Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, don't even own the cafe that this was based on. Just making myself feel better on an off day by writing some fluff.

Alfred ducks into the café, his heart feeling as heavy as the dark clouds above laden with English rain. They've fought again, him and Arthur, and he knows that if they stay in the house together the tension will rise until another argument starts and makes the whole thing worse. Since he's visiting Arthur, he decided to let the older man have his house and set off looking for somewhere peaceful.

He found this little place quite by mistake, but he decides almost instantly that he likes it as he takes a small table by the window front. It's hip, new-age; full of organic-this and fair-trade that, causing a spike in prices, but as the American sips his chai latte (the closest thing to tea that he'll drink in public), he notes that the food is good- better than the stereotypical British fare by far- and the place has a sleepy, groovy attitude.

Inside the café isn't very busy, not surprising considering the time of day, but there are just enough people inside to give him his privacy while not feeling alone. There are retired married couples, enjoying a late afternoon lunch, parents with children stopping for a break after running errands, and some college kids- dutifully typing away on their laptops. Alfred can relate to all of them, and he knows Arthur would too, were he here. He makes a note to bring his lover here when they've settled the latest argument.

The skies have opened up, and the cars rush by, but Alfred can't hear them. Not over the softly lilting music and the quiet bustle of people eating, chatting fidgeting. He feels like he could be back at home watching TV while Arthur knits, and the American smiles. Already he can feel his brain unraveling, his thoughts wandering as he lets the tension and the frustration and the jet lag and the general stress of being a nation wash away.

He unravels and unravels until there is nothing but a pleasant buzz in his brain, warm and fuzzy. All his problems seem far away and easily conquerable. Alfred realizes with a start that this might just be the peace of mind people find when they meditate. He isn't thinking angry or hurt thoughts, like he was when he entered the café, but he isn't not thinking about them, like when he plays his video games. He is not distracted, rather, more focused than before. Without him realizing it, he has begun to outline a sincere apology to Arthur when he gets back, complete with actually explaining how he felt like an adult, instead of just pointing fingers and accusing like the child his lover had accused him of being just hours before.

"I want to make this work," he says softly to himself.

"So do I, Love," Arthur says from behind him and Alfred jumps and turns. He just spoke a loud, didn't he? Ah, well. The clientele of the café don't really seem to be the type to judge.

The English nation embraces him- and he must want this to work because Arthur never engages in public displays of affection- and Alfred smells more Earl Grey than is in the café. He nuzzles his lover's cheek, not hearing the soft 'awww's from several customers (mostly female, if he had bothered to notice).

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and Alfred is shocked again because Arthur never says that he is sorry first. It is the remnants of the empire in him, "Let's go home, Alfred. We can talk and I'll let you have your say, I promise."

His green eyes are soft, and Alfred realizes that his lover is not just apologizing for their fight earlier in the day, but a fight that escalated into a war hundreds of years ago.

"Alright," he says with a smile, standing. He notices that Arthur is drenched- he must've forgotten his umbrella again- and drapes his bomber jacket over his lover's shoulders.

"Let's go home."

AN: Guess where I'm writing/publishing from? Guess what the weather's like! Guess what I'm drinking! XDD