Hetalia one-shots

Sometimes the right one's hard to take (USUK): Revolutionary War AU

**Prompt was picture. MairaHavana should read this because it's usuk 😉 Their father = France; their unmentioned mother = fem!UK. Everyone else is explanatory. And I'm a slut for historical Hetalia!**

Alfred F. Jones took the girl's hand in the ballroom, his other hand crisply behind his back. He didn't want to be here because he hated being fake. He didn't want to dance with a pretty girl when he felt nothing for her.

Sometimes he wondered if he was supposed to feel some sort of thing for girls by now. He was nineteen, and his older brother Matthew had a girlfriend... So why didn't he? Why didn't he want one?

This was supposed to be a fun event, not something to make him feel disgustingly guilty. Alfred pushed those thoughts out of his mind as quickly as he could.

The dance took place in the local ballroom. It wasn't too elaborate, because no one had any spending money anymore. All of it was going to weapons. To the rebels.

Alfred wasn't concerned with girls. He was concerned with the the rebels.

"Oh thank you Alfred," the girl he was dancing with gushed prettily. He grinned back, more out of politeness than anything else. "That was very lovely."

"The pleasure's mine." He said back. "Would you like to dance again?"

"I think I'm going to sit down for a bit, but thank you kindly." She smiled and curtsied, and he inclined his head. As soon as the girl was gone he slumped his shoulders. Finally.

"Don't slouch."

"Matthew!" His grin turned genuine, and his older brother smiled his quiet, gentle smile. "How are you liking the dance so far?"

"It's all right." He said back with a small shrug. "A bit tedious but what can you do about that?"

"You can not go." Alfred mumbled. "We could be doing something actually worthwhile."

"Papa made us promise not to talk about that in public." Matthew said sternly. Then he softened. "I suppose we could make our excuses and leave early..."

"Really?!"

"Mm. For now, at least try and pretend you're having a good time." He nudged his shoulder, a smirk twitching his lips uncharacteristically. Matthew had been trying -- and failing, it should be noted -- to grow a mustache. He walked away to where his girlfriend was waiting for him.

Alfred groaned when he was left alone. There was nothing to do. He hated dances so much. Honestly he couldn't wait for the Rebellion -- the Revolution, just imagine the sound of that! -- to happen. Just so he wouldn't have to deal with all of this.

"I'm ready to dance again," Alfred's dancing partner chirped, appearing in front of him. He slipped a hand through her offered arm and led her onto the dance floor again.

The dance was breathless and mindless. He had memorized the steps as a child, both of his parents teaching him and Matthew the European mannerisms from habit. Alfred didn't have to think when dancing, and he liked it that way.

The dance turned and he backed up but fumbled -- and bumped into someone. He turned slightly, expecting it to be some blushing girl or prissy pissed off boy. "Sorry--"

It wasn't either of those people. A young man his age stood to the side of him: maybe a few years older, with a strong jaw and messy blonde hair and absolutely insane eyebrows. But he had striking, sharp bottle green eyes. And Alfred felt something inside him, something he didn't even know about yet, grow and burst.

But wasn't this how he was supposed to think about women...?

He stared back at him. And then something else registered to Alfred. The man was wearing a British uniform. He was British.

He was against the rebels.

"Quite all right." The man said with a soft cool voice, a heavy British accent rounding his words. It sounded handsome.

Before he could say anything back, Alfred's girl pulled him away and back to the dance. He tried to force those thoughts about the man out of his head: he was British! Hell, he was a man and men weren't supposed to think about other men like that...

But after the dance, he couldn't think of anyone else. He had to see him again somehow. He knew it was extremely risky and wrong, but he just had to.

"...I'm going out for some air," Alfred mumbled to Matthew, though he wasn't even sure if he was paying attention. No harm there though.

The air was cool against his flushed face, and he leaned back against the side of the building with a soft sigh. Maybe the strange British man wasn't even out here. Maybe he had left. Maybe he was some sort of weirdo.

Besides, Alfred didn't even know his name.

"Spare a light?"

Alfred squeaked in a very manly way and whirled around, hands up to defend himself if necessary.

The British man raised one monstrous eyebrow. "I'm going to say you don't." He said sarcastically.

Alfred blushed. Goodness, could he be any more smooth. "Sorry. You startled me, that's all."

"My my, I can see that." The man quipped back. Alfred took out a match and offered it to him. The man lit his pipe, and Alfred watched him with interest.

"Cheers," he mumbled around it before taking a puff. "Arthur Kirkland." he added after a moment.

"Alfred F. Jones." Alfred mumbled back, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Enjoy the dance?"

Arthur smiled wryly. "Mm, I suppose. I like dances, the idea and the class of them. They can be a bit stuffy though."

"A bit." Alfred smiled a little back. Just a little though.

"But I suppose we do have to have them," Arthur mused. "Even if they're stuffy, we have to have some sort of culture out here."

Alfred bristled. "What do you mean? There's plenty of 'culture' here!"

Arthur glanced at him. "Didn't mean anything bad by it, lad." He paused. "You're not one of those rebel folks, are you?"

Alfred didn't say anything, just looked at him. Arthur sighed a bit. "It doesn't matter. We'll keep the peace."

"Do you ever wish...you could have something that you probably can't have in reality? That other people wouldn't want you to have?"

"More than you can truly know." Arthur said bitterly. Alfred glanced down at the other man's hand; there wasn't an engagement ring or anything. "That's a particular subject."

"It is." That's what living in the states is like, he wanted to say. And what not liking women is like. But he didn't say either of that.

"By the way, I'm curious." Arthur stopped smoking to look at him head on now, his eyes bright in the dim night life. "What does the F. stand for in your name?"

Now Alfred did smile a real smile. "Freedom," he said simply.