Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia, I do not.

Arthur stumbled down the stairs, one side of his green pjs slipping down his shoulder, drool coming out of his mouth, his hand scratching his stomach. He had just woken up, but it felt like he was still asleep. He had the urge to go downstairs, though, for some reason. He managed to make it to the kitchen, where he saw his roommate eating a pile of hamburgers so large it made someone have a heart attack just seeing it. He stood there dumbly, staring at the sight before him. America still hadn't noticed him, and was eating the heart-stopping food like it was his last meal. Which Arthur thought it would be, at that rate. It wasn't that he hadn't seen him do that before, it was just one small thing that made him actually pay attention to the view; America was in his house.

"Hey, bro." Alfred said, looking at him, with his mouth full. He held out one of his precious burgers. "Want one?"

Britain didn't move, his hand still scratching his stomach. Then he slowly turned around and began shuffling up the stairs.

Two hours later, Britain, now fully dressed and ready for the day, went down the stairs and saw America sitting in his living room, watching soccer (In America we call it Football!), a drink in his hand. "What are you doing in my house?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

Alfred answered without even looking at him. How rude. "Hey, bro. You're awake. Again. Yeah, so the school burned down and Oliver offered to let me stay here cause my parents are asses and won't come and get me."

Arthur stood there (again), staring at America. Then he sat down next to him (Read: on the other side of the couch), looking at the T.V. with uninterested eyes. Not much actually surprised him when it came to the other countries. He got comfortable and asked, "What are we watching? Soccer?"

"Nah, football."

"Soccer."

"Football."

"It's soccer, you twat!"

"It's football!" America snapped.

"Soccer!" Arthur hissed.

"How could you have been raised in America and still call it soccer? It's football here!"

"Too bad! I'm not American- I'm obviously British."

"Obviously." Alfred rolled his eyes.

A moment passed, then Arthur realized something. "What do you mean, obviously? Was that an insult?"

"What? No! Touchy, much?"

"Where did that come from? Are you implying that I'm sensitive?" Arthur jumped up, angry.

"Yes." Alfred stayed where he was.

"You bastard!" Britain threw the nearest item he could reach at America- which just so happened to be an apple.

Not expecting this, and watching football, America still caught it right before it hit him. He looked at Arthur with an amused look on his face. He started throwing the fruit up and down. "Are you sensitive about being sensitive, Arthur?"

"You bloody wanker! How dare you?" he picked up the rest of the fruit and began throwing it at Alfred, the loud boy catching it each time. America stood up, a grin on his face.

"That the best you got?"

Arthur then picked up the basket the fruit was in and threw it at the boy in front of him. Alfred dodged it, laughing. The next thing to be thrown was the table the fruit basket was on. America caught that one, and set it down gently. He looked up in time to dodge a spray of blackened scones. "Dang, Arthur, you're showing no mercy! What if I accidently catch one in my mouth? It'll be the end of me!"

The barrage thickened, and, in order to block the ruined pastries, Alfred flung the couch on it's side and hid behind it, laughing too hard to speak. When something was flung so hard it moved the couch upon impact, Alfred peeked over the side to see what it was. It was a cabinet. Alfred ducked back under the couch. All of a sudden, the attack stopped. Without looking, America called, "What's wrong, Arthur? Run out of things to try and kill me with?"

A voice replied from- was that above him? "Not quite!"

America looked up, only to have England jump on top of him and try to get a tie around his neck. America was breathless from laughing so hard, and that gave Arthur, who was now grinning, a chance. Alfred swatted Arthur's hand away from him, sending it into his hair. Because Alfred was lazy, and hadn't brushed his hair, Arthur's hand got stuck. When he pulled it, not noticing it getting stuck, knots that were loosly around his hand tightened, denying him the ability to leave.

"What...?" he pulled it again, harder. He had absolutely no idea that he was tangled up in Nantucket...

In a matter of seconds, America had flipped Britain over, so that he was on top, and his face was mere inches away from Arthur's. His hand had slipped under the small of Arthur's back, pulling the brit closer to him, and his breath was looming over Arthur's neck. "Wha...?" Britain gasped.

Then America seemed to gather his senses, and jumped back, pulling Arthur's hand with him, only to lurch forward, pinning Arthur down. What was scary to Britain was that even with America on top of him, he seemed to be using excessive amounts of energy just controlling himself. It wasn't... A bad scary, though. Not like all the other times he had been in this situation. Maybe because he liked the person on top of him?

"A-Arthur..." America ground out, breathing heavily, "Y-your hand..."

"Huh?" his hand was stuck in his hair, right where America's cowlick usually was. So? "Yeah? It got caught when we were messing around. Actually, right before you started... Acting like this."

America seemed to be debating about telling him something when Britain gave his hand a tug, trying to get it out. "Uwah! A-Arthur, could y-you n-not d-do that?"

"Huh? Why?" another tug.

"I-it's my- nyng! Arthur!"

"What?" one more yank.

And then, just as the front door opened and Oliver walked in, America yelled, "Nantucket's my erogenous zone!"

Oliver froze, taking in the situation. After that, he said cheerfully, "I'll call help." and shut the front door. Meanwhile, Arthur and Alfred were blushing, and trying (Read: failing) to get into a comfortable position without triggering Alfred's cowlick.

25 minutes later, Oliver and a new person walked into the room. America quit moving once he recognized the second boy. "Oliver!" he whined (Read: it honestly sounded more like a whimper), "Why would you bring him? Wasn't there anyone else?"

"Geez, love you too, bro." Allen grumbled.

Arthur knew that Allen was Alfred's 2p, but they didn't know that he had his memory back, so he asked, "Who's Allen? Is he your brother?"

"...Yeah. But we don't get along. At all." America answered, glaring at Allen. Said 2p smirked.

He walked over and pat Alfred's shoulder. "So I heard you're having some trouble." he said in the most smug voice possible.

"Don't touch me."

"I'm gonna have to do worse than that, lil' bro."

"What?"

"I was called over for a reason. That give you any hints? You know, regarding your current situation."

Alfred blushed. "Shut up! Not gonna happen!"

"So you wanna stay like that forever? 'Cause your cowlick's not going to go away. You can get me to do it, or you can get someone who doesn't know what it does to do it and have the secret spread to the world. Literally."

A moment of silence. Allen's smirk grew wider, and he sat down next to Alfred. He pat his lap, waiting for America to get on. Said American did no such thing. Allen sighed. "It's going to take longer for it to be over if you don't start."

Britain nudged America, blushing. "Go ahead and get on. It'll be easier for you if it ends quickly."

Embarrassed beyond belief, Alfred sat down on Allen's lap. And so it began.

I'm stopping here for your sanity! Lalalalalala!