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Double Entendre

The oppressive scent of sweat awoke America from what must have been a very heavy slumber. Blinking at the ceiling, he sat up, immediately regretting the action. Amongst the assorted sore and stiff muscles was an overwhelming pain. It pulsed, each beat of his traitorous heart making the injury more apparent in his mind. It was sharp, as if thin, white-hot metal wires spread from his middle outward. America was not an idiot-he knew what this meant.

"Oh, Brother, you're awake," a voice said, disturbingly close. A hand came to Alfred's forehead and whisked his hair back. "You seem a tad warm. Do you have a fever?"

Alfred knew that voice, knew it disturbingly well, for nearly all of his memories included it. This was not a voice he wanted to hear. He drew away from the hand, wanting nothing to do with the Nation it belonged to.

"Stay away!" He hissed, ignoring the pain long enough to pull the blankets over his head. Maybe if he just closed his eyes hard enough, this horrible dream would go away, and he'd wake up with nothing more than a disturbing memory.

But such was not to be.

"I thought you'd returned to me." The voice sounded hurt, and maybe deep down, repressed due to necessity, America was hurting in response, but not now. He'd done what he did because his people wanted independence and that meant all attachments had to be severed. They could no longer be brothers.

"How'd you get that into your thick skull? Now where are my pants?" Alfred grumbled from under the blanket, not wanting to look his ex-brother in the face after what had transpired the night before, even though he couldn't remember a damn thing about it. Something that sounded like fabric hit his head, and the trousers were immediately pulled under with him.

"Well, I have to say, you had me convinced, Alfred. What, was this just another attempt to demoralize me before battle?" Arthur asked casually from somewhere off to his right.

"What is the name of Benjamin Franklin are you going on about?" The younger Nation really wished he could remember, but all his sleep-addled mind could recall was him going to sleep, in his own bed.

The sound of rustling next to him indicated that he wasn't the only one desperate to gain some form of propriety before Alfred emerged from his blanket shield.

"Well, around eleven last night, as I was sitting in the living room drinking my tea, I heard a knock at my front door. Thinking it was France come to throw things at my windows again and then tell me about it, I opened it up. And to my surprise, who should be there but the last person I ever expected to see. You. You asked if you could come in and then started apologizing and begging me to take you back. You made a very convincing argument, and as you can see and probably feel, I believed you." He gestured rather vaguely in Alfred's general direction and shrugged.

"How the hell does a 'convincing argument' lead to-to this!" America shouted, gesticulating fiercely. As if waking up in someone else's bed with no recollection of what had happened hadn't been bad enough, his supposed bed partner just had to be the one person he didn't ever want to see again.

"Well, you, er-" England began, but Alfred raised a hand to stop him.

"Never mind, I don't want to know." Knowing would just scar his brain further. "Just... give me the rest of my clothes and I'll be on my way. I'll see you on the field tomorrow."

Before any word of protest could be made, he lunged from the bed, sheet flying behind him like a cape, and hurriedly made a bid for any garment he saw on the wooden floor. Scooping them into his arms, he ran out of the room, down the steps, out of his ex-brother's house, and through the nearby woods. He didn't pause for breath once.

But when he led his army the next day, he would have to return the simple white sheet to England. Dammit.

When he finally reached his home, America decided to run himself a bath. Perhaps then he could relax a bit and begin to comprehend the situation a little better. It was unnerving as well as infuriating, being unable to remember doing something. It bothered him because if he was acting unconsciously, it would be a serious disadvantage for his cause. It struck him that this incident may not have been the first, but perhaps he had sleepwalked before.

But why would he go to England? The green-eyed Nation was the last person he would go to. Consciously. But unconsciously? Underneath his façade of Independence, "no taxation without representation", Liberty, and Freedom, what did he really think? That tiny minority in his mind that hissed and reviled his every action against his brother. What did they do while he slept so peacefully? He knew deep down that he wanted nothing more than to talk with England again, be allowed to love him again. He missed the days where he was always secure in the fact that there was someone there to catch him if he fell or watch his back from the other imperial powers trying to tear off pieces of his land. He missed England's smile when he came to visit and being able to hug or touch his brother whenever he needed contact. He was lonely now, being separate.

But that was only the tiny minority. His other half, the more dominant half, desired Freedom. It wanted nothing to do with that old decrepit Nation, who only sought to repress him. He was fighting the tyranny of the ages. He was setting the stage for the end of authoritarianism, fighting for what was right. His inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of... happiness. Happiness. Happiness had long since been lost in this war. Happiness had been spending days in the grass as England made tea and scones. Happiness had been waiting eagerly for his brother to visit, even though it had been so lonely while he had been away. Happiness had been curling up next to Arthur for a small nap on the couch.

If he won this war, would he ever have his happiness? Or would he be doomed to be free and alone? Half his mind told him that the sacrifice was for the people and worth every night spent alone. But the other half screamed in indignation, saying that no liberty was worth hurting the thing most precious to you.

He's not that precious to me! He screamed inside his head. Yes, he was my brother, but it is worth the sacrifice! He can be replaced with other allies. France is kind-a bit lewd, yes, but kind, and cultured.

Oh, please, a sly voice replied. He tried to bed you three times as "payment" for his aid. He is scum in comparison to England. Arthur kept you company all those nights when you were afraid of the thunder; he held your hand when you were sick. Do you not remember these times? Or have you become so blind that you would ignore the unconditional love that he has always offered you?

Unconditional! Please! He has treated me like nothing more than a scapegoat from debt for the past several years!

Hush, Alfred. It's your duty as the colony, the younger brother, to offer what assistance you can.

"Not when he is requiring too much from me!" Alfred shouted, not entirely sure why screaming at the entire room made him feel slightly better. But the echoes of his voice ringing against the ceiling and walls made him feel a little less angry at the events he'd awoken to.

He lost control of his mouth, and as much as he wanted to stop whatever was spewing through his teeth, the effort seemed futile. "You ungrateful little shit! Just look at all he's done for you. When you think about it, England is only asking for a very little favor."

"It is not a 'very little favor,'" Alfred hissed after regaining control of his muscles. "He has no right to levy taxes on me when I have no representative in his parliament to protest it! If I were allowed to negotiate, then maybe it would be a little different, but the fact still remains that I have as much right as a citizen as he does. And besides, it's too late now; we're already this far into it, there is no turning back now. The Declaration has been signed and sent; battles have been fought for two years now."

"That may be the case, but there are still ways to get what you and your people want. Call a cease-fire and we'll talk it over and maybe afterward your people will have their representation and you'll still have England." The voices were sounding extremely reasonable now, though that only seemed to rile up the other side of his mind.

"There is no turning back. Maybe at the beginning it would have been possible, but too much blood has been spilled already. We will not return to a country that fires on its own citizens and forces troops into our homes and restricts our expansion into lands that are rightfully ours! We may have once been kin, but time and separation have made us two separate peoples. We are no longer England and its colony; we are England and America. We are separate and free, liberated to choose our own course from here on out, unobstructed by the iron-tight death-grip England has on our funds, slowly suffocating our people under the heavy burden of fiscal responsibility." With that resounding note, the voices died away, leaving Alfred alone in his head.

The silence left him with a feeling of unease, that perhaps his people were divided after all, as divided as he was. Families had been separated by this war. Children were an ocean away from their parents. This fight had riven families in two and had separated towns. He was left with one decision: stand and fight, or return to England with his tail between his legs because he couldn't handle being alone. His indecision was what was tearing his mind and his people apart.

He had to decide: his people or his heart. Looking down into the tepid bathwater, the decision was made.

An abrupt knock on his door reminded England that even the best of evenings could come crashing down on him. Scowling, he swallowed his latest bite of scone and washed it down with a sip of Earl Grey. He cleared his throat before standing up, striding quickly and efficiently toward his doom-well, his door, but was it really different? Obviously, France had come to visit him again, probably trying to gloat about how America was on his side and about the things he was going to do to the younger Nation after they'd won.

"What is it?" He asked, slamming the door open and looking crossly up at-

America. His dear younger brother was at the door, shivering with the December chill. It was cold out, even down near Savannah, enough to merit a coat at the very least. But America wore only a white pair of trousers and a thin flannel shirt.

"Brother!" The younger, taller Nation exclaimed, and at this point, Arthur realized that Alfred was crying. Silent, glistening tears, yes, but tears nonetheless. The Nation threw himself into England's arms, shaking with what seemed to be suppressed anguish. "I've made a terrible mistake! Please, I'm so sorry! Forgive me!" He fell into a crumpled ball on the dark, cold hardwood floor.

Flustered, England bent down and put his arms around his brother's shoulders, immediately concerned. Perhaps the war had bent him farther than his sanity could take.

"Well, come on, then, I'll make you some tea." Arthur pulled his slightly chilled brother up from the floor and helped him into a chair. It was a good thing that England always made an extra cup of tea just in case he had an unexpected guest or if one cup just wasn't enough to calm his nerves. That was what he wanted to say, though. The real reason was that it was still out of habit. It was nice to have someone there to drink that extra tea.

They sat by the fireplace in silence as America drank his tea, visible shivers running their course up and down the young Nation's spine. The time was already late, but the fire still crackled heartily, and the tea was still warm. Wordlessly, England offered his younger brother a scone, and Alfred accepted it with a nod of what England sincerely hoped was thanks.

It was endearing, really, watching Alfred as he slowly dragged himself toward the fire, eventually making a mad, scuttling bid for the warmth of the flames. So many things were the same about him. Arthur really couldn't say how much he dearly loved Alfred, as the amount couldn't be contained in such mundane means as words. They boxed in the everlasting feeling of rightness that, even if he had repressed it of late, had always resided in his entire being. Without thinking, he walked over to where America was sitting and placed a blanket around both of them.

"Come here," he said quietly, just like he had so many cold nights in the past. America came willingly into his embrace, looking up only for a moment as if to ask, "are you sure?" England nodded just for a moment and squeezed the younger Nation's shoulders. Softly, tenderly, he laid a kiss on America's forehead.

"I'm sorry," Alfred said just as softly. His voice broke on the second word, as if he was holding back a sob.

England shook his head and kissed his brother's hairline, which was in reach. "Don't you worry about it. It's okay."

They sat there for a good long while, until the fire had almost extinguished itself, leaving only glowing orange embers behind, and the antique grandfather clock in the corner had chimed twelve times. Gingerly, Arthur stood and leaned over so that Alfred could take his proffered hands. He heaved the other Nation up and sighed.

"Much as I would like to spend more time in your company, I must sleep," he said regretfully. Immediately, America's face crumpled.

A second later, the young Nation was clinging to his arm as if it was the only thing there to keep him from drowning.

"Arthur, please, please, let me stay! I don't want to be alone anymore. Can't I just sleep with you, just like old times?" And then he pulled on that face, the face that always got England to do exactly what America wanted. Especially when he added the tears.

So, seeing no way to deny the boy without it leading to more tears and more clinging, Arthur led his brother up the grand staircase and into his room. When they reached the room-a large chamber with an equally large bed and a westward-facing window-Arthur climbed into bed and shifted the pillows so that they were set for two people.

"Here, let me get you a nightshirt," he said absently.

"No, it's okay, I don't want to trouble you more," his brother said in a small voice. The younger Nation then proceeded to unbutton his flannel shirt. He shrugged the garment from his shoulders, and a moment later, his pants followed. "I'll just go to bed like this."

It was perhaps a relief that Alfred had left his undergarments on, as Arthur was sure he would burst-already, he was blushing-if another inch of his brother was exposed. Damn that annoying, rose-bearing, wine-drinking, cheese-eating surrender monkey for putting such-such lewd thoughts into his head! To make matters worse, Alfred then crawled into the bed next to him and snuggled up against his chest in what looked like an attempt to get as close as possible to him.

"Mmm, you're warm, just like I remember, England!" The younger Nation exclaimed happily, face shining as he looked up innocently.

"Er, thanks," he said, feeling his face heat just a little bit. "You're warm, too."

"Hey, England, you still love me, right?" America asked, his voice a pitiful tone that was somewhere between a whine and a hiccup.

"Yes, of course!" He exclaimed, surprised the other Nation could even think of asking that.

"Even after all I've done?"

"Yes." He said it firmly, with conviction. "Now go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning, okay?"

America nodded and lay back, still preciously holding on to the older Nation. England blew out the candle on his bedside table and encircled Alfred in his arms. The Nation smelled like fire and smoke and Earl Grey, like wheat and corn, like friendship and love. He loved Alfred so very, very much, enough that even the greatest tea in the world couldn't erase the hurt the Nation's recent actions had inflicted upon him. He wanted to throw a tantrum, scream and cry until all those strange, mixed-up emotions in his chest were expelled from his system.

And then there were the fantasies. But he couldn't dwell on those now, especially as America was in the room with him and there was no way in God's deepest layer of Hell that he would ever act on those. The fantasies were only images and ideas instilled on his mind by the stupid wine-guzzler. And no, he was not thinking about those.

Slowly, Alfred's only available hand moved across the flat surface of England's chest, coming to rest just above the smaller Nation's heart.

"It is good to know that it still beats," America mumbled sleepily, obviously nodding off. England allowed himself the barest hint of a smug smile-he finally had his brother back and this ridiculous war would soon be over. His eyes fell closed, and he began to card his fingers through Alfred's hair as the Nation fell slowly into sleep. It was so very warm under the thick blankets, so peaceful and quiet and wonderful to hear the sounds of his brother's breathing, that he felt himself beginning to nod off, too.

As soon as he became groggy enough to free his mind from the thick, controlling chains, though, the fantasies were back. America moaning and writhing underneath him, panting and calling out Arthur's name. Both of them working up a sweat even though it was December. A hand pulling through his hair and nails digging into his back as their movements became too much for either of them to handle. Pulling his beloved brother as close as was humanly possible before collapsing into sweet oblivion.

But those were fantasies that could not be entertained in reality.

"Alfred," he sighed, too far gone in exhaustion to understand that he'd spoken aloud. The fantasy changed, morphed into a larger hand trailing down from where it had lain on his chest to his stomach and further to the hem of the long, baggy nightshirt. The hand then slithered up the top of his thigh, moving inward until it was close, so close-

Holy shit, it was actually happening! England's eyes snapped open, and he positively squawked as America's hand brushed lightly between his legs.

"What are you doing!" He yelled, hoarse because his throat had gone very, very dry. In the dim moonlight, he saw America's face fall a little, like he had been hoping for a better reaction. The Nation gave another soft, barely-there brush of his hand, effectively damming the stream of air in the back of Arthur's throat. He wanted to berate Alfred, but all he could think about was how he just wanted more and how his hips were moving forward, trying to gain any sort of friction or touch in general and how-oh, dear God-how he so very desperately wanted this.

The teasing touches continued, Arthur unable to say a thing, only able to whimper at Alfred's touch. Vaguely, he knew that this should never be done. They were brothers, friends. They were in an unbreakable, perpetually platonic relationship.

"My actions in the past, though I despise them, no longer make me your brother, at least not until this war has been finished and settled," America reminded him in a hot, sly little voice that blew equally hot, moist breath into his ear.

The sinful touches began again, just as light, just as horrifyingly arousing. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay still. But then the hand disappeared entirely. He let out a low moan.

"Do you not like it?" There was a note in Alfred's voice that sounded disappointed, betrayed. England scowled through the dark at him.

"You idiot!" He hissed, fishing around under the covers for that big, frisky hand and placing it exactly where he wanted it. "If you're going to do that, at least do it properly! Damn it, you never were good at hands-on things, were you?"

"If you're talking about the chair incident," America began heatedly, finally putting a little bit of force into his touch, eliciting a moan from England, "that was hardly my fault."

"Hardly? Hardly! I had to get a new set commissioned from the carpenter because of your fat arse!" Arthur replied, outraged. After "accidentally" breaking one of the tall, custom-made dining chairs, Alfred had then tried to "fix" it. The ending result was a fragile, wobbly plank of wood, barely held up by three poles. It had collapsed the second a significant amount of weight was put on it.

"It was an honest mistake!"

"Shut your lying mouth!"

And then they were kissing, England on top of America's broad frame, hands going everywhere. Faces, hair, arms, thighs, stomachs, sides, chests, everything was being touched. Alfred lifted his hips as Arthur nibbled at the edge of his collarbone, and they pressed together. Fabric was lost in a heated tangle of limbs. England found himself being dominated by a fierce America, but he wouldn't have the other Nation take him this way. He would be the one to do the taking, as befitting of an Empire as strong as his.

He turned them, tackled America at the throat and then the chest, all the while moving them closer together so that the sweet clashing pleasure swirled about them in waves.

"Do as I say!" He hissed, and at once, Alfred complied.

"Just give me an order," the younger Nation moaned. That wasn't a reaction Arthur had been expecting, but he would take it, seeing as Alfred was now pulling him down again.

Later, in the fuzzy afterglow, with Alfred's arms wrapped possessively around him, Arthur felt as if his era was not diminishing as he had once begun to think, but rather, with this sudden, wonderful development, that his age of empire would last for many decades into the future.

But apparently, he had been wrong.

Arthur's heart let out another aching throb as he recalled that particular night, yet again. The flames rising from Norwalk, great licks of fire caressing the buildings away into nothing, provided a somber background to England's inner turmoil.

It had been seven months since that night, and it already seemed like a distant memory of times when life had been slightly less blood-soaked. But it was no use dwelling on the impossible. There were cities to burn and colonies to reclaim.

It had hurt though, he could admit that to himself at least. It had hurt to wake up next to his brother again, only to have the peace ripped away so callously. It had burned like a brand when Alfred had looked at him with such disdain and disgust that morning.

It had been that morning when Arthur had realized that it was going to take more than a few small skirmishes to convince his brother to return to him. Especially with the conflict dividing Alfred further and further. Arthur had recognized the symptoms almost immediately. The sudden irrational behavior, seemingly incoherent mood swings, drastic changes in demeanor. The newly "independent" Nation was tearing himself apart in his desperation to fight for what all his people wanted. That was a Nation's job, wasn't it? Normally, there wasn't a problem, but it would appear as if Alfred's people were having conflicting loyalties.

Arthur had seen it happen before, but to a far lesser extent, with Spain and his Inquisition. The difference was drastic; instead of a complete switch in personality, it seemed that Alfred had developed a completely conscious multiple personality, though whether Alfred was aware of his Loyalist counterpart was still unknown to England. And perhaps that was for the best. For the both of them, because the elder Nation knew just what insanity could do such a young Nation. Alfred would tear himself apart and come crawling back to his dear, loving brother, who, of course, would welcome him back with open arms and they both would forget all the horrible events that had transpired these past few years.

Arthur felt the adrenaline coarse through his veins in anticipation. All he had to do was wait.

Today was the day. Today he was going to show his former colonizer what he was made of.

Standing on the outskirts of Savannah, his army standing solemnly behind him, Alfred could feel the cool October air prickle the skin on the back of his neck. His heart beat erratically in his ribcage as adrenaline soaked his veins. His plan was sound-the French Admiral D'Estaing had brought up troops from the Caribbean the month before, and though the heavy bombardment they had brought upon the city should have forced an uncompromised surrender, there was always the option of open offensive. The troops were to attack in secrecy along Spring Hill, and despite the deepening fog, they were going to march.

A soft breeze rolled by, just the smell hinting at the blood that would inevitably be shed. Steeling his nerve, Alfred signaled for his troops to follow him. They marched dutifully behind him, plodding just quietly enough not to give away their position. There was a rustling behind him, announcing his ally's presence.

"Eef zat swine shows up, you remembair your roll, oui, Alfred?" Francis asked. Alfred nodded. He wasn't looking at "that swine" as his brother anymore. "Zen we will begin." With a few short, lyrically barked orders, the joint American-French army went forth into the outskirts of the city.

They just hadn't counted on the fog being more of a barrier than the soldiers themselves. Alfred found himself sloshing through a knee-high swamp, stumbling past trees and trying to keep his troops together and prepared for attack at any movement. The pitch black of the pre-dawn morning chilled his soaked soldiers. He had known this was a bad idea. He had told that D'Estaing this had been a bad idea.

The sun had risen and the fog was beginning to be burned away when his tattered band of rebels made it over the last of the muddy banks and onto dry land. Turning to the city that was just beyond the trees to his left, Alfred and Francis rallied their forces and marched on.

They were met with immediate resistance. His troops fell like flies from the hail of bullets that rained down from all sides, and their blood oozed from his wounds. Cannon fire shed powerful waves of sound down the battlefield, whistling destruction with each bright flash. Every time one of his people died, Alfred's skin prickled and bled anew.

And they wouldn't stop dying.

It was a massacre, really, with screams of agony and cracks of weapons and bone echoing so loudly that Alfred felt like it was all in his head and that none of this was real and that if he just opened his eyes wide enough, it would all disappear and he'd just be there with his brother next to him, offering him tea, and he really, really hated war, and he just wanted it all to stop, and why did he hurt!

Still, he kept fighting, and beside him, he saw Francis taking just as many injuries, but the Nation put on a valiant face that America could never hope to mimic. Perhaps it was because he was so new to this war thing or that he was still so very, very young, but Alfred could not help but wince and gasp at each soldier's death, couldn't help but feel the roiling in his stomach every time a musket ball passed through another victim's flesh, tearing away muscle and sinew in an explosion of gore that left a vivid trail of pain on the pallid morning grass. The sensation of tearing and ripping of both cloth and body pounding through his tattered veins was enough for his face to seek sweet relief in the rust-colored turf of the battlefield. And all he could do was watch as, one by one, his men fell to their knees, eyes clouded and darkened in death's final blow. The sound of the retreat being called only brought ironic relief as he saw Francis ushering the remains of the battalion away to God knew where, so they could once again fight and most likely die.

He had always thought battlefields would be silent after a great slaughter. How naive he must have been, because there was no silence to whisk him away into the abyss of sleep. There was only Agony and the screams she elicited from her victims when the last of the shells had been spent. Alfred could hear them, hear his soldiers pleading for their last breaths to come and for the Maker to take them away to their eternal rest. Alfred could hear them, he could hear them, and he knew their names, each one of those boys whimpering for their mothers, brothers, sisters, or wives. He knew their agony, their sorrow, their regret for dying so early... but not for how they died. Pride in death, pride for a barely together country. Hope. Somewhere, a tiny fragment of his contrary being shivered and died; it knew the tide was going to turn, it felt it just as keenly as Alfred had. His people were going to fight and die for their freedom-his Americans, not his English or his colonists, but his Americans were going to fight and defeat all who stood in their way.

His heart shuddered a bit as yet another of his men passed into the great unknown. Ensign Benjamin J. Browning, Richmond Virginia, age 19. The knowledge came unbidden, and it was too much to bear; how did France deal with it? God, he couldn't take it any longer-he didn't want to know! How could freedom cost so much and still be out of reach?

Tears mixed with blood, but Alfred couldn't comprehend it anymore. The pain bit into his joints and gnawed until he felt like he'd just fall apart at the seams. All he could imagine was just a quiet, sunny day of moderate warmth, so much different than this hot, muggy, balmy, foggy weather. He sat under a tree as a light breeze came through, and he listened contentedly to his brother's traditional music, loving the soft, lyrical up-and-downs of each phrase. The aroma of tea wafted toward him, and when he finally had the energy to open his eyes, he would take a sip from the proffered cup and sigh serenely.

Instead, he was in a white room again. Just like he had been that day several months ago, when he'd discovered that there was something extremely wrong with him. And he was in pain, too, just like he'd been then...

The aroma of tea had not disappeared.

Bittersweet memories flowed through the back of his mind, tapering away as his eyes caught the teapot. It was still steaming and obviously hadn't been there long. Opening the small china lid and peering in, Alfred found his hypothesis to be correct; the tea was still steeping. Just the smell alone filled him with a nostalgia of lost times, and he found himself blinking back traitorous tears. He missed the companionship his former brother had given him.

The knob twisted almost innocently, and America hastened to return the covers over his dully aching body. He'd obviously been out a while, seeing as the injuries he'd received were very nearly healed. He tried to remember anything from after he'd fallen into the blood-saturated mud, but nothing came to mind. Where he was was obvious, but why he was there made him very confused. Maybe Francis had been right, and he did have a Loyalist problem. A sudden spear of dread pierced his heart and tightened all the surrounding muscles until they were useless. What if he had surrendered during his lost time?He could not let those damned Loyalists ruin what the majority of his people wanted, what he himself wanted. Yes, the battle had been devastating and yes, he had been very, very hurt and disheartened, but that did not mean that he wanted to stop fighting for what he truly believed was right.

The door opened, revealing a fatigued-looking Arthur, just as Alfred had feared-well, besides the exhausted part. The Nation didn't notice his former colony's state of consciousness and simply went to sit in the chair at Alfred's bedside. Carefully, methodically, Arthur poured himself his tea, the steam rising from the cup, causing him to squint his eyes, which in turn set his thick eyebrows in comical relief. Alfred had always loved that expression, merely because it had been so inconceivably unintentional. It reminded him of better times, reminded him that there was still a very large part of him that still loved his ex-brother.

Arthur scowled down at his tea as if he, too, remembered all the times Alfred had laughed at his face and could sense that he was thinking of it now. With precision, the older Nation added sugar and then milk to his warm drink and took a sip. Arthur sighed and looked over at the bed, meeting Alfred's eyes.

"Oh!" He sounded genuinely shocked. "You're finally awake!" He sat his teacup down on its designated saucer and stood up. The entire scene seemed surreal, like perhaps America was just dreaming this all and he was really still on the battlefield, bleeding out and crying like the pathetic young Nation he was.

He didn't quite know how to take it when England hugged him. Anger and hatred begged him to push the other Nation away and retaliate-they were still at war, were they not? But the bittersweet love that always, always remained was telling him to pull his ex-brother to him. They struggled in his head, neither side gaining anything on the other, so that America simply lay there with his arms halfway between a hug and a strangle.

"I knew this would happen! Especially with that damned Frog with you!" England proclaimed, burying his head in the crook of Alfred's neck.

Without thinking, the anger won out, and Alfred pushed Arthur away. He knew he was scowling, but he didn't really care. How dare England lecture him on his choice allies!

"Francis is not an incompetent ally! I can honestly say that he's better than you, brother." He spat the last word like a curse. England's green eyes snapped open in shock, and his lips parted in a way that Alfred most certainly did not find sexy.

"I..." England blinked, obviously completely flabbergasted at America's retort. He swallowed visibly, and then his eyes flashed and he was yelling back. "How dare you say Francis was-" He spluttered, "-was-is-better! After all I've done for you-"

"Which is what, exactly! Leave me on my own with a gun and tell me to defend myself while you go and take over other Nations! Tax me while you're out, let your leader put unfair laws in place!" Alfred screamed, his voice coming out crackly and raw but powerful nonetheless.

"You have no right to judge what I do with my colonies-which is what you are, Alfred: my colony!"

Outrage sparked through America's veins enough for him to sit up, bringing pain to his still battle-weary body. "I was your brother, and yet you took me for granted, thought of me only as your property," he hissed.

Whatever response had been in England's throat died, and the Nation fell into a stunned silence. An almost caring expression took hold of his face, and when he spoke, it was in that soft, loving caress of a voice that Alfred had heard so many times in his youth. "I never thought of you as my property."

"Really? That's not what you just said-I'm your colony?" He spat the words right back in England's face.

"No!" Arthur exclaimed. "No-I... you're still..."

"Still what?" Alfred hated himself a little for how soft and tender-weak-his voice sounded.

"...My... brother."

"No, we're not brothers anymore." America shook his head.

England's gaze turned downcast and looked more than a little depressed. "So, then, we are enemies," he stated, though it sounded much more like a question.

Alfred wanted desperately to say "yes," but he found himself shaking his head. No, they were not on good terms, and yes, they were at war, but there was a very large underlying affection that neither of them could afford to deny. After all, England had saved him on the battlefield after he'd passed out. And there had to be a reason he could barely control the Loyalists who kept wanting to be near Arthur's side.

"If we were enemies, then you would have just left me on the battlefield. But you saved me and took care of me, so I think we both know that. There's a part of me that despises you, Arthur," the young Nation said, looking his former colonizer in the eye, "but there is also a part of me that just wants to cling to you, like when I was little and afraid that you were going to leave and come back injured from fighting with Spain or France. There's a part of me, the part that is most dominant and overwhelming, that desires more than anything to be free from you and to make my own decisions, but it is stuck in conflict with the tiny part of me that needs you, that wants to hold you and kiss you despite wanting to push you away."

Alfred had no idea why he thought that telling Arthur the truth would help his situation, but it seemed to have caught the other Nation off guard enough to give himself the upper hand if things turned ugly. At least, that was what he was telling himself. In truth, it felt good to get everything out into the open where it couldn't be suffocating him in his confusion.

The younger Nation waited for Arthur to respond. He had said everything he had wanted to say and now he just had to wait and see how the truth would change things.

"Oh."

Alfred had kind of been expecting something a little more eloquent and perhaps a little more violent. But England just stood there right next to the bed, unmoving and most obviously dumbfounded.

And then England blushed. "K-kiss?" He asked, trying to camouflage his reddening face by covering it with a hand-or at least, that was what Alfred figured he was doing.

"Yes, kiss," Alfred stressed. He aspired to be a Nation that always said things how he saw them, and he would start by being honest with his ex-brother in the here-and-now. To reinforce it, he moved to the edge of the bed and leaned over until his face was level with England's. And then, ever so carefully, the distance between them collapsed as Alfred gently touched their lips together.

He pulled back a moment later, pleased to see that he still had Arthur's attention. His face was rather comical now that he thought about it. It was bright red, and the older Nation wore such a dumbfounded look that it was amazing that Alfred had ever been afraid of him, afraid of the power his ex-brother held.

"I know what I want, Arthur, and I won't let my emotions get in the way from fighting you to get it. But... I want you to understand that I don't think of you as my enemy anymore. You're just fighting for what your country wants, just as I am. But that doesn't mean we have to discard what we feel for each other because of it. I can be America and you can be England, but we can also be Alfred and Arthur," he proclaimed loudly, talking as confidently as he dared. England nodded absently, and the action was so stiff that Alfred could swear he heard the squeaking of un-oiled joints.

Carefully, he reached out-it still hurt, but he hid his wince as best he could-and pulled England down onto the bed with him. He hugged the older Nation very carefully to his broad chest.

"No one told you to grow up like this," Arthur muttered into the thin sheets that separated them.

Alfred shook his head and hugged England just a mite bit closer. He really wanted this contact, wanted the other Nation to understand that, brothers or not, enemies or not, he would always love him.

It was England who broke the stasis first, pulled back enough so that he could find an angle at which to lean in and secure their lips together. Just like Alfred's speech, the kiss was firm and confident, knowing. They each understood exactly what they felt, and now they were expressing it in the only way they could possibly imagine. Each of them was taking from the other and receiving just as much in return.

Arthur's hands fisted the sheets on Alfred's chest, and Alfred's hands left the warmth of the sheets to come around and rest at the small of Arthur's back.

The kiss deepened in a pleasant way, pooling heat in America's chest until he couldn't stand the distance between him and his once-colonizer. He didn't really recall how it happened, but suddenly, the white bedclothes were twisted and England was beneath him, pliant as sapling wood that would immediately be discarded on the ships on which the older Nation prided himself so much. Small, calloused hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the day's knots too hard. America hissed and broke the kiss, but England just used that as an opportunity to roll them both over-he was surprisingly strong for such a little Nation-so that the younger Nation found himself in the position his ex-brother had just vacated.

He was surprisingly okay with the change. The blankets were twisted a bit uncomfortably, but with England on top of him, staring down at him with such a... lusty gaze, well... he wasn't exactly complaining.

"Alfred..." Arthur murmured, running a hand down his-wait.

Why was his chest bare?

He pushed his former colonizer away from him and looked down. Immediately, a blush swarmed his entire body like a particularly persistent cloud of flies. Red everywhere, even-argh. Even there.

"I'm not an exhibitionist!" He exclaimed loudly, knowing innately what Arthur was about to accuse him of being. Instead, however, the other Nation just looked at him like he was an idiot-thick eyebrows raised high over lust-clouded eyes, mouth open in that "you really are an idiot, you know?" look-and then pushed him back down onto the bed.

"Why would you think that?" The smaller Nation asked him in a surprisingly low, almost guttural voice. It was strained and almost needy, and judging by the way he was attacking Alfred's mouth and chest and arms and torso and... other things, it was not just his voice that wanted to move things along.

"Because..." But Alfred trailed away. It was stupid, he was being stupid. It didn't matter. He just needed to claw away at the light button-up shirt that was being all "oh-ho, I'm in the way of your goal!" and then maybe start attacking those pants or something, because now that he looked at them, he could see that England was just as eager as he was.

He was spared the extra effort of clothing removal when Arthur pulled the shirt off and hastily undid his pants, quickly so as not to pause this most excellent moment between them.

It was amazing how fast their bodies came crashing onto each other, each of them trying to hold the other just a little bit closer. They both knew that this would be the last time they saw each other for a long time. The battles were far from over, and their leaders would never allow it. The atrocities of war could very well destroy whatever affection still lay between them, but at least they would have this moment to remember in fondness when all others were beyond salvage from the deep ocean of estrangement.

Nothing mattered to them anymore-not who was winning or who was losing, nor who was betrayed and who wasn't, nor even what was past or what was present-they were simply there, together, in one great length of perfect, heart-breakingly wonderful moments, just Alfred and Arthur, not brothers, not ex-brothers, just them, just the beautiful movements between them and the tea-flavored breath they shared, and the sweating, and the internal beating of their joined hearts.

Neither of them spoke beyond the grunts and gasps, but the silence was not uncomfortable. Each gentle clash of hips brought new meaning to the silence. Arthur's hands were tight on Alfred's hips, but if they hurt, the sensation was lost among all the others. All that really mattered was that he lean down and attempt to land a kiss on those supple English lips. Which he did, sloppy though the kiss was. So he just moved more, raked hands and stubby, battle-worn fingers down Arthur's chest. If there was pain on the other end, the smaller Nation didn't make any indication. So Alfred moved even more.

Vaguely, there was the realization that they were moving the bed and that the springs were making a racket and that there were birds in the distance chirping all too loudly, but they ignored those facts as they ignored anything else, shuddering into each other when the end came, neither moving even as the sweat still coating their bodies made them chilly. Because as long as they held each other close, as long as they were together and truly one entity, nothing could hurt them.

Yes, the end of such an embrace would have to come, but that time wasn't this moment, and maybe if they just held on long enough, the damned war would be over and they could be together all the time.

Without realizing it, Alfred nodded again, decided that that was the future he would work toward: the shining, golden future in which the two of them could embrace just like they were now and in which they were allies again; the shining, golden future in which they were brothers but not, because technically brothers did not hold each other like Alfred wanted to hold Arthur; the shining, golden future in which the two of them were happily together once more.

Alfred pulled away from the embrace but did not let Arthur go quite yet. He waited until the other Nation drifted to sleep with satisfaction and emotional exhaustion. Then he kissed him on the forehead and once more on the lips.

They would be together again. His resolve was firm.

But first he had a war to win.

A/N: That was so. Fucking. Long. It is about daaaamn time we finished this. We've been working on it since December. Yes, that's right, DECEMBER!1 (-insert lame inside joke here) Dunno what else to say except once again, Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas. ^^ We loves you, nightblink! ^_^