Alfred plopped down onto his couch in between Gil and Mattie, beer in hand, as he and the group surrounding him practically yelled a conversation to one another over the blaring of the speakers behind them.

"Hey, hey! The man o' the hour!" Gil shouted, clearly on the verge of being drunk, as he slapped him hard on the back. "Well I am the hero! 'Sup guys, what're we talkin' about?" Alfred asked loudly as he spread his arms casually over the back of the sofa.

Kiku leaned over to him from his spot across from him perched on the coffee table. "America-san, you see those two over there by the dance floor?" He pointed over Alfred's shoulder, and he turned to see who he was talking about. Off to the side past the large group of dancers stood Germany and Italy, a hot topic of discussion as of late, being as they both clearly had feelings for each other, though neither one would admit it. They were either too embarrassed or too afraid to say anything.

They were standing next to each other awkwardly stealing glances at the other, then quickly looking away. Italy clearly looked like he wanted to dance, but didn't want to leave Germany alone. Germany looked on the verge of asking, but something was stopping him.

"Why doesn't he just ask him to dance, aru? Nothing is ever going to happen if they just stand there."

"Are you kidding?" Gilbert shouted suddenly. "West couldn't keep rhythm if his life depended on it!"

"It's quite despicable, actually," Roderich pointed out, shaking his head in disgust.

"So he can't dance, huh?" Al said as an idea formed in his head. "Well parties aren't all about dancing. You guys ever heard of Seven Minutes in Heaven?" A devious smile spread across his face. Kiku blushed but nodded his head and whipped out his camera from seemingly nowhere. "I'm in," Gil nodded his head and smiled an equally (maybe even more so) evil grin. Slowly everybody nodded their heads in agreement.

The plan was to get them to think that everybody was going to play this "game," though they wouldn't tell them exactly what it was, and put their names in a little paper bag. Ludwig would do it just because everyone else was in on it, and Feli would do it just because he was a bit of an airhead. If needed, they would use pasta as their secret weapon. Then, just by chance, both their names would be pulled, and before either of them could protest, into the closet they would go.

"Ohonhon~. This sounds like an especially devious plan. Gilbert and I will do ze honors, no?" Francis grinned and both he and Gil sauntered over to the unlikely duo.

Alfred laughed and was about to go join them when he noticed from the corner of his eye someone familiar coming through his front door. Seeing that it was none other than Arthur, he immediately brightened up, and was about to give him one of his infamous America-glomps, before he really took in Arthur's appearance. He paused and noticed he was wearing a light green button-up shirt that exposed just a little bit of his chest. He rarely saw him in such normally casual attire, but when he did, it was—well, attractive. No, what am I saying? He shook his head to clear it of ridiculous thoughts.

As Arthur walked in he noticed how crowded and noisy it was. Well, America does know how to throw quite the party, he thought as he scratched his head, taking it all in. Not exactly my idea of a party, but—

"ENGLAAAND!" Came a familiar voice off to his right. "Oh, gr-," he started, but before he could form a proper sentence, he was nearly knocked to the ground as he was tackled by none other than Alfred himself.

"Get—OFF—you git!" Arthur struggled to get free of America's death-grip on him, but to no prevail.

"You're late, Artie! And after all the trouble I went through to bring you that invite!" Alfred looked up at him and flashed him the puppy-dog eyes that used to be able to get him anything when he was a kid. Finally able to shove him off, he took in what Al had said. "Wait, you—" He was then cut off by two hairy arms grabbing him around his waist from behind.

"You are here, mon ami! Join in ze party!" The bearded perv waved a glass of red wine in front of his face. England swiftly punched him in the nose. "I am no friend of yours, pervy frog-face." France rose from the place he had fallen on the ground, trying to look dignified while rubbing his bruised face.

Before a full-out brawl ensued, America piped up, "Yo, France! Did you take care of those two lovebirds?" He stood between the two to avoid blood being spilled on his white carpet.

"Oui, I took care of zem alright," he said, shooting his more-than-mildly-disturbing glance towards a nearby broom closet Gilbert was guarding.

"What are you going on about?" Arthur demanded, stepping out from behind America. He grinned. "See, I came up with this idea right?" And Alfred proceeded to tell him about their little shenanigans. England blushed a little at the idea, though he wasn't quite sure why. So America really has grown up quite a lot hasn't he? …Of course he has, what am I saying?

He noticed there was a change in the song blaring from the speakers. America breathed in an overly-dramatic gasp. "I LOVE THIS SONG!" He then proceeded to flail his arms and jump around like a maniac, which England assumed must be his way of dancing. Arthur paused to listen to the song playing. It sounded like a remix of Set Fire to the Rain.

"Hey, this is Adele!" He yelled over top the music that had suddenly grown louder. Al paused his spaz-dancing. "You listen to Adele?"

"Well, on occasion. She is from London you know!" He yelled back. Honestly, he could be such an ignorant twat sometimes. "Actually, Adele originates from my country," Korea popped up out from behind France. He was then swiftly cut off by a chop to the head, via China.

"C'mon! Let's go dance, dude!" Alfred suddenly took hold of Arthur's hand and dragged him across the room to the dance floor. "Wha—hey, don't refer to me as 'dude'," England said, though he was sure the idiot couldn't hear him. He looked down at their joined hands. He remembered fleetingly how they used to always hold hands when America was just a little colony. Such small hands back then. Innocent, clean hands. Now Alfred's hands had grown, become bigger than his own, even. These hands that were now tainted with bloodshed and war and—

"Hey! Earth to England! Helloo!" Arthur snapped back to reality to see Al's face staring worriedly at his. "Dude, you can let go of my hand now." Arthur looked down and saw his hand was still tightly clenched to Al's. "Ah, sorry," embarrassed, he quickly jerked his hand away. Damn these stupid memories. And damn the Fourth of July, too.

"Hey, seriously, you alright?" Alfred's deep blue eyes stared questioningly into Arthur's green ones. He had to look away. "It's nothing," he said bluntly, not revealing anything. I really shouldn't have come, he thought as he turned to walk away. This happens every year, why did I think this time would be any different?

Alfred grabbed his wrist. "Dude, do we need to talk about this?" Alfred was really being serious, a side of him only Arthur had really seen. It pissed him off, that face. "We most certainly do not!" He jerked away from him and started to walk off. Before he could, however, Al's hand gripped his shoulder and turned him around to face him again.

"We're friends right? Friends can talk to friends about their feelings… Listen, if this is about our past—"

"Shut up," England pushed his hand off his shoulder. America persisted.

"Are you still upset about the Revolutio-?"

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

Some imaginary cord that had kept England composed all this time, a cord that had slowly dwindled down to a string since the moment he had woken up this morning, had finally snapped. He brought up his hand and swiftly slapped the idiot on his right cheek. The sound seemed to echo as the song ended and everyone turned to stare, Alfred's head turned to the side from the force, a look of shock on his otherwise innocent face.

Immediately after it happened, he regretted it. There was nothing he could do however, as a new song started and everyone went back to their various activities. Words of apology formed on his lips, but somehow nothing came out. Before Al could turn to look back at him again, he turned on his heel and ran out the front door as fast as he could. He thought he heard his name being called out, but he didn't turn back.

Damn it.

Okay I give you chapter two! Yes I know I added a little GerIta in there without warning, but I thought a little blurb about them would be cute (even though they're not really one of my OTP's). And no, it wasn't Al's POV the whole time, I just like writing for Arthur apparently. Bring on the drama!

Will Alfred ever forgive him?

Will Arthur learn to face his feelings?

Will Francis rape an unsuspecting by-stander?

Questions will (maybe) be answered all in the next and final chapter! I think it's the final chapter anyway, not sure yet… Please R&R! Tell me if this totally bombed or if it went okay! I really don't know!