Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings: Slash, AU, swearing, sub-par writing, wonky plots, appallingly slow updates, and Hitler jokes.

I don't know what I'm doing.

Unbeta'd.

[Chapter 14]

Had the universe been comprised of the same suspect material that dwells within the pages of cheap airport romance novels, Alfred would have awoken to a loving embrace. There would have been sleepy morning kisses interspersed with quiet murmurs of affection. He and Arthur would have been content in each other's arms, and everything would have been rose colored and cliché and grotesquely saccharine.

As it was, the fabric of the universe more closely resembled steel wool, and Alfred woke up with his face inches away from a tire, the smell of rubber invading his senses, and the sounds of Arthur being sick at irregular intervals drowning out the background hum of sparse highway traffic.

Emotionally, he felt like a sinkhole had just opened up beneath his feet, sending him tumbling down to the bottom of a muddy pit filled with rubble and twisted wreckage. When he rolled over, it looked as though, physically, Arthur felt much the same.

"Doing ok?" he grunted as he sat up, wincing at the state of his neck.

Arthur continued to cough and dry heave, hunched over on all fours, but was apparently well enough to lift one arm and give Alfred the finger.

Alfred stood up, feeling a symphony of pops and cracks run down the length of his spine, and retrieved a bottle of water from the car. When he offered it, Arthur shifted into a crouch took the bottle with an expression of sheer gratitude. The first mouthful Arthur swilled in his mouth for a while before spitting out, ridding himself of the lingering taste of vomit. A second later he took a cautious sip and sat waiting to see how his stomach would respond.

"I'm sorry." he said, voice still hoarse.

"For what?" asked Alfred, not pausing in his scan of the horizon. He wanted to make sure the coast was clear before pulling the camouflage off the car. "Puking? You didn't get any on me, so don't worry about it."

"No. For getting so drunk. It was stupid of me. Not to mention dangerous and unprofessional. I'm supposed to be on my guard, keeping you safe. And just look at me." His face was wan and distorted with discomfort, his water bottle shook faintly in his hands, and he didn't smell all that nice. He looked like most people when they came off a bender. Alfred had seen the aftermath of enough college parties to know that Arthur was taking it like a champ.

"You were stressed. I would have cracked a while ago, if I were you. Not your fault you wanted to take the edge off." Alfred had once gotten shitfaced because of a particularly bad bout of exams. Arthur had people trying to shoot him. His sobriety until now had been nothing short of amazing.

Arthur gave a dry cough that might have been a humorless laugh. "Taking the edge off is having a glass or two. I chugged most of the damn bottle, not even taking into account how long it's been since my last binge and how my tolerance might have been affected. I got drunk. I put you in danger. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now how's about we go find a hotel room and get you cleaned up." Alfred was sure that had Arthur been feeling better, there would have been more kowtowing on Arthur's part before he would have allowed Alfred to think about accepting his apology. The issue would probably be brought up again later, but for right now they both seemed to agree that it was more important to get moving than argue.

Arthur allowed Alfred to help him stand, wobbling for a moment like a sailor without sea legs. "That sounds heavenly. Though, I have to admit, it's been fun spending my nights on the road with you."

Alfred's being made the noise a soccer ball makes as it discovers the wonder of flight, just before an enthusiastic pair of cleat clad feet come along and shunt it brutally in a different direction. Alfred clamped down hard on the feeling of reckless joy before the universe came along with its spiked soles and perverse enjoyment of other people's pain. Arthur didn't mean that he had enjoyed the conversations they had had. Arthur didn't mean he'd enjoyed that embrace they'd shared. Arthur wasn't interested. Arthur wasn't what some part of Alfred was starting to hope he could be. Arthur-

Arthur was a warm weight plastered against his side, and it was making it hard to fight off those new confusing feelings he was having.

"You want to ride shotgun?" he asked in place of something stupid "Or do you want to lay down in the backseat?"

Arthur looked nauseous at the mention of having to sit and watch things whip by, he looked nauseous at the whole concept of the car, but the look he gave the back had slightly less trepidation mixed in.

"Backseat it is." Alfred declared, not waiting for Arthur to voice his decision.

"Are you sure? I might get sick again. It would be easier, and cleaner, if I were in the front seat."

"Dude, look at this thing." Alfred waved his arm at the car "At this point, vomit stains aren't going to do much. Hell, they might even help its appearance."

There was something almost hypnotic about watching clothes in a dryer. Alfred sat on one of the dented metal benches of the laundromat and let the spinning colors, the monotonous hum, and the steady thunks of a broken washer lull him into an almost meditative state.

He'd left Arthur behind at the hotel, an almost suspiciously clean one with a horrible color scheme and walls that smelt faintly of vinegar. That hadn't seemed to put Arthur off, and he'd collapsed facedown onto one of the beds with little hesitation. He hadn't gotten sick during the ride, but the shade of grey his face had turned by the time Alfred parked the car and hauled him out of the backseat indicated it was a near thing. After agreeing that Arthur would shoot whoever came through the door if they did not knock 'shave and a haircut' beforehand, Alfred left to do laundry.

Really, laundry was just an excuse. Alfred had needed to get away, to get some space and think.

Last night he'd been angry, angry at himself and at Arthur and at everything. He'd sat there for who knows how long clenching his jaw so tight he might have broken teeth, wanting to rant and rave and scream and break and crush and snap until the rage had finally bled out of his system leaving behind nothing but an empty sort of exhaustion. Then he'd curled up on his side and let sleep numb his emotional turmoil.

When he woke up, Alfred found that he wasn't so much angry as confused.

Why Arthur?

It wasn't that Arthur was male. Alfred had- you know- with a man before. In college. You were supposed to experiment in college. And he'd enjoyed it. He'd come to terms with the liking both genders thing.

But Arthur, Arthur was a whole 'nother ball game. Arthur was foreign, charming, well mannered, smart, resourceful, easy on the eyes, secretly sweet, hardworking, stubborn, downright adorable at times, and, quite frankly, way out of Alfred's league.

Way, way out of Alfred's league.

And here he was, in the beginning stages of a hopeless crush on a man who could do so much better than Alfred. Realistically, Alfred didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. So what sort of masochist was he that he'd started falling anyway? Was he just latching on to the human being with whom he'd had regular contact as of late?

No, Alfred realized as he watched the laundry spin, this probably would have happened no matter what. If he'd met Arthur at a bar instead of the side of an empty stretch of highway, he still would have been drawn to the man, as slowly and irresistibly as he was now. Arthur was just magnetic. Captivating. Utterly mesmerizing.

So what the hell was Alfred supposed to do now?

The conventional wisdom of romantics would have him confess, tell Arthur everything, put it all on the line, in the hopes that Arthur returned his feelings. According to that line of thought, you only live once, and something as precious as love should never be allowed to slip away, especially not when it is in ones power to do something about it.

Alfred had always believed YOLO was the battle cry of potential Darwin Award candidates.

There were just some risks you didn't take, and this was one of them. They were both depending on the other to get them out of this alive. Making things awkward would not only jeopardize whatever friendship they were building, but also their lives. Alfred didn't want to see Arthur close up and draw away from him any more than he wanted to end up dead in a ditch.

Alfred knew the odds, and he didn't want to play them.

So, again, what now?

The obvious course of action would be to keep his mouth shut. Just keep acting as he had been and things would work themselves out. He and Arthur could remain friends, and eventually Alfred would be able to let go, move on, and find someone else.

The dryer buzzed so Alfred got up, fished a quarter out of his pocket, and sent the clothes through another cycle. The dryer began to hum again and Alfred sat back down and continued to watch the colorful tumble behind the glass door. The newfound emotions churned inside his chest in a similar fashion. Alfred tried to ignore them.

He'd chosen his course of action. Friendship was better than nothing at all.

This would all work out for the best.

Arthur had apparently taken a nap while he was gone, if the state of his hair was anything to go by. Alfred closed the door behind him and Arthur tucked his gun away in favor of taking another gulp from one of the water bottles Alfred had left him with. Arthur looked much better than he had the last time had seen him, so much better it was kind of surprising. Arthur must have seen it in his face because he just gave a wry grin and explained it came from years of practice. Alfred decided to ask about that at another time, and instead remained silent as Arthur raised his arms above his head in a slow stretch and hauled himself off his bed.

"I'm surprised you remembered to knock." Arthur yawned, lazily screwing the cap back on his now empty bottle.

Alfred dropped the laundry on the second bed with a grunt. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to remember something when forgetting means being shot in the face. Here, this bag's yours."

Arthur's nose scrunched up, displaying his opinion at having fresh laundry stuffed in a bag instead of being properly folded, but he only voiced a few minor grumbles. Alfred upended his own bag on the bedspread as Arthur went back over to his side of the room to do the same, albeit in a much neater fashion.

"So I'm guessing you're leaving after this to go find something to put in that bottomless pit you call a stomach?"

"Nah. Got something to eat while I was out. Didn't think you could handle the smell of food right now. Also didn't think it was good to be apart for too long, what with the people trying to kill us."

Arthur paused in the middle of fishing his clothes out of the laundry bag. He looked surprised, and a little bit impressed. "Oh. Well, thank you. Glad to see you're capable of forethought."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the backhanded comment and continued with his folding.

"Anyway," Arthur continued "While you were gone, I was thinking about out next step, and I think that we- YOU WANKER! WHY ARE MY SOCKS PINK!?"

"Revenge!" Alfred laughed, throwing up his hands in the manner of sports fans everywhere when their team has been successful. "Now we're even!"

He continued laughing as Arthur gave him a few more choice insults and then, when the insults didn't work, began chucking laundry at him. Alfred retaliated, surprising a smile out of Arthur. By the time it became clear that they had a clothing war on their hands, both were in stitches.

They each took a defensive position, packed into the tight spaces between their beds and the walls, and soon the middle of the room was a no man's land of shirts and pants and socks and a handful of items that Alfred didn't remember washing. Eventually Arthur, who had a much smaller stock of munitions than Alfred, gave a roar, leapt over his own bed, and charged Alfred. To his credit, the man didn't even slow down when Alfred pegged him in the head with a pair of jeans as he crossed the space between the two beds. Instead, he kept his momentum and had soon crossed the second bedspread, entered Alfred's makeshift trench, and begun pelting him with the pink socks that had started the war.

Alfred began shrieking hysterically. What other response is there when a man with a pair of jeans wrapped around his neck like a scarf begins slapping at you with a pair of pink socks? Arthur must also have become aware of how absolutely ridiculous things were because after a few attacks he collapsed as well, the two of them laughing like madmen in the cramped space where Alfred had made his last stand. Eventually, they quieted to breathless giggles, and Alfred shamelessly drunk in the sight of a happy breathless Arthur.

At least until Arthur kicked him.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You owe me new socks." Arthur said, trying to seem annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah. There's a new pack in my laundry bag."

Arthur wiggled out of their hiding place to fetch his new socks. Once Alfred had joined him, he handed over the jeans he had appropriated for neck ware and the two of them began to tidy up the hotel room.

"As I was saying" Arthur began, as if he hadn't been the one to start the brief but furious war "I was thinking about our next step, and I think that we should consider heading back."

"Wait. You mean you want to head towards the people that are trying to kill us?"

"Yes."

"Are you nuts?" Alfred exclaimed. There was no way Arthur could be considering a head on confrontation with those people. They'd get their asses kicked six ways to Sunday, a beating that would conclude with a complimentary bullet to the brain.

"No. Hear me out. Mathias said they were searching for us in a grid pattern. I think I can use that to track them back to their place of operations. I just need a map and the coordinates of the last places we've run into them."

"And once you've found their lair, what do you plan to do then?"

"They've obviously got more intelligence on Tino's plan then we do. I'm going to steal some of it and even out the playing field." Arthur tone of voice would suggest that he was talking about walking into a convenience store and picking up some milk, not breaking into an unknown location, filled with people who had expended a lot of effort trying to kill them, and making off with their valuables.

"Sorry, but this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. Why would I want to be a part of this?"

Arthur looked at Alfred, wide eyed and determined and just a tad vulnerable. "Because I can't do this without you."

Sitting hunched over in the driver's seat, hands not leaving the wheel, Alfred had come to the conclusion that he was in trouble. Arthur had given him the look. The one all his past girlfriends had used to make him fold on whatever issue they were trying to press. Alfred didn't want to got to a play? Give him the look. Alfred didn't want to watch their dog for the weekend? Give him the look. Alfred didn't want to help them sort their shoe collection? Give him the look.

Alfred would buckle every time.

Now it seemed that Arthur was capable of giving him the look, but the worst part was that Arthur didn't even seem to be aware that he was doing it. All of Alfred's past girlfriends had required a trial and error period before they could successfully pull it off, and they usually kept it stored away in their arsenal until they needed it. And it didn't even work for them when it came to things that Alfred really didn't want to do. Things that might cause him bodily harm were definitely on that list, and Arthur really shouldn't have been able to make him do this, not even with the look.

Yet here he was in his car, waiting for Arthur to get back from some important spy work.

To be fair, it wasn't like Arthur had batted his eyelashes and Alfred had just rolled over. There'd been some serious discussion, and they'd spent a long time hashing out the details and making sure it wasn't a suicide mission they were rushing into. Alfred had put his foot down, saying that if Arthur couldn't keep food down by the time they planned to go then they weren't going. Arthur had likewise forbidden Alfred from leaving the car and told him to leave if he wasn't back by a certain time. Alfred had silently come to the decision that he'd give Arthur an extra five minutes, no matter how mad it made the Brit.

Never leave a man behind and all that jazz.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried not to think about how the man he was currently having one-sided feelings for was out in the dark somewhere risking his life. God, he felt like an army wife. And there was something he'd never though he'd say about himself. But it was hard not to worry when he had absolutely no idea what was happening. Arthur was out there right now and he could be hurt or dying or dead or-

Or he could be fine. Alfred clung to that thought and pushed the more unpleasant ones to the back of his mind. Arthur was fine. He was coming back. He'd come back and the two of them would drive off to safety and there was absolutely no reason for Alfred to go blurting out how he felt about the man just because there was a chance that something bad might happen.

If the two of them were going to die, then Alfred was not going to be the one to make their last moments awkward.

Alfred remained alone with his thoughts for a further fifteen minutes before Arthur rejoined him, appearing from the darkness, arms full of pilfered goods, and nearly scaring Alfred out of his skin. He snuck into the car, Alfred started the engine, and they were moving before Arthur had even buckled up.

"Did you get it?" He asked, using the question as an excuse to glance over at Arthur. A quick once over revealed that Arthur was lacking in bullet holes, bruises, or even minor scrapes. Alfred allowed himself to relax slightly.

"It was hard to see what was what, but I did manage to steal some papers that looked important. Not to mention this." Arthur produced a laptop from the bottom of the stack.

"Think you'll find something useful on there?"

"No. I think you'll find something. You're the computer expert after all."

"Oh."

"Think you can manage?" he asked, eyebrows raised and head tilted in a way that had Alfred reminding himself that Arthur was not flirting with him. Challenging him maybe, but not flirting.

"Yeah." Alfred responded, trying to sound collected. "I can manage."

[End Chapter]

Congratulations, Alfred, you've managed to friendzone yourself.

Speaking of Alfred, you can blame him for the delay in updates. He hijacked my writing, as writers know characters are wont to do, and came to the realization that he liked Arthur ahead of schedule. And while I liked that he was more emotionally aware than I'd given him credit for, it meant that I had to redo my plans for the next few chapters and throw out some writing I'd already done for said chapters.

Why does no one ever warn you that characters can do this?

Continue?