Alfred was not in a good mood. That Russian had the gall to think that he knew more about Arthur than Alfred did. Obviously, he was wrong. Alfred knew everything about his boyfriend. They'd been dating for nearly two years; how could he not?

Alfred quickly shut the door, taking a deep breath. Arthur hadn't had a real heat in years. Though it made sense that he would get one around this time, Alfred couldn't believe that it was happening today. He really should've caught on sooner.

Demons didn't love. And even if they did, Alfred wouldn't let Arthur love him. He was a stupid, annoying brat; the horrible boy King of Hell. Arthur wouldn't let himself love someone like that.

The rule is simple: "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." An expression unfitting for the beautiful and artful dance of ballet, but an expression that remains true nonetheless. Alfred and Arthur were inseparable - both in the eyes of their friends and in the eyes of the NYCB producers. They danced together for performances upon performances, pas de deux after pas de deux.

It was just by chance that both of them were assigned to the same Junior Seminar lecture. Arthur was initially excited to be able to spend more time with his boyfriend, but Alfred was becoming more and more of a distraction.

It had been years since Arthur had felt this good on account of his stupidly hard-working, stupidly oblivious husband. That wasn't to say that Alfred never pleasured him. He certainly did - the man was even too touchy at times. But apparently something had gone on at Alfred's work that day, since the Alpha came home with a palpable frustration and an itch for his mate.

England had spent the majority of her life throwing away all traces of femininity. She found that she looked lanky and awkward in most feminine clothing. But she quickly became acquainted with the worst enemy of all women: bad hair days. The relief was unlike any other when she realized she didn't have to survive the struggles of her hair alone.

Arthur couldn't help but smile and pick up his pace a little when he saw the car waiting for him. He slid into the passenger's seat and took off his sunglasses. As he turned to look at the person in the driver's seat, his heartbeat quickened: that smile always did him in.

They'd been married for about a year now – it was a required part of the coronation ceremony – but the relationship hadn't begun until last month. They were still getting to know each other as lovers.

"Stay with me forever." He didn't mean it. England knows he never means it. America doesn't know anything other than selfishness.

England waits for America to say the right words. He never will; England accepts this, and so England lies. He knows that this can't be one of his romance novels; it's his erotica. Meanwhile, America waits for England to say the right words.