraise the room, and, somehow, it seemed as though there wasn't anything in particular for him to complain about.
"Food's in the fridge, and I'm pretty sure there's stuff in the freezer, too," America stated, gesturing around the room as he spoke. "These cabinets have all the canned stuff in them, and these ones have the pots and pans and stuff. There should be clean dishes in the dishwasher. Help yourself to anything."
"Thanks," Britain responded, stepping forward to start going through America's cabinets, hoping to ascertain exactly what things the younger country had that could be used to concoct a halfway decent meal.
"If you've got everything under control…" America trailed off, pushing his glasses back up his nose. Much as he would have liked to watch the older nation putter around the kitchen, he was sure that wasn't a good idea.
"Yes, yes; you can go back to your bloody video games now," Britain responded, shooing America away impatiently.
America couldn't help but laugh a little as he backed out of the room, leaving the Briton to his work. It wasn't even five minutes later, though, when that familiar voice came filtering into the living room.
"Do you have any eggs?"
"Behind the milk on the middle shelf," America called back, running his fingers through his hair as he prepared himself to face Tony for the fourth time, determined for a win.
"What about flour?"
"Top shelf of the pantry, in the back!"
Another few minutes passed in silence.
"Have you had dinner yet?"
America bit back the insult that he had been ready to throw out there, annoyance at all of the interruptions quickly replaced by surprise.
"Do what?" He questioned, hardly daring to believe what exactly the Brit was asking.
"I said: have you had dinner yet?" Arthur repeated, appearing in the living room doorway, an apron tied around his waist (he had found it hidden in one of America's cabinets).
"A-ah…" Alfred responded slowly, not daring to believe what this might mean. "No, I haven't eaten yet…"
Britain simply nodded, not bothering to respond, and went back into the kitchen. Only silence followed.
Did this mean that Britain was going to cook for him? America felt like pinching himself. No way! As much as he complained about it now, he remembered loving all of the times Britain would cook for him when he was younger. He might not have always acted like it, but he loved the Briton's food, even if it was sometimes rather tasteless. And, in any case… sharing a meal with Arthur, it all seemed too good to be true.
Less than half an hour later, though, Britain called America in to the dining room, and there, America found the table set for two (somehow, Tony wasn't included), a skillet of battered and fried fish sitting in the middle of the table next to a baking sheet full of French fries. As far as America could tell, it was improvised fish and chips.
"I had fish?" Was all the American could think to ask as he sat at his place at the table, across from the Briton who was already loading his plate up with food.
"Apparently," was his reply, not bothering to wait for the American before digging in. America loaded his plate as well, and for the first few minutes, they ate in a silence that was only punctuated by Alfred getting up and fishing the ketchup out of the refrigerator, covering both his fish and fries in the red condiment.
Britain scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "What you really need on that is some tartar sauce."
"I don't like tartar sauce," America responded, wrinkling his nose in kind. "That stuff's gross."
Britain didn't seem willing to justify this with a response, so he hurriedly returned to his food. Silence seemed as though it was going to engulf them once again before America decided to speak up.
"It's been a long time since we've eaten together like this," he blurted before he could stop himself. It was the only thing he could think of. That, and how much he'd been missing sharing meals like this. "It's nice…"
Britain blinked, obviously caught off guard by this surprisingly thoughtful statement. After a moment, though, his expression softened, and he nodded in agreement. "Really, it has been a long time, hasn't it? Almost too long…"
America nodded as well, chomping into another piece of fish. "You used to cook for me like this all the time," he pointed out, speaking around his food. "Don't know how I didn't die."
"Don't talk with your mouth full! That's disgusting!" Britain corrected immediately, almost automatically. "And you used to actually like my cooking! What happened to that?"
"I grew up," America responded simply, realizing a second too late that this was definitely, definitely the wrong answer. Britain froze, his eyes wide, before leaning back in his seat and quietly taking a bite out of a French fry.
"Yes, I suppose you did…" he murmured, refusing to look up at America, staring stubbornly down at his plate.
Alfred bit his tongue and frowned, not sure of what to say. What could he say? The look on Arthur's face, so pathetic that it looked as though the Briton was about to cry, plainly stated that there was nothing more he could say, for the moment. He had messed up. Already.
Somehow, America realized, holding back a sigh, this was going to turn out to be a very long night.
So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. =D
Please review and tell me how I'm doing. I'm kind of worried about whether or not Britain was in character, since I don't normally write him. Did I do okay? How was the rest of it? I'd appreciate the feedback.
Thanks for reading!
MidnightxBluexBlack