So I decided I'd write a story for Artie's "birthday". Right enough, I'm posting this early cause I damn well can. And cause I might forget to post it on the actual day. =/

"He's having a what?!"

"A party," sighed Canada down the phone. "I was sure I spoke clear- Wait. You don't know about it?"

"No!" cried America, a frown staring back at him from his reflection in the darkened laptop. It had long since gone into its power-saving mode and he could clearly see his eyebrows furrowed above his glasses. "How come he hasn't told me?!"

"Um..." came Canada's voice from his cell. "Well..."

"C'mon, Mattie! Tell me!"

Canada sighed once again. "He didn't even want to have a party, Al. But Francis goaded him into it, more or less. He was teasing him about not having a birthday to celebrate. Remember, there was no calendar, really, when he was formed. No-one knows the exact date. And he's never had to gain his independence from anyone or had a revolution or anything. St. George's Day is the closest that he'll get to a birthday but he's said hundreds of times that his own people don't make a big deal of it so why should he? 'Course, get some alcohol in him and mention his lack of celebration a month or so before his birthday and he's suddenly upset that no-one does-"

"As much as I love your history lesson, Mattie," America interjected, "what does this have to do with the fact that he hasn't invited me?!"

"I was getting to that!" Canada sounded indignant. "So, anyway, he decided on having a party and he's been fussing over it for weeks. The invites were all in pristine condition and he's called me a few times to ask my opinion-"

"What?!"

"-and I think he's really flustered about it. He wants it to be perfect but not over the top. He wants his own food but doesn't want to, er, subject people to his own cooking for once. He's stressing out. Maybe he just forgot to send one-"

"Oh, come off it!" America interrupted once again. "How could he forget me?!" There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Mattie? What aren't you telling me?"

There was a static noise as Canada sighed his loudest yet. "Look, you know what sort of presents you give him. They're all joke ones. And, when he organises anything you nitpick at it. I mean, I know Francis does the same, but they can often agree on things like balls and certain other things. You know what they're like. Maybe..."

"Maybe what?" demanded America.

Canada took a breath. "Maybe he doesn't want you to mess things up for him. Or maybe he thinks you'll just laugh at him."

America watched his frown deepen in the reflection and he whacked at the power button so that he didn't have to see himself. "That's..."

"Or!" cried Canada, suddenly, jolting Alfred from his thoughts. "Perhaps the invite's been lost in the mail? Maybe it didn't pass security. Maybe it's been delivered to a different Alfred F. Jones instead."

"Yeah, right!" America laughed hollowly. "How many Alfred F. Jones work at the White House?"

"He might have sent it elsewhere, then. You know you have way too many houses. He's always complaining about it, you know."

America ran a hand through his hair. "It's hardly likely, though, right?" he asked, distantly as he thought. "Much more likely he doesn't want me to make it more amazing and spectacular, right?"

"Are you thinking, Alfred?" asked Canada, sharply. "That tone of voice means you're not paying attention. What are you up to? Please don't-"

Laughing, America shook his head. "Hahaha! Wha-? Don't be silly, Matt! I'm totally not gonna do nothing!"

"That's a double negative!" cried Canada, sounding panicked. "You only use double negatives when you're planning something and want to say that you could do it because people dismissed you when you first spoke about it!"

"Relax Mattie, sheesh!" said America, grinning to himself. "I'm not gonna do anything to ruin the party."

"Hm," was the reply.

"I'm just gonna make sure I can get in."

On the 23rd of April, at half past seven, a young man walked up to a comfortable-sized house on the outskirts of London. He was tall, dark and handsome. His tailored suit hugged his figure and he straightened his clothes as he reached the door. Taking a deep breath, as if to calm nerves, the person knocked.

The muffled noises of a party reached the man as he waited impatiently for England to open the door. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting. Would the island nation recognise him? He had been practising his best British accent for days and was sure he had it down pat. Now, it was opening night, and he sorely needed to be believed if he was to get inside.

Finally, through the frosted glass, a blurry figure could be seen making his way to the door. It wasn't long before the light filtering outside was blocked by a shadow. The door was opened and the man on the other side looked up at the figure, his green eyes surveying his new guest.

"Holy shit!" exclaimed America, eyes widening as he took in England's appearance. "What the-?" He broke off, realising he had spoken in his normal voice.

England was wearing a tight t-shirt upon which a St. George's cross was surrounded by the words 'Proud to be English' and 'St. George's Day'. His black jeans hugged his hips and a belt fashioned to look like a chain was wrapped around it needlessly. A Union Flag pocket watch had been attached to a chain and draped around his neck. It was a far cry from his suits and sweaters.

"Um..." said England, still looking America up and down. The younger nation shifted uncomfortably in his navy suit. His black wig was beginning to itch and his glasses were nowhere to be seen. Awkwardly, America scratched at his chin. This was not how this was supposed to have happened.

"Er," was all America could say. What should he do now? This disguise was his best work! Maybe he could still salvage it. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to recite what he had prepared as his speech.

"America?" asked England, looking very confused, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is that a wig?"

Abort, abort! thought America, desperately. He gazed at England for a moment longer, the older man's lips twitching as if he wanted to laugh. Then he turned on his heel and hurried away, ignoring England's calls.

He needed another plan to get in – and fast.

The back door. After all, if there were several nations in one place, someone would need fresh air at some point. England would likely leave it open. Maybe he would even have some sort of seating for those who wanted to be away from the heat and noise.

And so America, after hurrying to his hired car and changing into jeans and a crisp, new, red-white-and-blue t-shirt, crept around the house's boundaries. Once he was sure he was far enough round, he leapt over the small fence separating the garden from the countryside beyond. He winced as he stepped in a flowerbed and hoped he hadn't squashed any of England's precious flowers.

Sneaking amongst the rose bushes, he grinned when light was shed on his situation and he saw that he had been correct. A beautiful white table with a glass top reflected the light from within the house. Some pink and white petals had settled there, probably blown down from the trees. Several chairs were carefully positioned on the lawn. There was even a love seat, perhaps to accommodate France and whoever he decided to drag along.

Grinning, America hurried towards the door which had been left ajar. Dodging around plants and seats, he was almost there when he heard whispering. Freezing, he glanced round but saw no-one. The only living things in the garden were the fireflies, flitting around from plant to plant, some of them glowing in strange colours. Perhaps it's the wind, he thought but instantly dismissed it when he saw the trees were unmoving.

Some of the insects drew closer, dancing around Alfred's head. He tried to wave them away but they dodged him. Frowning, Alfred turned back to the house – and heard a voice in his ear. "What are you doing?" it asked.

Spinning round, Alfred found no-one around. His eyes were wide as he searched for its source. There had to be someone there. Unless he was going as mad as England. Or it was a ghost.

The realisation that he was in a country supposedly full of ghosts hit him and his eyes darted around. England always said they were real and were his friends, though America would laugh or flinch in fright. But, maybe, just maybe, he had told the truth and his friends guarded his house. Maybe he had them look after his house and that was why he never got an up to date security system. Nervously, he glanced around once more. If he could just get inside...

"You can go in, you know," said the voice again, sounding cheerful.

America shrieked, turned tail, and ran.

Through his binoculars, America had seen an open window upstairs. As long as no-one came to the door or looked out of the windows on the first floor, he could definitely get in through that.

So, now dressed in black trousers, sweater, hat and a harness, a backpack slung over his shoulders, Alfred darted through the front garden, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Cheerfully, confident he would be able to get into the house this time, he hummed the Mission Impossible theme. Finally, he reached the side of the house underneath the open window.

There was a window in front of him and, curious, he glanced in, finding himself gazing into England's kitchen. Several countries were there, chattering over the strains of music from the other room. They all looked rather happy and jolly and America frowned at the fact that they were having fun without him. He was the country who had the most fun out of the lot of them so they shouldn't be having fun till he got in. Then again, he supposed, when he finally did get in, they'd all be grinning fit to burst.

With renewed vigour, America craned his neck back and squinted at the window ledge above him. Then he pulled at a small grappling hook attached to his harness via a motorised mechanism: he could hit a button to be propelled up and he couldn't wait to try it out. When he had enough of the rope pulled out, he spun it until it gained momentum and threw it up. The hook entered the window and he silently cheered himself. He tugged at the rope until it stopped moving and, once satisfied that it wasn't going to give out on him, he hit the button and began to be pulled from his feet.

It was exhilarating, doing this, breaking into someone's house. No wonder England loved all his James Bond movies. America almost wanted the room to have laser things in it so he could carefully shimmy his way through them.

He was still grinning when the mechanism on his harness jammed, leaving him swinging just under the window. "Aw, come on!" he cried in exasperation. Grumbling to himself, he reached up and pulled himself the rest of the way. He slipped through the window head first, knocking something from a table as he tumbled through and landed awkwardly, his arms pinned beneath him and a hook caught in his pants leg.

Panting slightly, he disentangled himself and removed his harness. "Stupid thing," he muttered, throwing it into a corner. Looking around, he found himself in one of England's spare rooms. A vase was on the floor, its contents spilled. "Oops," said America, gathering up the roses, placing them back in and returning the vase to its appropriate place. He grimaced at the water on the carpet but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

A meow caught his attention and he looked around. England's cute cat was glaring at him from the bed. His tail moved around his curled legs as he looked at America accusatorially.

"You're, er, not gonna tell England I'm here, are ya?" he asked it, shifting awkwardly. The cat tilted its head before turning its stare on the closed door. "Ah. You can't get out. Good... Good."

Unimpressed, the cat looked back at him before standing and jumping from the bed. He padded over to the spill and sniffed at it before looking back up at America. Before America could open his mouth, the cat then sat down and meowed a little louder than before.

"Oh, come on. That was an accident!" cried America. He paused as he realised that he was defending himself from a cat. "Whatever. Look, just stay here so your master doesn't tear me a new one for letting you out in the middle of a party."

The cat just meowed once more in response. America shrugged and hurried to the door. He had spent too long talking to the pet. The faster he got out of the room, the faster-

England was on the other side of the door when he opened it. They both froze, England's eyes flickering between him, the open window, his cat and the vase of messy flowers. His green gaze finally settled on America's and he frowned.

"America. What in the hell are you doing?" he asked, his tone calm.

"Ah. Uh. Um," was all America could say. He hadn't expected to get caught. Should he jump out the window?

"That explains everything," said England, sarcastically, rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his chest. "Let me try again. Why are you climbing in the window instead of, say, coming in through the front door?"

The American's brow furrowed. "Well, it's not my fault you didn't give me an invitation!"

England blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You never sent me an invite, Arthur!" cried America, now rather upset. He hadn't wanted a confrontation. Honestly, he had wanted to crash the party and England to just accept it. There wouldn't have been a need for this. He didn't really want to know the truth.

"Yes I did," answered England, frowning again.

"Well, I didn't get one!"

Rolling his eyes, England sighed. "Where have you been living the past month?"

"What?"

"You heard me," England said as he bent down to pick up his cat who had been sneaking past them. "No, Will. You need to stay put." The cat purred as England held him to his chest and America glared at it for a moment, blaming it momentarily for being found.

"In my rooms in the White House."

"Really? Aren't you usually in New York at this time of year?" asked England. He looked a little guilty, shifting his weight slightly.

"Er, well, yeah..." said America, slowly. "But in the middle of March there were a series of things for me to get done with work so I decided to go stay in the White House for a while."

"And you never asked for your mail to be forwarded to you?" asked England, incredulously.

"W-Well!" cried America, embarrassed at his mistake. Mattie had been right. He should have checked his other houses. How could he have been such an idiot? "I-" America chewed on his lip for a moment, studying England's expression shifting to one of amusement.

"Wait a minute," he finally said, a grin slowly forming. "Have you been trying to crash this party, Alfred?" A laugh threatened to erupt from him. "Was that the reason for the disguise? This?" He gestured with a hand at America's get up.

Suitably embarrassed, America decided that, screw it, jumping out of the window was a good idea. Shrugging off his backpack and letting it fall to the ground, he yelled, "Sh-Shut up!" With that, he barrelled over to the window and leapt out head first. He landed on the ground with a roll, scratching his hands and his face, before leaping up and running away.

England watched the younger nation run off. "Really, Will. What is he doing now?"

The cat only meowed in response before leaping from England's arms onto the table. Then he jumped down and wandered over to the bag, sniffing at it. England followed him and, after he had lifted his pet out of the way, he picked up the bag and laid it on the bed. Slowly, in case of a custard pie or some other sort of joke, England unzipped the bag.

Nothing jumped out at him so, in relief, he opened it wider and gaped at the thing inside. It was an actual, honest-to-goodness present. He lifted it out and examined it, noting the label. Squinting in the light from the hall, he saw that it declared itself to be from Despicable Me.

England laughed. "That man," he sighed with a shake of his head. "Even without one of his loaded presents he can still surprise me," he added to Will as he placed the unicorn toy on the bed next to his cat. Will seemed to take an instant liking to it so England left it with him as he went to rejoin his party, a wide smile on his face.

Yeah, so... A birthday thing for Arthur and he isn't even the main character, haha!

It's not meant to be romantic, this story. America's only embarrassed because he was so very determined to be able to sneak in.

I think that's all I really have to say... Oh, except, I think next year, if England decides to have another party, he'll be sending 50 invites to America, just in case.

Ah, and it wasn't a ghost. It was the fairies. That's what the "fireflies" were. And those fairies went and told England about it. He just decided not to bring it up again when asking him about wanting to crash the party.

Oh, and I know that he shouldn't have simply rolled away from his jump out the window but I bet Ethan Hunt and James Bond survived a ton of things they shouldn't. So let's not question that. Besides, he's a nation and he's America. So, y'know.

Okay, I think that's all. No, wait! The human names! I decided that, the closer the nations are, the more often they'll use their human names. Of course, they'll say the actual nations' names as well, but I felt Mattie instead of Canada was better for America to call him. And Canada would use Francis instead of France. And America and England use a mixture, depending on how upset/happy they are with each other at a given moment. Make sense?

Okay, that's definitely all I have to say now.

And Happy St. George's Day for all the English out there on the actual day. And for anyone else celebrating it. :)