Title: Two Birds with One Stone

Pairing: USxUK. (Alfred F. Jones/ Arthur Kirkland)

Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Two soldiers fighting the same war, only on different sides. When the redcoat saves the rebel's life, their futures soon intertwines themselves with each other. The Briton starts to think that maybe… if they get out of this war alive… they could make things work.

Rating: T, M for later chapters

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither does the American Revolutionary War. I own nothing but the plot.

Chapter Two:

The next morning wasn't a very pleasant morning- and long story short, Arthur completely disliked what was served for breakfast. "Coffee and stale bread- Meals get worse by day." Arthur had heard a potbellied man mutter under his breath, and he couldn't agree more. He would've actually ate or drank something if it were perhaps some Earl Grey tea and bread that wasn't days old and threatening to mold, but he knew that with war and all happening, they had rations, and actually being in the war, they had very little, not very delicious, rations.

His regiment was moving today, and naturally, Arthur had to fall in line with the other privates, whom were nine hundred and fifty nine strangers. Arthur glanced up at the blue sky and frowned, remembering the blond man he had encountered the day before. He hadn't stopped thinking about how the younger, taller man laughed so warmly and smiled so welcomingly. He'd also felt fear stab him hard as he thought over the scene. Should he have killed Alfred, right there and then?

His feet dragged him forward, in a march that seemed well-practiced. He felt his heart beat match the rhythm of his movements. A thump of his heart beat through his chest every hasty step he took, and another one following the previous. Arthur subconsciously started to whistle a vaguely familiar tune, and he ran his fingers along the butt of his musket. Then a gun was fired hitting the man beside him. Arthur turned around briskly, his eyes wide in fear and shock as the Briton beside him fell to eternal sleep. Almost immediately, as the regiment was trained, they fired shot after shot at the small troop of rebels who had killed one of them.

Arthur fired; secretly hoping that his American friend was not in the group, many Americans retreated, in fear of death or knowing that they would lose, Arthur did not know; and his breath hitched as he saw a tall man run back into the woods. Could it be…? Arthur immediately snapped himself away from that thought, and trained his eyes at the corpses that littered the ground. There were orders shouted, people called on, and Arthur couldn't catch up to anything until he heard his own name being called. Then suddenly it was as if his ears were catching every single word; Catch those damned fools and kill them.

He gave his salute and followed this group of twenty into the woods. He turned back to see many dead, some loyalists, some rebels. Arthur swore to himself that this time he'd do the right thing, he'd kill, he won't chat nor fix wounds, but he'd grab his musket and pull the trigger. He'd prove to his father that yes; he can be of good use for the military. He'd finally be deemed a worthy son. He'd finally make his father proud.

And then- just like that, he saw a flash of blue from the corner of his wary green eyes. Arthur, not thinking, left his group and went to follow the blue- hoping that it wasn't just some butterflies or something stupid like that. Arthur praised himself for being so light on foot, holding his musket, his index finger set on the trigger, his gun already loaded.

Shoot to kill. Shoot to kill. Shoot to- Arthur barely had time to register their movements, and he found himself surrounded. Arthur cursed under his breath, wishing he'd actually at least brought the man next to him with him. "Lower you weapon, redcoat." A man said- in that tone Arthur used last night, only in an American accent that was almost exactly like Alfred's. It was as if the man was just threatening to pull the trigger of that damned rifle, and be the cause of Arthur's too-soon death. Arthur said nothing, and he held his musket properly, glaring at each and every one of those bloody rebels. His green eyes widened a bit as he saw that handsome American. But the man hadn't had that grin on his face, no. His lips were pursed so tightly that Arthur could barely see their rosy color, and his eyes lacked their marvelous shine that made them resemble the sea. Instead, it was glazed over with hurt and fear and determination.

"P-please just let me go." Arthur mewled, dropping his musket. But the man that spoke to him just laughed obnoxiously loudly. "I don't see that coming anytime soon, doll." He drawled, and Arthur almost gave him a tongue lashing when he heard shots ring out from nowhere.

That man dropped dead right in front of him, as did the man to Arthur's right. A few were just fatally wounded, and the others fled. Including Alfred. Arthur, still shivering from the more than traumatic experience, picked up his musket and scanned the dead that were scattered on the grassy terrain. He kicked a few, would receive a moan of pain, and he would load his gun, thinking that it was best to put them out of their misery, then the Brit shot them in the head.

It was horrible, really. Even though he was doing it for their own good, knowing that they'd die soon enough, he literally saw the blood that was on his hands. The blood was splattered all over. Surrounding his vision, etched onto the sky when he looked up, practically flooding the ground when he looked down.

Most of the other soldiers had gone to chase the ones that fled, and Arthur's mind couldn't help but worry about the bloody excuse for a human being. That stupid American, the one that shared a few hours with Arthur in that clearing, the one that nearly died, the one that would not hesitate to shoot Arthur, apparently. But despite that last thing, Arthur still hoped for the idiot to be all right, perhaps because he didn't want somebody so young to suffer this war, suffer death. Perhaps because Alfred had been more of a friend to him- even for just a few measly hours- than anybody else had been in the past twenty five years Arthur had lived.

A man put a gloved hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur glanced back at a man about a decade older than him, smiling with sympathy. "I'm truly sorry for what just happened, lad. But we should really get going, boy. Ah, Arthur, is it? The other lads are already on their way back to where the regiment was, but I doubt that they'd still be there. God help us." The man patted Arthur's back, and turned around and briskly went away towards the place they'd been at. Arthur hesitantly followed him, trying very hardly to ignore the blood that had stained the white of his shirt, and the blue of the sky, and the green of the grass. His hands felt as if blood were drying on it, the vivid red slowly turning into a darker shade, close to maroon, and Arthur actually smelled the blood.

The putrid stench stung his nose, similar to a jab received at the stomach, and Arthur felt himself vomit a bit. He wanted to hold up a hand onto his nose, to block the unpleasant smell, but his hands just made it a thousand times worse. It was as if the blood was really on his hands- the smell came from them, the stains on his shirt, and the grass were because of his guilt-ridden hands.

Arthur almost had a nervous breakdown when they reached the spot littered with more of the dead. Their regiment was no longer there, as predicted, but all the people- or what's left of the few that were sent, anyway- were already milling around there. He headed over to the group of strangers, and listened to their chatter. They were planning- hoping to just travel on their own, perhaps actually managing to find a random regiment that would be willing to accept them, or perhaps, if their luck was to show up, actually get back to their own regiment. Arthur found that incredibly ridiculous, of course, yet he had no choice but to follow them. He was just a mere private- one that almost got killed about half an hour ago.

When exactly, he did not know, but suddenly the officers started walking forward, their steps quick and quite silent, as if they were on a mission to find something. Arthur was fairly sure that there indeed was a mission; to find their regiment that had practically abandoned them, and frankly, Arthur couldn't care less. He was only about half a day inside a damn war and yet he was already sick and tired of it, and it was already driving him to the brink of his sanity.

There was still that blood on his hands, and his shirt as well. The sky was blue, but he could still see how the usually lovely white clouds were tinted with that blood red color. He had actually gone far enough to ask people if there was blood on his shirt, and they would shake their heads 'no', look at him in a strange way, and walk away. Arthur just rolled his eyes after that; he was used to it, after all. Back before this dreadful war, he didn't have any friends at all. He didn't exactly expect to make any friends during war, either. Everybody always thought he was a queer person, shy and awkward, too stiff, too neat, too brash, too mature, and too humorless. That last thing would usually make Arthur grit his teeth and fume in anger, and sometimes he would just approach that person- unless it was a lady, of course- and beat him until he begged for Arthur to stop.

That had only occurred twice, god forbid that it would happen again, but twice was enough to permanently make all the people back home think Arthur was queer, mute, crazy, and had anger issues. Whenever he'd pass a person- and he meant it, any person- they would say something near the lines of 'that man is off his top', or they would whisper too loudly to their lover, or child, or parent, 'don't go near him, or he'll beat you to death'. Which, by the by, Arthur thought was incredibly exaggerated, as the man that had gotten to worse only suffered from a bloody nose and some scrapes on his arms and knees from Arthur's shove.

And that was barely any reason for anybody to call him crazy. He'd once seen a noble bullying some ten year old kids for absolutely no reason, but the other men and women who had witnessed it were just laughing their arses off. And when Arthur just shoves a kid when he'd offended Arthur, no, even when he had smacked the back of Arthur's head, Arthur would still get the blame. Poor, little Arthur.

Wincing at the memory of his not so pleasant childhood Arthur returned his thoughts back to the present day. He flinched as he remembered being surrounded, seeing Alfred's most gorgeous face, and then all that blood and death, and then his brain just decided to send him the wonderful image of him and the American rebel in the beautiful clearing.

Arthur smiled with nostalgia. It had been just yesterday, but it felt like ages ago. He remembered every single thing, though. The young man's beautiful lips, stretching into a smile that could make all the ladies swoon. He remembered those eyes that held all the emotion, whether the pain that he had suffered while Arthur cleaned his wound, or the happiness that filled them as he exchanged banter with the Englishman. Arthur remembered clearly, as clear as glass, that it was the first time the green eyed young man had smiled genuinely in a lot of years. Those usual smiles he gave to his father were well practiced, of course. Nobody knew him well enough to see through the fakeness of that smile, to see that Arthur was practically itching to yell, or sob, or even outright laugh out loud.

Their small group was wandering aimlessly through the foreign land. Arthur knew that this way they'd never make it back to their regiment, and there would be only a small chance of them being able to find another regiment and find safety. No, those bloody bastards- the rebels, would definitely track them down. If not, they would actually just run into each other again, perhaps if the Brits were lucky, the Americans would be the mice and they would be the cats. Long story short, the green eyed Englishman bloody well knew how well this was going to turn out. And it would definitely not be at all, well. In fact, he would be willing to bet, as the pessimist he was, that this would quickly end up as a blood-splattered mess that nobody would bother to clean.

Their corpses would litter the earth, and maybe his father would pass through and see Arthur lay dead, maybe not. Maybe some Americans, maybe that Alfred lad, would see Arthur's guilt-filled body, stained with both his and his enemy's blood his musket still in his hands, unless some musket-robber had pried it out of the clutch of the dead man.

Arthur cringed a little, and refused to let that thought plague him anymore. No- he doesn't want to die. He has to live, he knew he does. Why? He doesn't know.

After a long and tiring day, with no food at all in Arthur's case, they had managed to pull out some sheets and lay them over the ground for the Englishmen to sleep on. Everybody agreed that it was at least better than sleeping directly on the cold, disgusting ground that was filled with those crawling insects.

Gingerly, Arthur let himself fill the last spot on the sheet, which was only half his width and made it incredibly uncomfortable to sleep on, until he realized that he was still wide awake. The other men were already snoring loudly but Arthur shut his eyes anyway, trying to block out the every growing noises. And despite the fact that all he could see was that awful blood red, he had managed to lull himself to sleep.

Arthur woke up almost immediately. It was still dark, and he was utterly sleepy, but he had felt someone shake his small frame. His green orbs doubled in size as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing that it was in fact, Alfred who had woken the Briton. "Why, hey there Arthur!" The beautiful man said, in a volume a bit too loud for this time of the night. Arthur gave the younger man a smile- a real one, and stood himself up.

"Alfred! What on earth are you doing?" He hissed softly, glancing at the snoring strangers. "Ah, can't I talk to you for a bit, Artie? I mean, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out yesterday, and uh, I guess I wanted to say that I really like ya, Arthur. A-as a friend, of course," Alfred said, with an adorable nervous smile that made Arthur just want to either kiss him silly or pinch those cheeks. Arthur blushed when the words registered in his mind, and then he traded the small smile that graced his face for a scowl. "Don't call me that- my name is Arthur, nor 'Artie'. Besides, what kind of name is that, exactly? 'Artie'." The Briton said, glaring at the taller man. The idiot of a soldier laughed, his crisp voice interrupting the beautiful silence of the night.

"Shut up, you idiot! Do you want anybody to find us?" Arthur warned the younger, and much more naïve boy. "Uh, well, I don't know Arthur," Alfred smiled cheekily- and quite unnervingly. "Maybe I do?" And with that last sentence, the American soldier had whipped out his rifle, pointing it straight at the Briton. Arthur looked at the rebel in shock. Hurt and fear were present in his green eyes, and his thick eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. For a few moments, it was just Alfred and Arthur, with the American's rifle trained on the Englishman, determination and victory dancing in those blue eyes.

Arthur masked his fear with a glare- perhaps one that wasn't as strong as his usual ones, but it was still something. Soon, however, they heard footsteps around them and Arthur was surrounded again. Like Déjà vu. Arthur thought, and then mentally slapping himself for thinking something that sounded French. "I'd say I can't believe you fell for that," Alfred said, a wicked grin on his face. "But you did! Let me tell ya somethin', Arthur, you're so stupid to have trusted me. And now, you're gonna pay for our soldiers, Arthur. We know you killed 'em, we know you did." And after that last line, which was said in a menacingly cruel tone, Arthur heard a gunshot fired, and all went black.

When Arthur awoke in the morning with a more than mild headache, and a horrible stomachache, he accepted the stale bread that were being passed with great thanks, and he stuffed it into his mouth, not really bothering about the horrible taste or how it was relatively as hard as a rock.

He stood up in a daze, a bit confused of the happenings from the previous. He had a bit of trouble separating the real-life with his dream, or at least, what he thought was a dream, since he was still alive and well. At least, he thought so. For all he knew, he could be a ghost that was invisible to about everyone else, but since the other soldiers had passed him some stale bread, he guessed not.

After considering about ten other horrible scenarios, one of them was that they all were dead and they weren't even eating real bread, just fake imaginary one, the soldiers started walking again. Arthur was relieved when that blood had disappeared from his vision, but his shoulders felt so much heavier, and his back felt like it was about to snap in to from the weight it was carrying.

Arthur knew, from the stories he had heard, that this feeling was not uncommon during war. It was some sort of guilt, and the other soldiers seemed to wave it all off as if it were just some pesky fly bothering them. But it was a bit different to Arthur, really. Even though he had aged well into a grown man, he still thought that nobody deserved to die unless they were physcopathic homicidal freaks. And the fact that Arthur had actually killed men during this war made him feel like he was entering a new, darker world with blood red skies and crimson-inked earth.

Sometime during the long walk under the blazing hot sun, Arthur started seeing that blood again, seeping through the white cloth of his shirt sticking to his skin. He tried his best to ignore the feeling and the stench, but it didn't really work, and the Brit kept rubbing his blood-stained hands on either sides of his clothed hips.

The day was long, boring, and hot. Even though it was still April, it felt as if they were meat cooking slowly on a spit. Arthur's clothes were soaked- no longer only with the blood only he could see, but also with the sweat he had produced.

Then when he really couldn't handle it anymore, whether the exhaustion, both physical and mentally, or the scalding hot burn that the sun was giving him, Arthur just collapsed. And naturally, he was trailing quite far behind the other soldiers, so nobody really saw the redcoat fade into unconsciousness. Arthur didn't really want to pass out, but he couldn't really fight it either, so the Briton just sighed and lay there, feeling certain that he'd have a horrible sunburn the next time he wakes up- if he even wakes up, and hoping that even if he did, everyone else would find safety.

What Arthur didn't know, was that there was a man making his way towards the Briton, his footsteps not-so-light, and his physique not-so-well either. And with a grin, that man picked the Englishman up, hauling him like he's as light as a feather. "Well, darn. What have ya gotten yourself into, buddy?"

Thank you all so, so much! This is my very first Hetalia fanfic, (Not my first fanfic, because that was quite a while ago, when I wrote down almost all of the worst cliches ever) Anyway, thank you for the follows from just the first chapter. Thank for the favorites, and even the-quite small- amount of reviews I've gotten. This fic is way better from my first one, and I hope that as I progress, it'll be one of the greatest things I've written. (But not the greatest thing I'll ever write, because then I'd be a quite bad author)

Please let me know what you think bout this chapter- I myself don't really like it very much. Oh, and tell me if you find anything misspelled or grammatically wrong, because I'm neither British nor American and I've got no beta. Thanks again all, for reading, reviewing, favorite-ing, following, and other -ings!

Lots of USUK,

-Ja

(Dropped the second letter of my first name~)