Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.
This is my first holiday story. It was surprisingly fun to write. ^^
As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.
Enjoy!~

Black Magic and the Fourth of July

Sheets of rain pelted America's house, saturating the dark soil and summer-yellow grass while new streams formed in the gutters, snaking their way down to the nearest storm drain. "Ugh," the wheat-haired country complained, his nose pressed against the gargantuan square window that lined one wall of his living room, "this is the worst Fourth of July ever. It's raining so hard… there's hardly gonna be any fireworks this time around. Plus, I'm all alone…"

Even Tony had taken his annual vacation away from America this week, leaving the blonde to his own devices. His shoulders slumped as he moved away from the window, pushing the silver-framed Texas up onto his nose as the state tickled his bridge, threatening to fall. His cerulean eyes scanned his living room as he plopped down onto his cushy, chocolate-hued couch, snatching the remote off the stout, glass-top coffee table and pointing the plastic rectangle toward the wall-mounted flatscreen. A random infomercial danced across the screen as the television hummed to life; America surfed the channels for a bit, sampling each of the shows that flashed across his periphery before settling on a news channel. He hoped for a live broadcast of someone shooting off fireworks, though he didn't let his hopes get that high: he hated having them crushed. It always felt like someone had doused the flame of determination that usually burned behind America's azure eyes when his hopes came crashing down around him.

His chest heaved as a heavy sigh escaped him: he tossed the remote onto the coffee table in front of him, yanking his brown leather bomber jacket closed and zipping it up: an unexpected chill danced the length of America's spine. Damn drafty house, America thought absently, I really should get that fixed one of these days. Oh well: I'm just happy the stupid thunderstorm cooled everything down. 100 degree weather doesn't seem like much until you've experienced it. The commercials gave way to a balding news anchor as he outlined the evening news: someone had of course set their foot on fire because they were careless with their fireworks. A throaty chuckle exuded America: he really should thank Mexico for lending him some of her best fireworks for his country's birthday. If he couldn't see fireworks tonight, he'd at least get a laugh out of all the accidents that his country's silly denizens get themselves into when given a pyrotechnic toy that they obviously can't handle.

A gentle cat's meow caressed America's eardrum: a brow raised reflexively as his eyes narrowed, studying the television for any sign of a cat. "Weird… I thought I heard a cat meow. But that'd make no sense since I don't have a cat. It must have been the TV… maybe I zoned out again."

He snagged the onyx remote off of the coffee table, his finger jabbing the Mute button as deafening silence pervaded the extinguished electronic sound from the TV. Another faint meow buffeted the silence as America hopped to his feet. "What the hell?" he whispered to nobody in particular as he honed into the sound, attempting to pinpoint the source.

His sound-tracking led him to his oaken front door, adorned with a newly-painted American flag on the front. His hand gripped the knob and turned, tugging the door open. He stuck his head out into the balmy summer air as a wall of rainwater trickled just inches in front of his face. His ultramarine eyes swept his yard for any sign of a cat until a meow emitted from his feet. His gaze snapped down to his doorstep: his eyes bulged in surprise as he glimpsed a tiny, fragile-looking kitten sitting regally on his welcome mat. "Aww, how cute," he murmured, a sheepish grin breaking across his face as he stooped down.

The miniscule kitten wore his coat of silky golden fur as if it were a royal cloak. His hopeful emerald eyes glanced up to America as he mewed adorably once more, seeming to almost smile up at the country. America scooped up the fluffball and took him inside, his hip slamming against the door as it fell back into its square frame. He held the kitten up to his eye-level, his palms prickling slightly from the kitten's diamond-hard claws protruding only slightly from his fluffy paws. America took notice that there were more whiskers than normal sticking up from the kitten's brow—his mind flashed over to the image of Britain's face, complete with his thick brows. He laughed silently to himself, his grin unconsciously expanding as he muttered, "Wonder what brought you to my doorstep, little kitty… you're probably hungry."

The little kitten meowed almost in reply to America's question. "Alright then, let's go raid my fridge, shall we?" The country chortled as he paced into his kitchen, jerking the steely refrigerator door open and grabbing a pack of sliced ham from the cool depths.

The fridge door tumbled closed on its own as America brought down a plastic plate from his cupboards, placing it and the picayune kitten on the counter. He withdrew a few slices of ham from its packaging and ripped it up, placing it on the plate for the kitty. As America found a tiny cup in the back of his cupboard, the kitten buried its face in the food, first prodding the shreds with his powder-pink nose before eating. The country filled the cup halfway with water and left it beside the kitten as he fished a soda out of the fridge, cracking it open. The tiny butterball visibly jumped from the unexpected sound; a large hand ruffled the kitten's fur as America snickered. "You're a jumpy little guy, huh?"

A pair of faceted peridot eyes glared over a fluffy shoulder at the country, as if understanding what America said. America's brows rose out of bewilderment at the kitten's response as he sipped his soda. A gentle sigh emanated from the country as his head dropped to his chest, a wave of lonely nostalgia washing over him. "You know, kitty," he mumbled, "if it weren't for you I'd be all alone right now, on my country's birthday… I wish I'd invited someone over or something like that… I'm just glad I have you to keep me company."

The sated kitten waddled over to America, pouncing up to his shoulder effortlessly as his wispy tail tickled America's cheek, wedging himself between America's jaw and shoulder. A hand flitted up to the kitty, holding him there as memories drowned America: the sight of an old musket tumbling through the air until it hit the rain-soaked ground… his crimson-clad adversary on his knees in front of him…. The rain that echoed around him mimicked the drizzle that cleansed the battlefield that fateful day… the day of America's independence, 235 years ago to the day….

The fleeting warmth of the kitten's fragile body snuggled up to his neck snagged America out of his despondent reverie. Hot tears stung his eyes; he noticed the unmistakable feel of tear tracks prickling his cheeks. "Shit," he muttered under his breath as he wiped his face. "What the hell kind of country am I, thinking of the past like that? Like I wished it never happened…. Urggh!" He took the kitty into his hands as he whipped his head left and right a few times, dispelling his taboo thoughts.

Something akin to sympathy played in the kitten's iridescent irises as he met the churning oceans of emotion contained within America's eyes. The expression that his fuzzy companion wore somehow quelled the melancholy storm that began to overtake America's mind: somehow this cat was tuned into America, that much he could sense. Fatigue gripped the flaxen-haired country then, his eyes automatically lidding in reflexive response. He couldn't hold back the fretful yawn that burst out of him. "Well, I'm going to hit the hay, little kitty," America stated. "I guess you can come with me if you want. If not… feel free to leave."

Of course America felt as if he teetered on the edge of sanity, talking to a cat like this. Of course he couldn't talk back, cats couldn't comprehend language… right? The country cupped the kitten in his hands as he strode into his bedroom, flopping down on the double bed in the center of the room, his comforter embellished with his national colors. He set the kitten on his stomach; the kitty mewled sweetly, almost coaxing the country to lie down as America lay his head against his pillow, his sapphire eyes closing almost instantly.

Lightning danced in the pitch-black storm clouds overhead. America dashed toward a preset destination, as if his body had been programmed to take him to wherever he was headed. He dodged the elder trees of a forest, its canopy muffling the thunder that shook the earth underfoot. He expected rain but felt none pelt his body as he flew: he ran faster here than he could ever remember running. He burst out of the forest and stumbled, crashing to the ground and sliding a few feet ahead on his stomach. He expected the familiar tingling sensation that usually occupied his skin whenever he acquired a scrape, but the sensation hesitated to come. A pair of militaristic boots appeared in front of him: his gaze drifted skyward to find his friend staring down at him, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Britain," he tried to say, but the suffocating air staunched his speech.

The thick-browed country fell to his knees in front of America, his champagne hair tumbling forward to cover his forehead. He never broke eye contact with America as one of his hands caressed America's jawline, tilting his head upward to look at him full in the face. "Happy birthday, America," Britain muttered, his voice obviously subdued by something.

Britain leaned down to America, his nose barely inches away from the taller country's; panic blazed in America's sky blue eyes as he glimpsed Britain's familiar chartreuse eyes close….

"Aaaaagh!" America exclaimed as he bolted straight up in his bed, a sheen of sweat shining against his forehead.

He ran his fingers through his citrine hair, careful not to touch Nantucket, as his composure returned. "What the hell…? A dream?" He wondered aloud as his eyes darted around the room.

Inexplicable panic ignited in his chest as he searched for the dandelion-furred kitten that had wandered into his life last night. A strange weight leaned against the bed to the right of him: it was definitely heavier than the few pounds that constituted the kitten. His gaze slowly shifted to the right, his heart frantically pounding against his chest as he glimpsed a human figure underneath the covers. "Aaaaah!" He shouted as he yanked the covers back, uncovering a rather sleepy Britain.

The smaller country glanced up to America wearing an odd expression. "Wha—what are you yelling for, you wanker? And where the bloody hell am I?" He awoke at once, pulling the covers over his lap as he sat up and stared accusingly at America.

"Who are you to be shouting at me, you crazy country? How the hell did you get in my house? Why the hell are you in my house? And where the hell is my kitty?" America fumed, patting around the blanket in search of the sunflower kitten.

"K-Kitty? What are you talking about?" Britain stammered, apparently caught off-guard.

"Okay, you'll probably never believe me, but I'll tell you anyway," America began, pushing Texas back into its rightful place on the bridge of his nose, "I was watching TV when I heard meowing so I went to investigate and found this little kitty on my doorstep. It was the most adorable little kitty, with this really yellow fur and these amazing green eyes… so I brought it into the house, gave it some ham and water, then brought it with me to bed since I figured it could use a place to rest. Then I had this wacked-out dream about running through some forest and finding you, and then I woke up and you were beside me…. So how the hell did you get here anyway?"

Britain blinked, taking a moment to process all of the information America spewed. "Honestly I don't remember how I got here… or why exactly I seem to have no clothes…. I don't remember anything past fiddling around with some dark magic in my basement a few days ago, I'm guessing…. It feels like I've woken up from a really long sleep."

"Dark magic? Really, Britain? You expect me to believe that?" America stared incredulously at his acquaintance.

Britain sighed, the crimson blood boiling underneath the skin of his cheeks, reddening his face. "I don't expect you to believe it, actually. You don't believe anything else anyone says, America! You only really believe something if you see it for yourself! Ever since you became independent you've been like that!..."

Ever since you became independent. The words stung America as they replayed relentlessly over and over in his mind. Unless he was mistaken, did he detect a trace of sadness, of longing, in Britain's tone? His chromatic blue eyes softened as he gazed at Britain. "Ever since I gained my independence… you know I was a crazy teenager when that happened, right? I didn't exactly think things through, though I guess things are better this way…"

"How are they better this way, you git? I…" Britain cleared his throat softly before continuing, his voice thick, "I miss… having a little brother, you know…."

A smile drew across America's face; he reached out to Britain, lifting his face upward to look at him full on, his hand caressing his cheek. "It's better this way… only because…" He leaned in close to Britain, his face hovering inches from the shorter country's, his eyes never leaving Britain's shimmering verdigris pools.

"…Because…?" Britain prodded quietly, his face shading deeper scarlet.

"Now… we can do this." America closed the gap between them, his lips grazing Britain's at first, his iceberg eyes shutting. Shock widened Britain's eyes, freezing him for a moment, his heart skipping a beat before he deepened the kiss, his shaky right hand finding America's shoulder and gripping it as if it were the sole thing anchoring him to the earth.

America's soft tongue brushed Britain's bottom lip as shivers ascended the smaller country's spine. America pulled away then, flashing him an abashed grin. Britain shook his head as his arms wrapped around America, running his fingers through America's dirty blonde hair before resting his head upon the taller country's. His grip on America was tight and unfaltering as he muttered, "You're too damn adorable…."

America merely kissed along Britain's collarbone in response, a smile brightening his face as he watched goose bumps rise along the other's sinewy arms. "So… any idea on where my kitty might have gone?"

Britain was silent for a few moments before he replied. "I… —M-Maybe it just ran off for a tick. It might have gone back to its home, don't you think?"

America shrugged as his arms wound around Britain's attenuate frame, breathing in the bizarre but enticing scent of baked scones mingled with aftershave that defined the man in his arms, the same man that taught him almost everything he ever knew. "Yeah… I think so."

To be continued.