Chapter 2: United Nations

Alfred did the poor Brit the courtesy of playing caretaker, that day: preparing an unhealthy lunch, keeping Arthur hydrated with soda, and taking care of what needed care. Arthur stayed in bed, feeling awful, sleeping, and waking with violent headaches.

When Alfred checked on Arthur around two o' clock, the older country couldn't help asking him, "How did you know to be at the party, last night?"

"Hmm?" Alfred said, giving him a puzzled look. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. "Oh, I knew France was bound to convince you to go, and he always gets all perverted and weird with other countries, regardless of gender. I figured I should go, just to keep an eye on things."

"Oh," said Arthur, his shoulders drooping in disappointment. Alfred had simply been performing a general service, not because it was him he'd been keeping an eye on. He would've dropped the subject, but then, Alfred said, "Hey, man. I know you've felt like crap all day, but do you want to go out for dinner, later? Maybe getting out of the house would do you some good."

Arthur couldn't prevent the grin that spread across his face. "That sounds lovely," he said. "Just, please: no alcohol, this time."

Arthur somehow managed to convince Alfred that eating fast food wasn't the only option for a meal. He ended up being driven in Alfred's car to a small, family-owned restaurant. Regardless, Alfred still ordered a hamburger with fries and a soda.

It was a quaint restaurant, but the situation was pretty awkward for Arthur. The one he'd always had to take care of had been taking care of him all day, and that was after saving him from the most humiliating and terrifying of situations. Making easy conversation was nearly impossible once the waitress had taken their orders and brought their food.

Arthur tried by saying, "Thanks for the help."

Alfred paused just as he was about to take a huge bite of his hamburger. "It's okay. After all: I am the hero."

Another silence elapsed, but Alfred's reply had made it less tense. Neither of them said a word as they ate. After they'd finished and paid the bill, Arthur tried to remain casual as he walked toward Alfred's car, and even more so during the drive back to the older country's house. They didn't talk very much during the drive, either. A rock station on the radio played the only sound in the vehicle.

Once they'd returned to Arthur's home, both he and Alfred knew the American wouldn't be staying any longer. This made the Brit hesitant to step out of the car. "Thanks, again," he said.

"Anytime," Alfred replied.

There was another moment of awkward silence as Arthur collected every bit of courage he had. Then in one motion, he leaned over the center console and planted a kiss on Alfred's cheek. Within the next second, he was out of the car and heading toward the house, not daring to look back.

The next U.N. meeting was in August. Italy would be hosting this one, which was a relief to Arthur—partly because he didn't want to deal with the other countries (especially France), and partly because he was eager to see Alfred, again. They hadn't communicated since Alfred had dropped him off in June, but Arthur hadn't been able to go a minute without thinking about all that had happened. What did Alfred think of him, now? Would he be disgusted with him? Did he still consider them to be brothers, and he was being a perverted creep? Arthur was anxious to find out.

Arthur made his way to the meeting hall. Upon entering the familiar room, he was witness to Germany scolding Italy for bringing a cat to the meeting (as always), China saying something about what "stupid America" did, to Japan, France massaging his bandaged nose, and Canada sitting in his usual, quiet reverie. America had not arrived yet, apparently.

Arthur sat close to the head of the table, between Wang and Feliciano (China and Italy), waiting for Alfred to arrive. He wished the younger country was here, already. The time between their meetings was too much time for him to ponder about what their next meeting would be like. Eventually, Feliciano, with Ludwig (Germany) glaring at him, commenced the meeting. Arthur was tempted to remind him that America hadn't arrived, yet, but he had the feeling that everyone had noticed that.

Arthur didn't hear the beginning of the conversation. He was too preoccupied with this own thoughts: Where was Alfred? This was unusually late, even for him. Had he slept in? Did something happen to him? Was he avoiding Arthur after what he had done…?

"Britain," came Ludwig's voice sharply, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts, "what is your input?"

Arthur blinked. Of course, he had no idea what Ludwig had been talking about. "Um, well, I—"

He was saved by the door opening roughly and closing. Alfred was there, panting like he'd just run across the Atlantic. "Sorry, I'm late, dudes. Traffic jams."

"It's not rush hour. Not even in your country," Arthur pointed out.

Alfred ignored him and took a chair. Meanwhile, Ludwig explained to Alfred what had been discussed, so whatever question the German had asked Arthur went unanswered. Alfred didn't look anywhere but at Germany as he spoke. Arthur tried to get his attention using silent tactics-needing to know how the younger country felt about their last meeting. However, Alfred didn't so much as glance at him.

Once Ludwig had finished his explanation and the meeting had commenced, again (this time with China speaking), Arthur watched to see if he could catch Alfred's eye, but the younger country seemed to be, if anything, avoiding his gaze. Arthur felt his palms growing sweaty and a tension in his head increasing to a painful level as the meeting continued. Alfred wouldn't even look at him. He had done something wrong. Arthur had spoiled his chances with the country. His confession had been too early…or too late.

That was when it happened: Alfred's ocean-blue eyes met Arthur's green ones. Any humor that was usually lit up behind Alfred's spectacles was gone, replaced by the same dark seriousness that the older country had only seen back during the Revolutionary War. He'd done it. He'd screwed up.

Alfred's attention returned to China, who was going on a rant about imports and exports and debt. Arthur didn't hear any of it. He was too out of it. It felt like his head was floating in some world far away, somewhere safe and beautiful—somewhere with unicorns and leprechauns and flying mint bunnies.

The meeting didn't last much longer, at least not to Arthur. The older country made his way out to the corridor and started toward the exit, still in a sort of trance—a shield against all the violent emotions welling within him.

He was only a few feet from the door, his hand already extended for the handle, when a voice said from behind, "Hey, England."

Arthur froze, his hand still extended, but his trance temporarily cracked. He felt tears stinging his eyes, making it impossible to see. He didn't want to turn around, to acknowledge Alfred's greeting. Slowly, though, he allowed his hand to drop to his side.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come over to my place, this afternoon," Alfred said simply.

Arthur felt his eyes widen, allowing one tear to fall as the younger country's words sunk in. Surely, he was just hallucinating, again. To be sure, he carefully turned on the spot to find Alfred leaning against the corridor wall, looking totally…cool. A warm blush filled Arthur's cheeks.

"Dude, are you okay? You're crying," Alfred pointed out.

Arthur blushed even deeper and quickly wiped his eyes. Then, putting on a pleasant smile, he said, "No, I'm fine, and…that would be lovely."

Alfred flashed him a smile. "Awesome," he said. Then, without warning, he walked toward Arthur, took him by the hand, and led him to the car.

It wasn't a long drive to Alfred's house, which was just as much a mansion as Francis's (except Alfred was much more colorful). In front of the house was a well-tended garden by two servants, one with his shoulder-length, brown hair covered with a white cloth and the other in overalls covered in grass stains.

Upon entering the house, Arthur noticed dark brown, wooden floors covered in white, gold-trimmed rugs. The walls were tan and hung with colorful paintings—most of them depicting war scenes (which surprised Arthur a bit. He didn't think of Alfred as the brooding type), and cut off by tall windows with open, translucent-white curtains. Above, the ceilings held matching, crystal chandeliers.

"Britain, you coming?" came Alfred's voice from a nearby room.

The Brit hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking. He stepped into the dark room that Alfred was in. There was a couch, an HD television, beanbags sprawled across the floor, a DVD player along with several game stations, bookshelves filled with model airplanes, and Alfred waiting for him on the couch.

Alfred handed the older country a rectangular package. In the darkness, it was hard to make out anything other than that it was a movie with the title, Paranormal-something.

"I hope you don't mind scary." Alfred said, appearing awfully proud of himself. He snatched the movie back from Arthur's hands before the older country could remind him that—

"C'mon, Britain!" Alfred said, gesturing for Arthur to sit beside him.

"Um, Alfred, don't you think—"

"Relax, it's just a movie. You scared?"

"No, I'm—"

"Good, me neither."

Arthur didn't believe him for a second. He hadn't even put the DVD in, yet, and, even in the dark, he could tell Alfred was shaking. Arthur was trying to remind the younger country that he was terrified of the paranormal.

Arthur took his seat at a respectful distance from Alfred. He waited for him to get his act together as he put the DVD disc in the player. "Okay, Brit. You ready for this? Like, really ready? They say this is the scariest movie of the year…oh, but I'm not scared. I hope you're not. Where's the remote? Oh, it's in my hand. So, are you okay enough for me to start it? 'Cause I—"

"America?" Arthur interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Just start the movie, already."

Alfred finally started the video. It was a paranormal video. Arthur wondered at Alfred's choice of watching it, considering the young country had always been scared of ghosts. Not far into the movie, Alfred was practically strangling a pillow and shaking harder than ever, saying things like, "Whoa, that was creepy," and, "Did you see that, England? Dude?"

Arthur didn't bother to reply. The movie wasn't really all that frightening.

During one of the next "creepy" scenes, Alfred lost it entirely. In a frenzy, he flung himself at Arthur and wrapped his arms tightly around him, almost screaming panicked commentary. Arthur jumped slightly in surprise, not sure how to react. This sort of situation reminded him of before the War, when America was almost a baby country who still referred to England as his big brother. Alfred would come into his room late at night and sleep beside him after having a nightmare.

After a moment, Alfred stopped screaming, but he still clung to Arthur (and he was still shaking). Following pure instinct, Arthur hesitatingly enfolded his arms around the young country. He felt Alfred tense up, and then relax. A warm feeling spread through Arthur has he recalled Alfred's childhood with him. Were they still brothers? Arthur wasn't sure. What he felt for the young country didn't even resemble brotherly love. It was more like…something he couldn't put his finger on….romantic? He wasn't sure.

Arthur also wasn't sure how long he sat there, Alfred in his arms. The moment was so perfect. Arthur wished it would never end.

In his blissful state, the older country almost missed the change in Alfred's breathing. It had become deep and even. The older country saw that he had fallen asleep. Out of courtesy, he removed Alfred's glasses and resisted the urge to do something silly to the sleeping country. He focused on the movie for a while, until he himself fell asleep, too.

Alfred was nowhere to be found in the morning. It took Arthur a moment to remember where he was, and it took him another to notice the note sitting on one of the beanbags before his feet. It was written in Alfred's chicken-scratch for handwriting, and it said:

Gone shopping. Back in a few.

Arthur sighed in exasperation. Last night should've been too good to be true. It certainly felt like a dream. Hence, he couldn't get a grip on how he felt about the whole ordeal. He needed to get out for a while to think. So, standing and brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes, he made his way outside.

America certainly is an interesting place, Arthur thought and he walked past the endless, matching houses outside of New York City. It's like Britain, only commercialized and with a different accent.

Arthur tried to organize his thoughts and emotions. Obviously, Alfred didn't hate him. He was fairly certain that he didn't think of them as brothers, anymore, so what did Alfred consider them to be? Friends? Maybe the young country was teasing an old man (technically, though, Arthur was stuck in the body of a 23-year-old. Older meant he'd seen more history and time pass). However, he doubted this theory. That was more Francis's way of teasing.

Eventually, Arthur came to a park with a pond surrounded by a few benches and some tall trees. It was on one of these benches that Arthur sat. What was he going to do? He had to know what Alfred thought of him. He knew he should just be grateful that the younger country didn't hate him, but, for some reason, it wasn't enough. These thoughts reminded him of how a little school girl would act, and he couldn't help grimacing at himself.

Arthur must've sat there for longer than he'd thought, because, eventually, Alfred called him on his cell phone: "Dude, where'd you go? I brought breakfast. Didn't you see the note?"

Arthur was a little taken aback that Alfred had bothered to call him. He'd almost been expecting the young country to just forget he'd spent the night. "Yes, I'm on my way," Arthur said into the receiver. "I just had to go out, for a bit."

"Okay, see you soon. Oh, and Arthur—"

The older country froze at the sound of America calling him by his human name.

"Watch out for France."

Arthur blinked, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He remembered saying something like, "Okay, I will," to the phone and hanging up, but the whole walk home consisted of his trying to piece together why Alfred had called him "Arthur" and France by his country name.

The walk back to Alfred's house didn't take nearly as long as Arthur had thought it would. When he reached the front door, it took him half a second to remember to knock. Where were his manners? Surely, Alfred's rudeness wasn't rubbing off on him, already.

The heavy wooden door was answered by one of Alfred's servants, who politely took his coat from him. The servant informed the Brit that Alfred awaited him in the dining room, so Arthur followed the smell of cooking eggs and bacon and the sound of…a tea kettle?

Sure enough, when Arthur entered the kitchen, he saw poor Alfred rushing about, trying to control grease-splattering eggs and bacon and a screaming tea kettle. Arthur quickly took the kettle and moved it to a cool burner on the stove, but just as he was turning off the first burner, a bit of hot bacon grease flung from one of the pans and hit him on his right eyelid.

"Ow!" He cried, backing away from the stove.

"Sorry, Arthur!" Alfred said, turning the bacon's heat down.

There it was, again: Alfred had said his human name. This passing thought had the Brit open both eyes wide, but he quickly closed the right one and said, "I'm fine, I'm fine. It's just a little burn, is all."

Alfred looked over at him, blinked in acknowledgement, and returned to preparing the food. It was only a moment later that the Brit tried to help by setting the table, but it was already set.

Feeling like a whole lotof help, Arthur tried to figure out what on Earth Alfred was doing. Why didn't he simply have the servants make breakfast for them? Why had he gone out of his way to prevent the Brit from helping him? Why had he bothered to call Arthur, telling him to come back, in the first place? And, most importantly, why did he keep calling him "Arthur"? It sounded like he'd been calling him by his human name for years.

It was only about a minute later when Alfred declared the food to be ready and made his way to the table, balancing plates of eggs and bacon along his arms.

"Um, America, do you need—"

"No, I got it. Thanks."

Somehow, Alfred managed to set down the food without breaking anything. Then, he went to fetch the kettle from the stove. Arthur watched him carelessly go to grab the kettle in his palms. "America, you might not want to—"

"Yipe!"

The American recoiled as his fingertips touched the boiling-hot tea kettle. Arthur wondered what he could've possibly been thinking. He sighed and said, "America, you need to be more careful. Let me see."

Alfred tried to blow him off with an, "Oh, it's okay—it's just a little burn," but Arthur's look of disbelief caused the younger country to show the Brit his hands, anyway.

They weren't large burns, but they were painful second-degrees.

"Keep your hands under cold water," Arthur said. "Where do you keep your medicines?"

"Upstairs bathroom, third door on the right," Alfred muttered, looking disappointed. About what, though, Arthur wasn't sure.

The Brit made his way to and up the stairs. The second floor was high-ceilinged and spacious, with towering, arched windows, tiled floors, and instruments spread about the room. They were strictly American-born instruments, such as a glass harmonica and a banjo. Arthur was tempted to try them out, since he'd never played either, but now was not the time.

Arthur found the bathroom where Alfred had said it was. He went through the prescriptions under the vanity. The burn cream was placed right at the front of the cabinet. Strange, he thought. Why would this be at the very front?

Trying not to be too bothered about it, Arthur took the medicine down to the kitchen, where Alfred wasn't running his hands under cold water (he was actually sitting at the kitchen table, a loaded plate before him). Arthur sighed in exasperation and handed him the ointment. He then took the chair opposite the American and poured himself some tea. He also put a bit of bacon and eggs on his plate, which, when he tried them, were actually amazing.

"How is it?" Alfred asked, rubbing the burn cream into his skin.

"Very good, actually," Arthur replied after swallowing a bit of bacon.

Arthur recalled a few of many questions he had for the younger country. Trying not to be too careless, he started, "I noticed the medicine was at the front of your cabinet. Do you burn yourself, often?"

"What?" Alfred said, quickly swallowed his mouthful of eggs and washing it down with a swig of coffee. "Oh, no. I rarely open that cabinet. Maybe one of the servants organized it, that way."

"I see. So why not have the servants make breakfast, then?" Arthur pressed, not believing Alfred's response.

"Well, I…" He sighed. "Honestly, I was hoping…"

Watching him choke on words, Arthur waited expectantly. However, the young country seemed to be giving up on completing his sentence.

"What was that, Alfred?"

The American's eyes widened at the use of his human name, but this quickly passed. "I was hoping that, maybe we could go back to the way things used to be."

In an attempt to remain casual, Arthur rested his chin atop his hand. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Obviously, I'm my own country, now, but I was wondering…uh…maybe we could still call each other…brothers?" Alfred said hesitantly.

Arthur was stunned. One part of him wanted to scream, "Yes!" He was tempted to call him "Little Brother". He almost wanted to go back and start a time where they could be friends, again.

Almost.

This wasn't exactly what he wanted, though. He didn't want to think of Alfred as family. "No." The word slipped. "No, I can't." He barely understood why he was saying it, but he knew it was right. "I can't do that, America. I'm sorry."

Alfred didn't look surprised or sad or angry. In fact, he looked like he'd been expecting this answer. "Can I ask why?" he said.

Arthur stopped, feeling the blood slowly heating up his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He stuttered a bit, trying to come up with an explanation without outwardly lying to the younger country. When he found he couldn't make out a whole sentence, he stood, swallowed his last gulp of tea, and formed the sentences, "Thank you for breakfast and letting me come over." He reached the door and took his coat. "I'm afraid I must take my leave. Goodbye, America."

Suddenly, in a quiet voice that sent goose bumps through Arthur's body, Alfred said, "You still haven't answered my question."

His voice was close. Really close. Arthur could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. A skin-crawling sensation rippled through him at the feeling. Carefully, he turned to see Alfred standing with barely and inch between them, his arms stretched over his shoulders, locking the smaller country into place.

The close proximity made Arthur a bit nervous, and, yet, he didn't mind it, either. Knowing now that there was no way to get out of Alfred's question, he said, "I…I can't think of you much as a brother, anymore. I—"

He was cut short by Alfred's crooked smile. Arthur felt his cheeks, ears, and neck heating up. It was obvious that the bigger country knew exactly what he was going to say and was just waiting for him to say it out loud.

"Go on," the younger country said. "Say it."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Arthur: Alfred knew exactly what he was about to say, but he wasn't even tryingto keep his distance. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying eliminating any space that may have been between them. Shouldn't Alfred have been disgusted with him? Or maybe…maybe he was just teasing his former sibling.

These thoughts really discouraged the smaller country from saying any more. He turned away his head, still incapable of escape or the desire to, but also unwilling to answer Alfred's pressing question.

"Arthur, look at me," Alfred whispered.

The Brit willed himself to turn his head back toward the taller country, and that was when their lips touched, swift and sweet—then again, deeper and more daring. Arthur would've been questioning himself a thousand times over it he could think straight. All he knew was those lips were so soft and so warm.

It was such a shame when they pulled away. His mind returned, causing him to feel slightly embarrassed with the way he felt. Then, his mind taking a second to process the words, he heard Alfred say, "I love you, Arthur."