England froze. His breath hitched in his throat and his body tensed under large, calloused hands. The man in front of him inhaled deeply; with elegance and grace, the man fell to one knee. He clasped England's hands within his own and kissed lightly at the tips of his fingers.

"Dance with me, Arthur." Honey-coated words slipped from the lips against his skin.

"A-America?" England stammered. His heart skipped a few beats and his stomach churned nervously.

"Please," the taller nation drew himself to his full height. He towered over his accomplice by a good head or so. "My name is Alfred."

Vibrant green eyes widened as England found himself being pulled into the American's chest. A hand fell to the slight curve of his hips whilst the other supported his back and ensured that no distance forced them apart.

"America-" England could barely muster a whisper.

"Alfred." America insisted. He adjusted his wire-framed glasses.

"Alfred," England muttered. "Why are we doing this?"

Alfred chuckled. England could feel the vibrations against his chest - it sent a shiver down his spine.

"Are you so busy that you'd forget your own birthday?" He trailed a finger down the smaller man's jawline before hooking it under his chin. He tilted the Englishman's face.

"Birthdays," England scoffed. "They're of no importance to us nations, America. We grow older but we do not age. I will forever maintain my appearance; a messy-haired twenty-three year old with monstrous facial features. I'm shorter than average and scrawny. Nothing to brag about."

America smirked and brought their lips closer.

"Nonsense," he mimicked a terrible English accent. "You're beautiful, Arthur."

England's face darkened in colour. He snarled.

"Mockery? I'd deem this neither the time nor place."

"You're gorgeous." America breathlessly murmured. "Piecing, seductive eyes that could bring any man to his knees... soft, milky skin... a mouth-watering figure..."

England could feel his partner's desperation. Wet lips fell to his collared neck.

"You're beautiful..."

Kiss.

"...Amazing..."

Lick.

"I love you."

Nip.

Teeth scraped gently against the pale hollow of his throat. England couldn't help himself. He moaned quietly.

"A-Alfred!" He blushed heavily.

England's ballroom was a place he'd never expect to find Alfred, dressed in a suit, ready to love him slowly and tenderly. Their whispers and cries of pleasure were left deaf to world's ears, contained within the elaborately decorated walls of the excessively large room, as they danced a dance only they knew how to perform.

A rare treat.

A/N: Happy non-canonical birthday, England! Just to confirm, a lot of people like to believe that today, the twenty-third of April, is England's birthday as it is also Saint George's Day. Saint George is the saint of England, for all those who don't know. I'm sorry for quality; this fic is a mere drabble... I just happened to be listening to a Vocaloid song that I feel influenced this story significantly...