Hetalia Fanfiction: Infinity to One by Jedishampoo

Summary: England and America up the antes on their Halloween contest, and then another situation reaches a critical point as well. Present-day fic.

Author’s Notes: Dear readers, expect country names, some brief crossdressing, drunkenness, first-time smut, more smut, silliness, and a minimum of politics. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. About 16,300 words. Thanks to my patient beta sharpeslass; she Brit-picked for me but I’m US American so I write with American spelling. Thanks also to Mosh!

Infinity to One

Halloween may have started in the British Isles, but it was the United States of America that had made Halloween so super-cool. Made grinning pumpkins a universal symbol, made candy corn a required food, made movies as scary and kickass as Alien.

So why was it that England always managed to win the Halloween scaring contests? Every year America would come up with some awesome new idea and plan how much he’d gloat when England screamed and admitted utter pwnage and then, next thing America knew, England was laughing his evil laugh-- somehow it worked on him-- and pulling out his ancient scorecard and fountain pen and scratching a hash-mark in the “England” column. He’d barely stick around for coffee before taking off, the jerk.

America finished drawing the line around his eyes and dropped the black make-up pencil onto the sink, then turned his head from side to side to admire his handiwork from all angles. The thick black liner really made the whites of his eyes pop. He dug around the pile on the countertop for the blood-red pencil. Holy crap, he was going to blow England away this year.

Eighty-eight to one. Eighty-nine to one. Ninety to one, and on and on it had gone until only England knew the actual score. America only knew that he had one, and he’d gotten that the year Japan and Russia had helped him out.

America had half-considered calling Russia back, but to be truthful Russia scared America almost as much as he scared England. Besides, Russia was busy dealing with his country’s organized crime, or running his country’s organized crime, or whatever it was he did nowadays. And America had discovered that Japan had some sort of residual polite guilt regarding England and wouldn’t offer any more pointers.

“I’ll bet even Japan couldn’t have come up with something as awesome as this,” he mumbled at his reflection. He smacked his lips together and looked at Tony, who was perched on the toilet tank. “How’s it look?”

“Fuck,” Tony said.

“Yeah, I know,” America agreed. “More red.”

It wasn’t that he minded letting England win most of the time. Halloween was one of the few times a year that England seemed to truly enjoy being around America. Politics and the Middle East situation being what they were, they spent a lot of time together. But England spent eighty percent of that time either trying to ignore America or berating America for being an uncultured, hopeless idiot-- though America didn’t really mind that; that was just how England dealt with being frustrated. But another fifteen percent of the time England was all awkward ‘cause he was feeling guilty for being frustrated and was trying to figure out how to be nice without being, well, nice, and then only ten percent of the time could they actually have fun.

Hmm. Five percent of the time. America had never claimed to be good at math, preferring to leave that to China and India. Still, he wasn’t a complete moron. And five percent was just too depressing.

America finished smearing blood-red on his lips and stood back from the mirror, twisting his head again. He looked fantastic. The long black wig was worth every penny he’d paid. He put on his glasses and peeked through his darkened bedroom at the alarm clock. It wasn’t even five, yet. England never showed up before dawn.

“Fuck,” Tony said.

“S’yeah. He’s going to hate this so much,” America said. He shook the black satin of his Elvira skirt, trying to fluff out the static cling. France had been trying to get America into a dress for two hundred years. Maybe after he’d scared the crap outta England, they could Skype France and say hi--

Yeah. France. Who snorted through UN meetings, anymore, and spent the receptions guzzling wine and berating America for the recession and teasing England about how cute they were with their sexual tension and all, and winking at America like he didn’t already know what it was, shut the fuck up, France.

England had the right idea; it was easiest to just pretend France was full of shit. To just keep things as they were. After all, England had spent nearly a hundred and forty years hardly speaking to America just because he’d asked to be treated like an equal. Besides, if everyone was denying everything, then nobody had to fear rejection or failure. It was rare that there were things America sometimes wanted for himself and never got, but in this case that was all for the best. He had a badly-needed friend, at least, and international relations could remain stable. Oops, sorry, they could say when they screwed up, and then hand over more gifts and more assurances and everyone smiled and said that yes, everything was just fine...

There was a noise from outside, like a car door being shut.

“Bu bu bu bu fuck--” Tony started chittering.

“I hear it.” America blinked, checking his amazing false eyelashes through his glasses. What was freakin’ cute was how excited and happy Tony got whenever England came over. “He’s awfully early, the jerk.”

He blew a final blood-colored kiss to himself in the mirror, then picked up his skirt and ran down the hall to the front door. He peeked through the peephole and saw England’s blond head and pale face, warped in the flickering porchlight and the peephole’s round lens. He was raising a hand to knock--

“Hahah!” America threw the door wide and waited for the screaming to begin.

There was no screaming, just the wind and the crackle of dead leaves. A leaf tried to blow up America’s nose. He brushed it away and watched England, who was staring at him. At the black ribbons crossing his chest, rather, and America wished he’d sprung for the fake boobs, after all-- England raised wide eyes to America’s face.

“You bloody... Oh, dear Christ--” he said, and broke out laughing. It wasn’t even screaming laughter, just loud guffaws like America didn’t think he’d ever heard from England.

America raised his hands to chin-level and waggled his fingers to show off his skull rings. “Woo,” he said.

“Just sh-- hah-- shut up. Haha hee-- you idiot--” England snorted and started waving his black-gloved hand at America in a helpless-looking gesture, and laughed. Then he wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over, laughing some more. Finally he just fell backwards and sat on the porch, sniggering like he was choking.

America straightened his shoulders and frowned. “You don’t think it’s scary?”

“That’s the best. You’re the-- hah-- best, lad.” It looked like he was weeping.

America crossed his bare arms over his gothy, beribboned chest. “If you’re on the ground, does that mean I win?”

“Good God, no,” England snorted. He held out one of his leather gloves. “Help me up, silly git.”

“Hmph,” America said, then felt very stupid for having said it aloud. He caught his own lips curling up in a smile, and then he felt stupid for that, too, but only for a second. England’s laughter was catching. And it wasn’t like America had really lost yet. He hadn’t screamed, either, and if England was cracking up, maybe he’d be too busy to do whatever scary thing he’d been planning. America grabbed England’s hand and yanked him up.

“Fuck,” Tony said from somewhere behind America.

“I know, it’s freezing,” America said. He gestured England inside and shut the door to stop the influx of wind and dead leaves into his foyer. He stuck his arms out in front of him. They did look pretty funny. And he’d forgotten to take off his glasses before answering the door. He suddenly couldn’t stop giggling at himself. “Look. I’ve got goosebumps.”

England wiped his eyes and looked at America’s chest again. “You’re half-naked.”

“I know! Kind of sexy at least, right? Like Morticia Addams?” America hunched to create non-existent cleavage, and leaned over to flutter his eyelashes in England’s face. He made kissy-lips. “Mi amore.”

“Heh-- ah, no,” England said and put up his hand. His face, already pink from cold and laughter, had gone a little pinker, and his grin went stiff. America backed off and England’s smile relaxed a little. America kept the tight, warm little knot growing in his stomach a secret; keeping things as they were meant a lot of time was spent resolving his issues in privacy. Best place for it, of course. “Ah. Make some hot tea or something.”

“I’m not gonna turn my back on you,” America said, and then stopped speaking because he’d heard a strange thumping noise. It sounded like it was coming from outside, maybe from down the road. The thump grew louder and louder and the ground trembled beneath America’s bare feet.

“Fuck,” Tony said.

“Fuck!” England said. “I forgot the--” A giant roaring sound cut him off; it sounded like an angry monster, an angry monster that was standing on America’s house, howling like one of the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park--

America started screaming and everything went to hell. The stomping noise joined the roaring and then they heard the horrendous crack of splitting wood, like America’s house was being snapped in two. England threw himself on top of America and slammed him into the ground, knocking the breath out of him and smothering him. America stopped screaming but didn’t move, couldn’t move as bits of his house started flying around them. England was shouting something but America screwed his eyes shut and prayed that he wasn’t about to be flattened by a ceiling beam or sliced to bits or eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and he prayed that England and Tony wouldn’t die, either--

“Stopstopstop!” England was shouting.

Miraculously his shouts seemed to work: the roaring and stomping halted. The creaking of splintering wood was loud in the sudden near-silence, but anything was an improvement from the roaring, as far as America was concerned. England pushed himself off America to stand and America was suddenly cold.

It was because the wind was blowing inside, and that was because his house was missing an entire wall. England was standing and waving his hands at the giant hole where the front of America’s house had once been. His black cloak whipped around him in a crazy-seeming cyclone of wind and leaves and dust. America shrugged off his panic and jumped to his feet, ready to help with... whatever.

“You didn’t say stop until after I’d already hit it,” a deep voice was whining. America couldn’t see the source of the voice.

“Yes, yes, yes, dammit!” England was bitching. It was the same tone of shout he used when he was ticked at America. “I know! Just... Just bugger off! Begone!”

“It’s been a long time since I was able to knock over a house,” the voice rumbled, beginning to sound sort of ... pleased with itself. “Well. Bye, then.”

With that the cyclone quieted all at once. The dust settled. Somewhere, another roof-beam fell with a crash.

“Hell,” England said. He turned to look at America. He was looking up with wide eyes and he was biting his lip. It was the closest to sheepish America had ever seen England look.

America knew he should be pissed off. His house was destroyed. There had been a huge ghost... thing. He knew he should be still screaming in fright or kicking the crap out of England or bitching or something. Instead, he laughed again. He would be able to gloat over this for-- for forever.

“You definitely win this year,” America said.

England winced and started to brush off his coat. “I’m-- Ah. I’ll rebuild your house.”

“And replace my priceless antiques?”

England winced and snorted at the same time. “You don’t have any bloody antiques.”

America snorted back, then rubbed his bare arms, trying to warm them up. “It was awfully sweet of you to throw yourself on top of me like that,” he teased. “Maybe you saved my life. Or saved me from being blinded or something,” he added, nodding at the bits of splinter and glass-shards tinkling about England’s feet as he shook out his coat. America would never admit it aloud, but England looked pretty awesome and he could shake his clothes with flair. At his words and gaze England’s face turned even pinker.

“That was merely reflex. You’re wearing a dress, you twat,” he said, and looked America up and down. He grimaced, but his blush didn’t fade. “Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Ha ha ha! When I’ve got a Democratic president, costume shops start stocking dresses in my size,” he joked. He rubbed his arms again and wondered if his coat-closet had survived the maelstrom. Though he would say that England’s sideways glances at him were making him feel warmer. Speaking of. “Why didn’t you think my outfit was scary? I thought for sure you’d be horrified at how tacky I was.”

England snorted for like the fiftieth time that morning. “Shows what you know about British people. Haven’t you read Shakespeare or watched Monty Python? We’re raised from birth to find comedy in cross-dressing.”

“Oh. And you think it’s sexy, too, right?” America teased again, making another kissy-face. Hell, his house had been destroyed; he could make England as uncomfortable as he wished. He waggled his hips for good measure. The adrenaline-knot wrenched a little tighter under his diaphragm. This was the game, knowing how far to take his teasing without crossing the line.

“No, that’s Japan,” England merely said, and looked away. He coughed once, then twice. “Listen, I am-- Well, you find the contractor and I’ll pay. In the meantime, I guess since it was my fa-- Um. I mean to say, why don’t you stay at, ah, my place for a few days?”

America blinked.

England waved his hand. “I, ah. I always said I’d bring you over for the Guy Fawkes celebration, anyway. This is as good a time as any.”

“Really? That’s awesome!” America finally managed to squeeze in around England’s passive-aggressive apology. Something below his diaphragm went pop. He grinned so widely he could feel his teeth getting cold.

“You’ll, ah. Need shoes.”

America nodded and started looking around, trying to decide what he could salvage and pack. Maybe Tony could stay with his brother-- yeah, in fact, he’d instant-message Canada now, Canada was always online in the winter ‘cause there was nothing better to do in the frozen north. Except-- oh, no, where was-- America stepped carefully around the piles of glass and then ran for the study. He’d been on the internet last night--

In the remains of his office he stared in horror at the piles of books and electronics on the floor.

“My computer!” he wailed.

England came up behind him holding shoes, which he must have dug out of the foyer. He waved them at America, thus proving once and for all that his priorities were all wrong.

“Addict. My laptop’s in the car; I’ll loan it to you until I can buy you a new one.”

America glared at him and ignored the shoes flapping in front of his face. “As soon as the computer store opens.”

“I promise,” England said.

America took the shoes.

***

England sipped tea and breathed for a moment in the safety of his kitchen. America was in his house. Filling it up with... with himself, with his bloody loud voice and his wide bum in too-tight jeans and his laughing and--

England was paying for his guilt with stress and jet-lag, and wasn’t sure he’d survive America’s stay, at least without going mental. The promised holiday was four days away yet. Perhaps after that he’d suggest a hotel, or ship America back to his New York flat with a cheque for damages, or... something.

He’d bought plenty of Japan’s computer games for the laptop he’d also bought, hoping to keep America quietly occupied. But America had spent an hour playing games on the plane and had then snored and drooled on England for five more hours, getting in his personal space and being boisterous even when asleep. That trend continued unabated.

“Ha ha ha! Good one,” America laughed in the sitting room. England sighed and carried the tray out to join him.

He was watching something with Rik Mayall. He’d watched some old Monty Python’s Flying Circus but was more interested in the movies he’d already seen (American money) and pointed out that he was sure he’d looked much better in a dress--

--Good Lord, that dress.

The makeup. All that black stuff. Like anything could hide the perpetual earnest look in his eyes. The red lipstick. Jesus, like a bloody whore. England fancied he could still see it on America’s lips as he sat down and watched America grin with his straight, white teeth and his laugh that reached his eyes, confident and happy in all but the very worst of times...

“Tea for me, instant coffee for you,” England said before America could say whatever he was sure America had been going to say.

“Instant? Ick,” America said, but took the cup and a spoon and stirred in far too much sugar. “This show is hysterical! And here I thought the only good things you Brits had were Shaun of the Dead and Blackadder.”

England felt a little miffed for centuries of culture that America was blithely ignoring, then felt a little smug for his comedy. Then he felt miffed at himself for being smug over something so moronic. He wondered if America was merely winding him up. It was hard to remember how intelligent America actually was, sometimes, with all his moods and phases covered in that layer of bravado. Without wanting to, England remembered America as a cute, clinging tot, and then remembered him as he’d been after the American Civil War, nearly ragged with the loss of his idealism. His chest tightened a little and then he heard America slurp his coffee and laugh vulgarly at the telly again and the tight ache dissipated. Temporary loss of idealism, as always.

“All that fuss you made about the computer,” he pointed out.

“Your wireless connection is crappy,” America said around his coffee-cup, cementing England’s return to annoyance. America started to reach for one of the brown biscuits on the silver platter, looked slightly alarmed, noticed England noticing his alarmed look, then picked it up and shoved it into his mouth. He spoke again around his rather dusty mouthful. “That’s the mmphguy from Drop Dead Fred.”

“You are spitting crumbs at me.”

America snorted more crumbs and waved the remote, muting the telly. He gulped his coffee and grinned. “So what are we doing tonight?”

“We? Ah. I offered a place to stay. I did not plan a vacation itinerary.”

America’s lips actually seemed to turn downwards for a moment, but then he was smiling, all white teeth, and England wondered if he’d imagined it. “Ha ha! But I want to have fun. What do you do when you’re not working?”

England looked around at his just-started Christmas embroidery. He looked at his tea-service. At his telly.

“I relax.”

“You’re such a fuddy-duddy when you’re not building empires.”

England felt the tightness in his chest invert, expand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s go out to see something,” America said.

“You’ve already seen everything you Yanks want to see. In fact, I’ve hauled you and Canada ‘round London enough times. It hasn’t changed.”

“Let’s go say hello to Queen Lizzie.”

England nearly sloshed his tea onto the Victorian-lace tablecloth when he bolted upright in indignation. “Fuck! The Queen is not to be called Lizzie! How many times do I have to tell you that, or try to teach you to be respectful--”

“Ha ha! She is to me! She hugged the First Lady, you know.”

America’s wide grin managed to look suspiciously sly. England settled down to a mere glare once more. “Her Majesty is quite gracious. And she’s not currently receiving visitors. We’re still recovering from your last attempt at polite diplomacy.” He put emphasis on the polite.

America shrugged and hesitated only a moment before snagging another biscuit and shoving it in his mouth. England eyed America’s jeans and white t-shirt and floppy brown knit jacket. He looked a right slob; the dress had been an improvement. That dress--!

“We could find you some proper clothing,” England mumbled.

“No thanks,” America waved at him and settled back on the couch, making a show of uncrossing and re-crossing his jeans-clad legs. His too-tight jeans. “I have suits. And all my suits are Italian these days.”

England thought about the last suit he’d seen America wearing, at some meeting or another. His mouth went an annoying smidge dry at the memory. He sipped his tea. “Not buying American?”

“Of course I am. Veneziano’s people have all the best stores in New York. It is a recession, after all.” America smirked as he said it, but then winced when England’s eyes narrowed. England went in for the kill.

“Yes, and it’s your fault, you git. Your forced housing booms and your crooked banks are trying to take down the world economy, even as we speak--”

“I know! I know. We’re working on legislation. Democrats, remember?” America interrupted with a guilty expression. He crossed his arms and uncrossed his legs. An instant later his perpetual earnest grin returned. He lifted his leg, and actually put his trainer-clad foot on England’s settee, next to England’s thigh, touching him, never mind that he’d actually put a shoe on England’s settee--! “So what are we doing? A show?”

England took a deep breath. He shoved America’s foot from the sofa back onto the floor where it belonged, then made a show of wiping his fingers on a napkin. He breathed again. It was too close in his house. They were too close.

“I need a drink,” he said, finally. “And nosh. We’re going to the pub.”

Was it England’s imagination, or did America shudder? “Oh. Hah. Dinner and drinks, like a date? Can you promise me fish and chips wrapped in newspaper?”

England stood so that he could look down on America and be properly haughty at such foolishness. “No. A quiet pub, not one of those touristy places you fancy, and not a chip-shop. They should have fish and chips, however. On a plate.”

“Awesome! Sounds like fun.”

“It’s called survival, lad,” England told him. Mine, in fact, he told himself. He went to get his coat.

The pub was blissfully quiet. That was, until America followed England in the door, stomping his feet and shaking cold November rain from his hair and laughing as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it, dripping, onto a hook and generally made an American-sort of spectacle of himself. England tsked at him, showing him how to remove his coat with grace.

“A fire! I love it,” America enthused, his eyes delighted behind his steamed and rain-splattered spectacles. England gave the barmaid, Jilly, a nod of apology, but she was grinning like an even bigger idiot, leaning over the counter and gaping at America.

“Just for you, luv,” she giggled. England noticed the way she ogled America’s plaid button-down (an improvement over the t-shirt) and too-tight jeans as he put his big hands on his hips and swiveled to survey the dark little pub. Jilly, who made fun of Americans on any normal day.

He did look rather boisterously attractive and... Well, America had an annoying heart-stopping effect on first sight. He’d always had that. Sort of like Ukraine without the... England wondered what Jilly would have thought of America’s Halloween getup, the black ribbons over his non-existent bosoms. It had been nearly stunning enough to have been worth giving America the win-- nearly. But England had gone over the top this year as well, with the Ghost of Barmy Roderick the Nearly Unstoppable. Their antes today had reached heights they’d never reached before. England wondered what made today so special.

America was leaning over the bar, chatting up Jilly. England elbowed him aside and ordered two Stellas with a tight smile. He elbowed America again and headed off to the furthest, darkest corner of the pub. He could hardly blame Jilly. He himself indulged America for an array of reasons he didn’t care to quite pinpoint or understand and found it best to ignore. England had already downed two-thirds of his Stella by the time America made his way to the table.

“Drink up,” he told America, shoving the full pint across the table.

“Should we get food, first?” America said. He looked at England’s glass and then picked up his own and took a few healthy gulps.

“In a bit.” England sipped his and vowed to slow down. He had four days to endure, starting with several hours tonight. Maybe after a few real British lagers, America would drink himself to sleep; he hadn’t had a head for liquor since American Prohibition had ended. Or had he ever had a head for liquor?

However, America, for once, seemed to be taking his drinking seriously. He didn’t talk to England through the first pint or halfway through the second. He just drummed his fingers on the table between gulps and laughed inanely at Jilly and watched the football on the telly mounted in the corner with incomprehension. And he watched England now and then and drummed his fingers.

“Admit it. You’re happy to have company, aren’t you?” he finally said, obviously unable to remain silent for too long.

England snorted. “Stick to subjects you know little about and leave the ones you know nothing about.”

“Eighty percent. Perfectly normal,” America mumbled and drank his ale.

“What are you on about?” England demanded.

“Nothing. Hi there, Honey!” America burbled at Jilly, dark-haired Jilly, darling Jilly who carried pair of pints number three. Jilly, who only last week had decided that all Yanks were worthless but was now turned idiot by blue eyes and straight teeth. Yanks and their love of dentistry.

“Bring me a couple of whiskeys, neat, there’s a luv,” England told Jilly, ‘cause he had to get America drunk and home and sleeping; hell, how long had he himself been awake now? At least thirty-six hours; it had taken eight for the summoning alone.

No, she had no clue what America was, just knew he was pretty. Not that any of their kind were ugly per se, except perhaps France. It was just-- he’d always shone, and he’d become so very much. Much--

“You know, England,” America began. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were bright. Glassy, even. Pink, blue white, red, white, blue, much-- America was talking again. “That green thing at your house scared the crap outta me at first.”

England paused in draining the last few drops of his ale. “Green thing.”

“The floating one.” America said.

“You can see her?”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s because she’s not here.” America smiled and nodded at England’s words. He looked a bit floaty. England was glad his plan to knock America out was going so swimmingly. “Sweet girl. Very sweet. Not like that little grey bastard that’s planted himself at your place.”

“Huh. I thought you liked Tony. He adores you. He’s shy.”

“Rubbish. Prolly gonna take over the world. America’s next gift to the Earth.”

“Wow, this is good beer,” America said, rubbing his huge hands together. “Don’t you want any food?”

“Not hungry. ‘Snot beer. Ale. Ale is like bread, y’know.” England waved his empty pint-glass at Jilly and said bring us something and picked up the tumbler of whiskey. “And this is rye. Like bread, too.”

“Ah,” America said. He looked sort of sad, but then he didn’t and England wondered why he’d thought America was sad, because America was smiling very widely. “I’ve heard that before! Ha ha. It’s like, bullshit, right?”

England goggled. “You,” he said and pointed.

“Me?”

“You,” England repeated. Are dead. Are a bastard. England sucked down whiskey to keep from killing America. He was much too much too much-- indulgent. “Are being disingenuously nasty, aren’t you?”

“You’re so weird, England,” America said. And then he leaned forward and patted England’s hand, quick tattoos like he’d drummed his fingers on the table. One-two-three-- and then he turned his head and his hand lingered on England’s afterwards for a few moments like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh! I was trying to follow the game, earlier. So which team is wearing the blue socks? Is one of them your team?”

England squinted at the screen. His hand felt warm being touched like that. His face was hot. He yanked his hand away to grab America’s ignored whiskey. “Crystal Palace. They’re all right, I s’pose.”

“We have major-league soccer now, too. Ha ha! We’re playing you in the World Cup thingy. At least, I think that’s what Canada IM’ed me the other night.”

“World-- Wait. Don’t even mention soccer to me. You have no idea what you’re talking about, you berk.” England drank America’s whisky to drown his horror. “It’s a wonder Canada tried to teach you. I thought he had more sense than to try.”

“Hmm. You are being cunningly nasty. Or just plain nasty. How comfortable.”

“What? I--” England paused to assess the situation. America had his hands clasped before him on the table and was looking away, at what England couldn’t tell. He had nothing to drink and that was because England had drunk it all. He’d destroyed America’s favorite house today. England realized he was being a bit of an ass. Perhaps. “Sorry,” he said eventually.

“No prob,” America said, and then it sounded like he mumbled fifteen.

“Wot?”

“Nothing.”

Jilly brought an array of tasty-looking beverages in an array of glasses. She simpered at America.

“Not sure what you normally have, luv, other than the ale. So I brought you a choice of the best,” she said. England noticed that she was wearing a tight, red t-shirt and that her lovely breasts were very close to America’s appreciative eye-level. She unloaded her tray and put her hand on America’s shoulder.

“Why, thank you, honey. That was super-sweet of you!”

England thought he might like to do that. Touch America. No he wouldn’t. Why had he had such a daft thought? England took a deep breath.

“What I ah-- meant to say was, your Canadian brother doesn’t know football nearly as well as I. He’s also got your game. Perhaps I can explain again,” he said, in his calmest, steadiest voice. And that got America’s attention. He looked away from Jilly’s bosom to England, his eyes round and surprised. The corners of his lips curled up a tiny bit.

“Really? Tell me,” America said. He picked up one of the ales Jilly had brought and took a sip. He stared at England, waiting. Jilly pouted and tripped off but left the drinks. Darling Jilly.

“I’m the father of modern football, you know,” England said, choosing the most scotch-looking of the drinks Jilly had bought and tossing back a burning gulp (he’d been right about the contents). Perhaps he’d been an ass, but he was going to be nice now, dammit. “Wrote the laws of the game.”

He continued to be nice and they spent a pleasant while, talking about association football. Sport, at least, was something America understood, despite his daft comments about how Spain had said this or Chile had said that. America laughed and looked cheered and even drank his ale, there’s a good lad, while England sampled the other bevvies to tell America what they were.

England pointed out a particularly brilliant play by the Eagles and America’s cheeks were pink and he dribbled ale down his chin as he tried to look at the screen and drink at the same time and England thought he might like to lick it off for him or hug him, but it was full-time in the game and why did England want to do those things?

He wondered who America was shagging. Had shagged. He wondered if America had shagged Japan. Japan would never tell, the close-mouthed bastard. Close-mouthed when it suited him, anyway, with his red thingums and his fucking brass gong wotcher...

And that had been an arousing thought. Well, he rationalized, it had been a few decades since he’d gotten off in the company of another person, after all. Still, England was annoyed with himself because he was comfortable and smiling and muzzy-nuzzy warm and red and white and blue and pink but he couldn’t stop thinking about who America had shagged and what he looked like when he did it, though he should never think that, and hell, Jilly was back and groping America again and America looked warm and gropable and goddamn, but England was horny. America. It must have been the drink. Everything makes you horny, the France in his head told him, but he ignored that bastard and drank some more to kill his incipient hard-on.

“You know what would be really awesome, hon? Food. Do you have fish and chips?” America was asking Jilly, and she gave him a face-full of lovely bosom and said of course, luv, and America said yes, he’d love that...

What England loved... What he loved was. Fine. He loved. Things. Cute tykes who got too fucking tall too fast. Who left, bastards. Even then and a hundred years after and during both world wars and several smaller ones and now and fuck... He was getting too close to thinking about things that shouldn’t be thought about. Damn, but Jilly had brought decent scotch.

Still, there was nothing wrong with love, right? ‘Cept it didn’t equate to being in love with someone, or being able to stand them, no matter how much one’s heart and hands wanted to touch them, no matter how much one’s gonads wanted to fuck them silly... America, dammit.

And there, fine, he was pissed, because he’d have to be pissed and... and mental and dying to admit that. Thank Christ he’d never admit it aloud, no matter how white and tighty.

“France. Not once. Never,” England said, at least he might have. He thought he might have. “Bastard.”

“Are you all right?” America said, at least he might have. He looked sad, why pink and sad?

“Fuck. You fucking bastard fuck,” England said.

***

When England started crying, America knew it was time to go home. He hadn’t even gotten to eat his dinner.

The cute bartender looked concerned but America waved her off. He finagled England into his coat and put his arm around England’s shoulder and steered him out into the drizzling rain, unable to open an umbrella to cover the pair of them because his hands were full. England was weeping and bitching into America’s coat-collar.

“Too fucking. Tall, you. Bastard,” England was mumbling in a voice filled with tears and snot.

“Why, haha. I’m barely taller than you,” America soothed. He stumbled when England tried to walk them sideways off the curb but managed to keep them both upright. He couldn’t say the drunkenness and the weeping had been entirely unexpected. England’s benders were rare but memorable. America tried to decide if drunken moaning time qualified under the eighty-percent rule. He wondered if it was always him, or if England did the in vino, veritas thing to berate whoever happened to be close by. He had a suspicion he already knew the answer to that.

“Thousan’ years. Old, thousand. Shouldn’ put up with this.”

“Hmmm,” America said and patted England’s shoulder with the hand that wasn’t strong-arming him down the street. England stumbled on the cobbles or perhaps air molecules and his face went into America’s hair.

“Smell like. Fuck! Why’s I so fucking stupid? Should never’ve trusted,” England slurred in the vicinity of America’s ear, and tried to hit America, or grab him. He ended up with one hand clutching America’s shoulder and one shoved inside his coat, punching him, or groping him, or something. “Yer selfish. There’s a world, y’know. Fucking selfish. Bastardhic.”

“Haha, not me, surely?” America mumbled lamely. He was starting to feel a little tight and floaty and unsure. He’d never had to drag England home before. They’d reached England’s doorstep and America stared at the door for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he yanked England’s hand out of his jacket and guided it to the doorknob. The place was unlocked, he knew that, but who knew what creepy magical curse-thingies England used to keep his house safe?

Some remnant of normal duty let England turn the doorknob. The door swung in and pulled them together inside with it. America was hit again with the scent of England: tea, dust, sachets of something, burned cookies, rain. England was still plastered to his side, and out of the rain, America could smell him, too. Booze and the same aftershave he’d used since the eighteenth century. The scent and the way England was pressed against him made the room blur and he swayed with memory. So rarely did he feel nostalgic for things not his own, but suddenly the feeling of shared history was overpowering. And England was still going on like nothing had changed.

“With France! Fucking fuck. You and him, bloody cunts-- I poured everything, everthin’. Money. M’heart. Always. ‘Merca you bastard yarrghhic.”

England trailed off on a sob and America felt the tiny, glowing knot under his diaphragm spin and grow and form pity and regret and rebellious pride and when he tried to stop it he suddenly wanted to cry, too. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink, himself, because England’s sobs were wrenching and comforting at the same time, breathed and drooled into his skin like that.

“Why don’t we get you to bed? I always have to take charge, don’t I? Heroic and sexy, that’s me,” America joked, still lamely. He nudge-shoved England toward the stairs.

England finally pulled his nose out of America’s ear, but rather than allowing himself to be led he lurched around to face America full-on. His green eyes were wet, his hair was wet, his whole face was wet from the rain, and the picture was so different from the one he’d presented only that morning, when he’d been confident, bad-ass, scary England, that it was a tough sight to bear. Yet his features were still so familiar and appealing that America looked straight back at him and grew warm all over.

“Why do ah care? T’others. You know. I can take charge. Pink and blue. Too gorgeous t’stare at,” England slurred in a low voice. His hands had a surprisingly strong grip on on America’s shoulders, so much so that America couldn’t move, he told himself. England’s glassy eyes glinted in a way that reminded America of England’s age, his unforgotten power in reserve. America’s eyes were drawn to England’s rain-wetted lips because he was so close and moving closer and it looked like England was going to kiss him, and the knot in America’s belly exploded and his whole body shuddered at once. Definitely they were crossing some line that America had never crossed and America didn’t care because he wanted-- but then England’s forehead slammed into America’s chin and rattled his jaw. “Ow. Pot-valiant. ‘S pathetic.”

“No, just regular drunk,” America said. That chin-knock had shaken him out of his weird stupor. England clutched him and bit the front of his coat and scolded him for wasting perfectly good, expensive East India tea like that and America sighed and grabbed England’s wrists and held him away a few inches. Seriously. It had been over two hundred years since that; was his every mistake or action that England didn’t like to be remembered forever? Nostalgia was for England and other ancient places.

“And the Middle East is fucked all to hell. Yer idea. So I shouldn’t,” England was saying, and America realized that England’s litany of woes had at least reached the present again.

“That’s not true and you-- Oh, just go sleep it off,” America ordered. He rattled England’s wrists. Something in his voice or movements made England look up at him again.

“Yeah. ‘Sfor the best. Wouldn’ wanna. Oh, fuck.” England struggled until America released him, then swiveled on unsteady feet and stumbled for the stairs. “Bed. Fucking America. Fuck, I’m sick.”

America followed him to make sure he didn’t break his neck on the stairs-- he still needed friends after all, ha ha. On the way England shrugged off his coat and hung it on the banister. Again America was assailed by England’s scent, and when he put his hand on England’s back to push him up the narrow stairs, he felt the warmth of his body through his scratchy sweater-vest.

It was apparently a night for damned nostalgia; America suddenly remembered being small and could see, as perfectly as if it was happening, his small hand clutching England’s scratchy woolen winter waistcoat-- no silks necessary for Virginia until it had actually become prosperous-- and begging him not to leave. Remembered the feeling and fear of sitting on the edge of vast space, alone. Remembered adoring and trusting England despite his too-visible faults.

His irritation dwindled in a wave of affection and America realized his feeling of wanting things hadn’t gone away at all, had only settled low in his belly with the ale and the scent of... everything. His fingers squeezed deep into the wool, so tightly that England teetered back and America caught himself just in time to push again, rather than pull.

They managed the last few steps. England lunged at the first door on the right and America had to release him to let him open it. He followed just to the threshold to make sure England made it to the bed, but was stopped short when he saw that England was hanging on the doorknob, looking blearily at him.

“The scotch jus’... just hits me like that, sometimes.” England swayed. “Yer just such a twat. Ye make me so bloody cross.”

And that had just beaten all of England’s past passive-aggressive apologies to bloody pulps. America didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled for hurt and annoyed and said the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re such an asshole, sometimes. Make up your goddamned mind.”

“Hnh.” England released the doorknob and yanked his sweater-vest over his head, then stumbled over and fell backwards and spread-eagled onto his bed. He’d stopped crying, at least. “Pissed and mental and dying. ‘M dying now. Wanna sleep here’th me?” His voice had gone low again. He patted the bed next to him.

America stared. He’d asked England to make up his mind. The ache throbbed lower than his stomach. He thought about licking the tears from England’s eyes. The rain from his hair.

England started moaning. “Dying... pissed and dying.”

America had a hard-on and England was drunk and moaning and dying.

“Nope. I’ll take another room,” he said in a thick, bright voice, and turned to make his desperate escape.

“Oh. Hokay. Don’ go in the basement. Don’ look,” England mumbled after him.

“God, no,” America said, and thumped down the stairs. Something green and worried-looking hovered at the edge of his vision. “Please, not now,” he said, and whatever-it-was disappeared.

He still had a hard-on. Must have been the liquor. Still, he’d answered no. Well, who wanted to screw a drunken asshole? Not him. Duh. He found the bathroom downstairs and brushed his teeth and tried to decide if he should jerk off. There was a knock at the door. The outside door.

On the doorstep was a teenager with a buzzcut and baggy jeans and a surly expression. He handed America a brown paper bag.

“Jilly said ta bring this to yer,” the teenager said. America took the bag, and the teenager slumped off into the rain.

The bag held fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper. America laughed, quietly, so as not to wake England. He got a plate and poured himself some cold tea and parked on the couch with his nice, greasy food and lots of napkins and malt vinegar, and turned on his shiny, new laptop.

Canada was online, of course. America got an IM from him almost as soon as he got the shit-tastic wireless connection up and running.

‘You in UK?’ Canada asked.

‘Y. How Tony?’ he typed back one-handed, and used his other hand to shove a malt-vinegar-soaked French fry into his mouth. It was still somewhat hot and completely awesome.

‘OK. How’s E?’

‘Passed out. :(’ America typed. Normally he wouldn’t give Canada that much information, but he was feeling a little put-upon.

‘Haha,’ Canada messaged. Then, ‘He yell at you, eh?’

America shoved another fry into his mouth and frowned. Nosy jerk, Canada. He especially loved to hear that England was ticked at America for something. Still, Canada sometimes had some good advice about how to deal with England.

‘Y. idk what his prob is,’ America whined electronically.

‘You’re stupid,’ Canada wrote back. Canada was always snarkier in etherland than he ever was in person.

‘ur an asshole, WTF?’ America wrote. He broke off some fish and popped it into his mouth. It was amazing stuff. It was made from fish that had surely never been frozen. Grease dripped down his chin. He wiped it off and checked to make sure that he hadn’t dribbled onto England’s couch. Yelled at, teased, yeah, okay. But he wasn’t willing to be murdered.

‘*sigh*’ Canada wrote. ‘Just do it, already.’

America stared at the screen. ‘lolwhut?’ was all he could think of to say.

‘Tony says, quote, ‘fuck,’’ Canada answered.

“Asshole!” America said aloud. He ate another fry and washed it down with cold tea that desperately needed sugar. Eventually he typed, ‘Hi back to T. Now WTF?’

‘*sigh* . . . Everyone already thinks you and E are doing it, anyway. F is jealous. Just go have sex or something.’

This was the first America had heard of ‘everyone.’ France was always a perv; that was to be expected, and he’d made his thoughts clear to America long ago. But everyone? Were they seriously that bad?

He couldn’t say, though, that things hadn’t reached a bit of a head earlier tonight. England groping him. Pot-valiant. Wanna sleep here with me? The way England had looked at him in that dress.

‘England so repressed, :(’ he typed back, eventually.

‘Whatever. >.>’ Canada told him. ‘You’re the hero, grow some, will you? Gotta go, bye.’

‘Don’t >.> me’ America typed, but it was too late; Canada had signed off.

“Asshole!” America said aloud again. He surfed the CNN site and the president’s blog and ate his wonderfully greasy food and composed a nasty e-mail to Canada in his head demanding an explanation, but never sent it because he already knew the answer. He’d known for decades and had just never really asked the right question, because he’d been afraid to.

But some time tonight he’d bypassed that fear; if only for a few moments, he’d reached a point where it had become more critical to do something than not. He was still feeling the tense, unfinished aftermath of that and knew that when he got up the next morning and England had forgotten everything and acted like absolutely nothing had changed, it would only get worse.

America could up the antes. Push the line to the limits. Grow some, as Canada had asshole-ishly suggested. After all, England had knocked down his fucking house. He’d had to explain to Homeland Security that no, terrorists had not done it. If America could take that, then England could take America making up his mind, too.

He popped off a quick IM for Canada to find next time he logged on: ‘thx.’

***

England was dying. He wished he’d just die, already. Instead he was waking up.

His head was in several pieces, at least. His room was too bright but he hurt too much all over to move and shut the curtains. He seemed to be on top of his covers, fully clothed. There was a foul smell wafting through his house that made him want to be sick. It wasn’t him, though his mouth tasted like shite. It might have been his drooled-upon pillow.

His roiling stomach told him it was the scent of coffee. Coffee, in his house. America. He--

Fuck. Oh, fuck. England rolled over and tried to die.

The next time he woke, America was standing over him.

“Oh, lord, g’way,” he croaked.

“Nope. I have presents.” America set down a cup and a couple of ploppy things onto England’s bedside table. “Canada e-mailed and told me how to make your tea with that boily thing. These are aspirin. Come down when you’re human again.”

Human. That was a laugh. England glared at America through one partially-opened eyelid for a few moments until he went away to leave England to die of shame, alone. He looked at the cup. He thought even tea might make him vomit but at least it would un-gum his throat. His fingers shook when he scrabbled on the table for the aspirin and shoved them in his mouth. When their bitter taste became too much to bear he crawled to a sitting position and gulped the tea. Wonder of wonders, he didn’t vomit, and America had even put the correct amount of milk in. He might have to actually congratulate America later--

America, who had... England searched his memory like a file that should never be opened. America had called him an asshole. America had refused to sleep with him and had run away like the hounds of hell were at his feet. After he’d issued such an invitation! Opened his heart, his soul, his-- England looked down. It appeared that his trousers were open, partway. At some point during the night he’d apparently attempted to have a wank. Things were a bit painful and sticky down below. He covered his burning face with his hands.

Christ, he was a right mess. No wonder America had run away. He’d been too drunk to even have a proper wank, and how pathetic was that? And he’d yelled at America for Boston and for the USS Constitution and called him and France cunts and-- well, France was a cunt, but that was neither here nor there. He’d managed to make himself the most thoroughly disgusting and unappetizing being on the planet for a night, and had expected America to say yes?

Smart lad: he’d raised him right. And it was for the best. England could just apologize and everything would be right and tight. Like always.

It was another hour before he got up and showered and tiptoed downstairs. America was in the lounge, playing with his laptop. He jumped up when he saw England.

“Hey! Guess where you’re going tonight?”

“I’m so--” England tried to say at the same time, but halted in favor of being afraid at the new information. “Where?” he asked, cautious.

“The Palace Theatre, in... Westminster? We’re going to see Les Miserables.” He pronounced it in the French manner. “I saw the movie once, but I guess this is a musical. And since we’ll be on the posh side of town, I booked us dinner reservations somewhere nice. Angelus? It’s French too, sorry, but it’s a theme. Anyway, I didn’t bring a suit but I have something I can wear, I hope. Maybe you can take me shopping, anyway, at least for pants--”

“Wait. Wait--” England interrupted with a raised palm, because his head still wasn’t up to eighty percent, let alone a hundred. And he wanted to get the apology out of the way. He collapsed onto the settee. “Plus, I’d like to-- to--"

America plopped down next to him. “I said posh,” he pointed out.

“Yes, yes, I heard that,” England said. “Just shut it for a moment. Last night, I... Ah. Was a bastard. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay. That’s just part of your charm,” America said, and he patted England’s knee. He patted it, and then squeezed it, and did not let go.

England stared at the hand for a moment. It was the sort of thing America would do, except not. Dumbfounded, he plucked America’s hand from his leg and worked up a glare. America just grinned back, all teeth and guileless blue eyes behind his spectacles.

“So what do you think?” America asked, shifting closer.

About you fondling my leg, or about you pressing yourself along my thigh? “I. I--” England swallowed. “If that’s so, I’ll need another lie-down. I feel like shite.”

“Poor England.” At that America squeezed his shoulder, and flexed his fingers in a tiny massage sort of thingum. England had woken up in some strange universe where America would not stop groping him. “Well, do that now. Then take me to Harrods. I’ve decided I want new pants for tonight and a sausage roll from Harrods.”

England gaped for a moment or two, mouth opening and closing until he was certain he appeared all too fish-like. “Bossy little twat,” he finally managed, all his good intentions flying out the window with his annoyance at how fucking massive and warm America’s fingers were and how good he looked after the night they’d had and-- Wait.

The night they’d had. For some reason, probably the fault of his chums-- ale and rye-- he’d gotten the idea last night that America was amenable to... something. And he’d been turned down. Was America now flirting with him, or fucking with him in revenge? He should ask. He would definitely ask. He glared and thought hard about how he was going to ask.

“Haha! You look like hell. You were pretty gone last night. You should lay down. I’ll call the contractors and see how they’re doing on my house, and get you up in a couple of hours.” America smiled at him again, and after one last suggestive squeeze, lifted his fingers from England’s shoulder.

America had managed to bring up the contractors and England’s drunken bastardy in practically the same breath. And only yesterday England had been unable to remember just how intelligent America was. England deflated, releasing the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stood and stretched.

“Fine. Two hours. And it’s ‘lie’ down, not ‘lay,’ idiot,” he said, and left the room before America could reply.

America’s bizarre behavior continued even after England’s nap. At Harrods, America kept trying to buy too-tight trousers and inviting England to judge their fit. He ate not one but two sausage rolls, commenting on how awesome they were and how funny it was that you just couldn’t get them in the States and that Americans ‘had always had a boner for British things,’ even back in the nineteenth century.

He seemed to be everywhere, hovering and breathing over England and shoving himself up against England in cabs and the more he did it, the more difficult it became for England to ask for an explanation because that would require nonchalantly pointing out the strange behavior while pretending that he’d just noticed it. So instead England became more cross and nasty and aroused; he was in a constant sweat and would have to shower again before dinner.

Like when they were in a grocery queue-- America wanted different coffee than what England’s house provided-- and America stood crotch-to-bum with England and chatted about the great variety of chocolates and breathed in England’s ear and made finger-licking noises. England had to elbow him away, hard.

America, who would probably have a right terrible bruise in his ribs, just smiled and said how much he was looking forward to dinner, because surely a French restaurant would have fabulous chocolate desserts and wasn’t England looking forward to it, also?

By the time they made it through their-- admittedly excellent-- dinner, England had become so randy and vitriolic that America was hardly speaking to him. At least it meant he wasn’t groping England or flirting with him or shoving things suggestively into his own mouth.

But during the show America started weeping during the first act when Fontine died, and hardly stopped afterwards. During Act Two, when Marius and his daughter finally found Jean Valjean on his deathbed, America was positively gasping for air through his tears. He sounded so pathetic that England didn’t even punch him when he clutched at England’s fingers and squeezed and squeezed and didn’t let go until after the last curtain call.

They sat in the theatre box, peeping through the curtain at the crowds and waiting for the end of the exit-rush before venturing out. America stretched out his long legs in his-- finally-- well-fitted trousers and sighed.

“All is forgiven,” he said. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them.

“What am I being forgiven for, now?” England asked, and tried not to think about how attractive America looked in his pale-cream silk button-down and very tasteful black-and-navy tie. And tried not to wonder why America had been so grabby all day, and tried not to wish he was still being so, if even a little.

“For jabbing me with your elbow and being such a jerk,” America said with a smile. He breathed onto his spectacles and polished them some more, with a silk pocket-square that matched his tie.

“What the hell?” England demanded. He felt twisted inside. Sick. America was nothing but trouble; he’d been hurting England and frightening him and astonishing him since before he’d reached waist-height. It was too much for one being to endure in one day: heartbreak, a hangover, America humping him in public and pretending he hadn’t done it.

“What?”

“Pfft. Fuck off. Just go the hell home,” England said. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat and pushed open the curtain and shoved his way through the crowds. Anything to escape America.

But America followed, calling after him and jumping into the same cab outside and tossing pound-notes at the driver. England crossed his arms over his chest as tightly as he could and scrunched into the farthest corner of the cab. Still it wasn’t enough to escape; America patted his shoulder and said I’m sorry and England dared to turn and look at America to see if all was to be explained at last.

America was leaning his head back on the seat and looking at England from the corners of his eyes, the whites shining in the dark of the cab. He sighed and the hand that had been patting England’s shoulder stilled, resting lightly somewhere on his bicep.

“So do you want me to sleep with you tonight?” America asked in a quiet voice.

England uncurled from his corner and hooked his fingers into claws, launching himself at America and fully intending to strangle him. America’s eyes widened but he caught England’s wrists and held him off, hunching to protect his vital regions as England tried to knee him somewhere painful. There was something familiar about the entire process that England couldn’t quite place but had a terrible suspicion it had happened the previous evening.

“Explain,” England ground out, face a mere few centimetres from America’s, stepping on America’s feet to keep them planted on the floor of the cab. England’s heart was racing, trying to painfully thump its way out of his chest.

“You said-- you said I could sleep with you last night. Y-- you don’t remember?” America said. He was grinning but his eyes were still wide and he was stuttering, and England realized that some façade he’d been wearing was breaking down.

“I-- I--" England started to say, but then noticed America’s eyes glancing past him. He turned his head to see the driver, goggling at them in the rear-view mirror. He stepped off America’s feet and shook his wrists until America released him. “Explain at home,” he said, and went back to his corner of the cab .

The ride was short and yet endless at the same time. America did not spend the drive touching him or yammering at him, however, and for that England had to be grateful. America had already paid the driver more than enough money, so they were able to pile out at England’s house and head straight in.

Once inside America was still silent, so England made a show of removing his coat, of brushing the rain and nonexistent detritus from the wool, of placing it correctly on a hanger and sliding it into the closet, all the while his heart thumping and his stomach twisting itself into knots. Still America did not talk, just shrugged out of his coat wearing a shifty expression that wouldn’t meet England’s gaze.

America’s arm became caught and twisted in his coat-sleeve and he looked so confuzzled that England sighed and stepped over to help him out of it. He took a deep breath. He took several. He thought about saying So what were you saying about last night?

“I. Uh,” America started to say, saving England the torture of asking. America then cracked his knuckles and watched his free hand as it clenched, unclenched. “Woo, grow some, he says. Haha. Hokay. I. Thought you might like it. If.”

He paused. England stuck his hand into America’s sleeve to fish him out of it and realized that he was touching America voluntarily and that he liked it and then he realized what America was trying to say. He wanted to laugh, he was so giddy and frightened to death, but he didn’t.

“Daft cunt,” England said, and before he could think about, it he plastered his mouth onto America’s and breathed him and--

“Oh, God. Oh myfuckinggod,” America sighed, taking the words right out of England’s mouth. He stopped blaspheming after that and clutched England’s shoulder with his free hand and thumped him on the back with the other.

England grabbed the back of America’s head with both hands and mashed their mouths together. For all England’s affection, he couldn’t be gentle, not in those first few moments. He tried not to think this is America, holy hell but did a little, anyway as they shoved their tongues at each other.

It was a minute or so before England allowed himself to slow down, curling his fingers through America’s hair and licking America’s teeth, the top of his mouth, while America moaned short little ahs at him and kneaded England’s shoulder like a cat might. It was another minute or two before England pulled back to breathe the outside of America’s lips, to look at him.

America’s eyes were closed and his spectacles had been knocked askew by their shared enthusiasm. England plucked them off and tossed them onto the sofa. He had two hundred years of pent-up, burning lust to deal with and no time to worry about the annoying details.

America opened his eyes and looked at him with no small wonder. He looked so young without his spectacles, so like himself from long ago, that England’s thighs shook with inappropriate longing.

“So, I was being clear?” America said in a whisper against England’s lips.

“As a brick wall, idiot,” England told him. He massaged his fingertips into America’s scalp and tilted his head to go in for round two, sliding his closed lips from one side of America’s mouth to the other, then slipping his tongue inside again to get everything, everywhere, all at once.

What America lacked in finesse he made up for in tasting wonderful-- heat, and chocolate and spit and red wine from the glass he’d drunk at the show. And in zeal: America pulled England closer with the hand on his back until they were pressed together from nose to knees and England could feel the heat coming off America’s body in little shudders.

“What’s wrong with you?” England asked around America’s tongue.

America rested his forehead against England’s and crawled his fingers around to the back of England’s neck. “Nothing. ‘S’nice.”

“Ah,” England breathed, and proceeded to demonstrate just how nice he could be.

After a few more minutes the brief interlude of tenderness edged back into more urgent territory. America was hupping from stimulation and England’s madly thumping heart had settled in his lower belly, throbbing in his cock against America’s hipbone or matching erection or whatever was jutting at him.

The sofa was closest-- England clutched America’s bum in one hand and stepped backwards, dragging America with him, but his heel caught on something and if America hadn’t been holding him he would have tumbled backwards onto his bottom.

America snorted quite unromantically. He still had his coat hanging from one arm and that’s what England had stepped on. England hissed through his teeth and yanked it off ungently. America rubbed his freed wrist with his other hand and England grabbed the wrist from him and popped off its cufflink.

“Don’t lose those. I just got them,” America said as England popped the one off the other cuff. England dropped them onto an end-table and then removed his own cufflinks.

“That’s why I’m removing them now, before we take this to the settee,” England explained. He was quite reasonable and steady as he pulled America around, then pushed him backwards towards the furniture item in question. While he had his hands on America’s chest he loosened America’s tie and slipped the first few buttons of his shirt out of their holes.

“Oh. Okay,” America said, and for once kept further quiet. England shoved him down to the settee and then kicked off his own shoes. America did the same, eyes never leaving England’s as England then pulled off his vest. America’s eyes were so wide and anticipatory-nervous that England’s chest ached to match his cock.

He fell into the sofa with his knees and swiveled sideways until he could press America back into the cushions and go for round three of snogging. Perhaps it was round four. He yanked off America’s tie and licked his neck and opened his shirt to stroke America’s warm skin, to survey his new empire, his again for the while. America groaned and arched his back and pulled England’s shirt-tails out of his trousers and England felt America’s huge, strong hands on his skin, lightly callused fingers kneading his spine.

At some point it had become clear to England how much America wanted him in return, and England wondered how he hadn’t seen it, how long this had been so and why the pair of them had been so bloody stupid with each other. Their governments had certainly had better relations at various times in the past. Why now was a bit of a puzzle. Still, England thought, this had little to do with what they represented; this was just now and was for him, warm skin and breaths and America’s body, his America, shifting against him in little jerks.

Positioned as he was between America’s thighs, it had also become clear that America indeed had a matching erection and was trying, from his position of buried in cushions with no leverage, to grind it into England’s abdomen. England took pity and swiveled his hips a few times, nibbling America’s neck and stroking his side as he did it. America started hupping again and England slid his hand lower, flipping America’s trouser-button open and running his thumb over the silky-hot skin of his cock.

America gasped so painfully into England’s ear that England kissed him again and caught his cock in a firmer grip, frotting his own crotch into America’s knee.

“England, oh, England,” America was gasping into England’s mouth.

England pulled back and stilled his movements for a moment. “What is it?”

America opened his eyes and looked up at him with a bit of an accusatory air. “Just saying your name. I thought you liked that.”

England chuckled. America grinned back, his teeth white in his pink, shiny face. He took the opportunity to fumble at the buttons of England’s shirt. England let him and rocked back to sit on his heels and unravel his tie. When his shirt was sufficiently open-- it was chilly in here, he felt cool air on his sweaty skin-- he dug his fingers into America’s trousers at his hips.

“Lift your bum so I can get these off.”

America looked downright apprehensive but only for a half-instant. Then he was grinning again and England wondered how he did that, how he concealed his moods so well. “Oh. Okay,” he said again, and arched his back a few centimetres.

England started pulling America’s trousers down-- the twit wore no underpants, even though it was fucking November in London. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, wondering if he should have.

“Uh, yeah,” America answered in a rather sarcastic tone. “I’m not the one who sees unicorns, remember?”

“Wise-ass,” England said with a light smack to the body-part in question. America raised his knees to his chest so that England could pull his trousers off his lower legs, and, amusingly, wrapped his hands around his vital regions as if to cover them. “With whom?”

“Not telling,” America said to the ceiling.

“Fair enough,” England said back. He didn’t really want to know, anyway.

America lowered his legs and England had a short but thorough look while he finished unbuttoning his shirt. But rather than to the more interesting bits of America’s anatomy, which seemed perfectly normal and lovely, his gaze was drawn to America’s open shirt and the bruise and scars on his bare chest. The bruise England had probably given him; the long, thin scar across his middle was hardly visible, but a rather nasty-looking gash cut across his breastbone, just under where his heart was, white against his pink, flushed skin. England’s chest ached in sympathy; he had a few scars of his own. But his desire for rather rough conquest had abated a bit.

“Stay right there,” he ordered. He dashed to the bathroom to grab a bottle from one of the drawers-- a bottle he’d bought with high hopes a few years ago. When he returned thirty seconds later, America was in the same position but his eyes were closed and he was clutching his lower lip in his teeth. He opened his eyes at England’s chuckle.

“Hi!” he said.

“Hello yourself,” England said back. “I don’t intend to hurt you, you know.”

“I know.” He held up his hands and England lowered himself between them, pressing his naked skin to America’s and snogging him again, deeply and with intent. America kissed him back at the exact right pace, learning, learning, he’d always been a quick learner, too quick, and England’s chest ached more awfully than his cock trapped inside his trousers. He kissed down America’s neck and settled his lips on his breastbone, licking down to the scar and kissing it better. America ruffled England’s hair at the nape of his neck and stroked his sides and moaned and made it clear he wanted touching and kissing lower down, but England was so hard and hot and tight he thought he might spontaneously combust; that would have to come later.

He fastened his lips on America’s mouth again to savor his moans, all for him, only for him, America, and when America hooked a thigh over England’s bottom, trying to get closer, to get off, England curled a finger behind America’s bollocks to stroke the rim of his arsehole.

America’s entire body twitched at once. He grabbed England’s bum so hard he nearly shoved a finger inside England through his trousers.

“England, England,” he whispered.

England chuckled even as his skin ignited all over to hear his name from those lips, like that, in that voice. He popped the lid from the bottle he’d shoved between the seat-cushions and upended it over America’s bare hip, spreading the slick lube over America’s skin and his own fingers.

As he shoved a slicked finger inside America, his America, it quickly became apparent to England that America had not in fact done this before, at least not like this; he was too nervous and clenched too tightly around England’s finger. Was he even aware of what they were going to do?

“Going to fuck you,” England told America’s lips.

“Uh huh,” America said. As England stretched his finger just so and pushed America’s body seized up against the sofa and England and he added, “please! Please just do it.”

“Mmm,” England said, agreeing wholeheartedly. He unfastened and yanked down his trousers to his knees and slid his burning, holy hell burning, cock into the slick puddle on America’s hip and he shoved and swirled it and America licked England’s lips.

“Any day, old guy,” he said.

“Bastard,” England ground out and hooked America’s knee up to his chest and nudged his cock into America, oh, sweet, tight and past the clenching muscle and he was inside all the way, sweet Jesus, sweet America.

America was grimace-grinning and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. England realized that he was probably hurting him, contrary to promise, but didn’t care too much because America seemed to be doing all right and it felt quite lovely being inside him.

“Relax, lad,” he said, and stretched down for a kiss, pushing America’s knee back to his ear so their mouths could meet. He rocked his hips in tiny movements back and forth, unable to not move just a little bit. America was huffing quick breaths and England kissed him until he felt the taut muscles in his captured thigh loosen some, and he was able to move inside him a little more freely. “There’s a lad.”

He knew America had started to feel good again when his erection plumped up between them and he started making little ah cries in the back of his throat. America, with his red lips and black-ringed eyes, making England laugh like he hadn’t in years. “Jesus,” he murmured into America’s temple, licking the sweat from America’s hair and feeling America’s hands wind ‘round England’s back to hold him as he fucked him.

For a while he couldn’t think of a single bad thing about America; had never been annoyed by him, had always just wanted him. He didn’t even close his eyes, just watched America’s face and wanted this to last forever. But forever wasn’t going to happen: after a few minutes his leisurely thrusts quickened on their own, as his body rushed ahead of his intentions. He watched America breathe, harsh and open-mouthed at him, and the ache in his testicles threatened to subsume his brain.

“How are you?” he thought to whisper as he ground America into the cushions. America, who was trying to grind back and failing but who was perfect and tight and slick and sweaty and beautiful all the same.

“Unh,” America said, and “please.”

“Unh,” England told him back; his thighs quivered and he nearly teetered into orgasm. Quickly he braced his forehead on America’s and grabbed America’s cock and jerked it almost violently.

“Th-- th--" America tried to say. “Oh--" and he tightened and tensed all over and dug fingers into England’s spine and pulled England’s hair, sweet lad.

England felt the sticky mess of America’s release on his hand and let go to brace it in between the settee cushions the cushions would have to be cleaned and forced a last few thrusts into America’s body, slackened and relaxed and pliable. He was fit to burst, too close to orgasm to not confess his feelings. “Jesus, I’ve loved you,” he moaned into America’s hair, knowing that later, if he had to, he could claim mere religious exultation.

“Ahh,” America breathed back and England came inside him, jerking and unrhythmic, bloody hell they’d made a mess of his settee. Their sweaty foreheads slid apart and England gave a quick kiss to America’s cheek before he buried his face in the cushion and drooled on it, dirtying it further.

He wound down, breathing hard, then more slowly, then almost normally. America’s hands, under his shirt, stroked his back, fingertips making gentle, distracted circles on his skin. England smiled inwardly and pulled his hand from between the cushions, holding America’s spectacles.

“Texas,” he said, and dropped them on America’s forehead.

America looked alarmed for a moment but a quick examination revealed that the spectacles were unharmed. He opened them and dropped them on across his nose.

“Mm, thanks,” he told England. He pried England’s fingers from the underside of his knee and swatted his hand aside, then straightened his leg. “Ow.”

“Unh,” England said, rolling off of America to sit onto the floor. He leaned back against the sofa for a moment to pull up his trousers, feeling odd as suddenly as he’d felt happy a moment ago. He felt vulnerable. It had been too lovely. He’d said too much. He wondered where they should go from here. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to pull America against him and squeeze and squeeze until neither of them had breath and couldn’t leave. But that wasn’t bloody likely.

America stood and England watched him out of the corner of his eyes, and expected him to say, “well, bye” or something equally flippant and to collect his things and leave; England’s heart jumped and he felt pathetic because America hadn’t said--

But America only arched his back and winced and said “ow” again. His spectacles lenses were smeared. He had semen and lubricant smeared across his belly and dripping down his leg. He looked endearing and ridiculous and so normal that suddenly England wasn’t afraid, anymore.

America sat on the settee again and England jumped to his feet and held out his hand. America looked up at him with a question written across his face. He opened his mouth and then shut it. Good lad.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, then,” England said. America took his hand and England pulled.

***

America found it all so normal that it was bizarre. England yanked him around the corner and into the bathroom and tsked at him for being a mess and it was just too normal after-- after that.

“Sorry for the bruise,” England said in a low voice, and it was nearly the same voice he’d used when he’d said going to fuck you and America shivered a little in memory, and then shivered again because he was mostly naked and England was swiping at his midsection with a cold, wet washcloth.

“Aw, it doesn’t hurt,” he lied. Some sense of self-preservation kept him from saying all is forgiven again. Though that had certainly led to the desired result. In a way.

“Hmm,” England said, and ran more cold water onto the washcloth.

Holy shit, but England had certainly come across with the goods when sufficiently riled. It was like he was the England of old, who could kick his ass and care for him at the same time. France had warned him, years ago, that England was only repressed on the outside and that he was a kinky bastard...

Care for him. England had said, America distinctly remembered, that he’d loved him. Or that he’d loved Jesus.

America looked at England’s face, his green eyes clinically intent as he swabbed America down. It was the expression of an old man. America wanted to laugh.

Instead he ran his fingers through England’s blond hair, all mussed from-- from America’s grabbing it as England had screwed the living daylights out of him. To think he’d considered, at first, that he’d be the one taking charge.

England stilled when America touched him and then smirked. He looked positively evil. And hot and not like an old man at all.

“Your hands had better be clean,” England said and he yanked America closer by the neck and bit his shoulder. Not hard, but America definitely felt teeth.

Ouch, asshole, America wanted to say, but what he said was “Ah” and even that came out in a bit of a whine.

England chuckled and licked the spot he’d bitten and then licked along his collarbone, a warm wet path that grew chilly in the cool air of England’s house.

“I thought you had central heating installed in this place a few years ago,” America accused when England nudged his shirt off his shoulders and he shivered.

“Bloody pansy. You cold?” England said, and then was all business again as he stepped back to wipe America down some more.

“Maybe.”

England rubbed America’s lower belly with the cold cloth and America put his hands on England’s shoulders because he was feeling a little weak-kneed and unsteady. Then England was rubbing America’s thighs and between them and the cloth was rough and wet and he couldn’t believe he was standing naked in the bathroom and jolly old England, grumpy bastard and his first friend, was wiping come from his legs. To America’s shame his dick twitched. Visibly. Well, it felt good, even if it was fucking cold and bizarre.

England looked up, smirking at him again with his eyes. He tossed the washcloth in the sink and then he was kissing America again and, man, you knew you were being kissed when England was kissing you. You couldn’t breathe but you didn’t care. He began to feel much less cold as he breathed England and squeezed his warm shoulders through his old-man, button-down shirt.

England’s mouth slid from America’s lips to his ear and he heard a whisper. “Turn around.”

Why? America wanted to say but instead he said “Okay” and turned around. He could see himself in the mirror, naked, bruised, scarred and wet and fucked and then he could see and feel England’s hand on this stomach, fingers spread, and England’s head at his shoulder and then England’s lips and teeth on his earlobe. America shut his eyes so he could feel it all without watching. “Mmmmm...” he might have said.

Then he wasn’t being touched and he was cold. He heard England’s pants rustling to the floor and he shivered with... with lots of things. Then he was being touched again, fingers sliding up his chest and rough over both his nipples and his neck was being licked from his shoulder to jawline and he felt harsh breaths there. Other fingers were squeezing his overstimulated cock, gently and then with more force, rubbing relentlessly over the tip; all the blood and remaining heat in his body fell to the pit of his stomach to throb there and his only heat and support was England, pressed full-length against his back.

“’Ere we go,” a low, sexy voice skulked into his ear and he was hard again and swaying, back and forth, into those teasing fingers and the warm body behind him, rubbing against whatever he could reach.

Wow, this is awesome, he should have said, but all he could manage was something along the lines of “Hup. Hup, hup.” He managed to lift a hand over his shoulder to stroke England’s soft, sweaty hair. He felt his glasses being removed and heard a clink as they were placed onto something.

The voice was back. “Bend over. I haven’t had enough of you, yet, it seems,” it said, and possibly, coupla centuries, long, bloody time.

America opened his eyes for a second and saw himself, his cock jutting out hard and engulfed in England’s well-manicured fingers, and then he saw a sparkly blur for a moment because his equilibrium was too aroused to work correctly. He tilted forward and gripped the sink in both hands, cold porcelain, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh, okay,” he managed to say. Intelligent thought had left him, too, in favor of being screwed silly again.

He felt England’s fingers massaging his ass-cheeks and then spreading them to the cool air but not for long, because the thick, hard, hot of England’s cock was nudging between them and he crawled his hands further up the sides of the sink, bending over as far as he could, until his nose was touching the mirror.

“Good lad,” England said, and then “Ah!” when he pulled out and shoved back in, then again, and on the third thrust he hit something inside America, a bundle of nerves like a live wire that made his dick jump.

“Fuckingoh,” he cried, and England chuckled evilly and did it again, two more times in quick succession, and then again, and--

“How’s that?” England said between huffing breaths.

“Ahh!” England’s fingers were digging into his hips, pulling him forward, back, snap, slap, and he felt his his ass slamming into England’s thighs, the sharp ache over and over of England hitting inside him. “Ah!”

“Thought so. Fuck, America, ah!”

“Yep,” America whimpered, and hung his head and rested his head on the mirror and let his body be shaken around and fucked as it would.

“Dear lord, Jesus,” England was whispering, and America felt the sticky heat of his body press and slide along his spine in time with England’s thrusts. England was praying again, and America fancied that it was for him, his body, as England grabbed his cock in slippery, stinging fingers and yanked until America thought he might explode and die from sensation.

“Open your eyes,” England said, then. America opened his eyes and all he could see were his eyes, dark and wide in the mirror. Then there were fingers on his chin and his head was being tilted back and he could see himself, his face all pink and his mouth hanging open and saying hup, hup and it was painfully erotic and embarrassing all at once. The top of England’s head appeared over his shoulder and he felt words being spoken into his back.

“So how long has it been me?” the words said.

America looked at his own face, pink and shiny and stupid and awesome and he closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Long time,” he managed to say.

“Ah?” America’s head shook as England fucked him hard, fast, he was going to come, how could he speak--? “Tell me.”

“Always! Always,” he said, and he realized it was true, that only England could see him like this; England, England, it had always been England. There’d been that brief interlude with Ukraine, she’d been such a sweet girl and then that one time with Japan but those had merely been fun and how could he have ever wanted mere fun from England, when he could have him like this, worshipping his body, his hand on America’s cock, hot, aching friction--

“Ahgod,” he cried and came and he had to close his eyes; it was like sneezing and he couldn’t watch himself do it, like a sneeze that happened over and over as England worked an extended climax out of him and kept fucking him while he did it.

Finally England started slowing down his thrusts, chanting Jesus, love at him like he had before. America opened his eyes to watch but all he could see through the mist on the mirror was the top of England’s head, yellow-blond hair behind his own dirty-blond, and England’s hand clutching his stomach, fingers flexing over and over until he came.

America wanted to collapse and curl up on the floor but braced himself on the sink so that England could lie across his back for a minute or so. After that, England pushed off of him and moaned and America eased his aching back upright. Fuck whatever Lithuania had said years ago about becoming an adult; he was getting old and felt all of his few centuries in every aching muscle. Plus, he had more come running down his leg and he needed a shower. He looked at the ancient claw-footed tub to his right, the one with the standing shower-head and old-fashioned curtain circling it, and wondered if he could get hot water out of it. And if he could get cleaned up before England molested him again. Not that being molested was necessarily a bad thing, it was just-- his poor ass!

“Demme, but it’s bloody cold in here,” England said. It sounded so old-fashioned, like something he might have said in the eighteenth century, that America suddenly felt very young again.

“Jeeze, you’re such a fossil. Or would that be pansy?” America teased, trying to say it with England’s accent. He plinked his Texas from the sink and put them on and then grinned and stretched his arms to the ceiling to show how spry and youthful he felt. He turned around to see what England made of that.

“Prat,” England said, glaring. He slapped America’s ass and smirked when America winced. America was sure he was going to pay for that one; he hurriedly laughed.

“Haha! Just kidding, sheesh.” He looked longingly at the shower again. Hot water--! “Um. Could I-- we-- could I take a shower? And would you turn the heat on?

England narrowed his eyes, then grinned, and it was the sunniest expression America had ever seen on England’s face. It was blinding and heart-wrenching.

“Take your shower,” he said. “I’ll turn up the heat. And make tea. Fuck, but I could use a cuppa right now.”

America smiled back at him and thought, ten percent and rising.

***

The next morning was a little weird, but not as weird as America might have feared. The normal parts of it were freakily normal: England waking up grumpy and bitching about the smell of coffee first thing in the morning and about America’s stuff strewn all over his living room. The weird parts mostly involved America not being sure how to act or what to do or say but he’d eventually decided to just act like he normally did and expect everything to turn out all right. It was usually a good plan and what was expected of him.

For instance, America had woken up first, and they’d been sharing a bed but that wasn’t necessarily weird. What was unusual, for him, was lying in bed and wondering whether or not there might be morning nookie: the previous night he’d had his shower and they’d shared tea and made out a little but nothing further in the earth-shattering department. They’d both been rather beat, after all. And America’s ass still hurt.

Once America had figured out, however, that England lying face-down in his pillow and twitching now and then when America shifted on the bed was going to be the same whether or not they’d gotten busy the night before, he’d just gotten up and made coffee and chowed down a couple of stale cookies.

But then he had to decide whether or not England might like breakfast, too, and whether or not he should make it and if he should brew the tea and put the little cover-thingy on the pot to keep it warm or take a cup upstairs, like he had the day before. Eventually he settled for tea in cover-thingy, and he took his coffee into the front room to pop onto the internet and see what was up. He left his cell-phone turned off; anybody who really needed him would know where to call him.

There was an e-mail from Canada, full of the usual clever bullshit he’d never say in person and sly digs for information and griping that Tony had already beaten all his video games. America didn’t bother to reply; he wasn’t sure what to say.

There was an e-mail from Japan, discussing the English-language adaptation of the latest Studio Ghibli film and politely asking without asking if America-san would please be sure to use whatever influence he could to see that the perfect voice actors were chosen. Japan sure took his cartoon voice-actors seriously. America popped off a quick reply to say he was hanging at England’s place but he’d call Disney when he got back to the States. After he sent it he realized that he’d probably get another e-mail from Japan, being ultra-polite and inquisitive, but decided he’d just deal with that when the time came.

There was the usual junk-mail, and then holy crap, a message from France, cc’ed to England, being all nicey-nice and saying that he knew America was partying in London and that he was coming up to stay, too. He’d probably been talking with Canada. America didn’t reply to that one, either; he’d let England tell France to fuck off.

Soon after that was when the bitching had started. England had cursed as he’d come down the stairs that it was the crack of dawn and what the hell was America doing down there, typing and making so much bloody noise? What was this electronic stuff all over his parlor? All very normal and weird at the same time.

“Good morning,” America chirped, and let England find the tea himself.

England found it and stomped into the living room without thanks, and shoved some of America’s papers aside to sit on the couch. He sipped his tea and glared at nothing in particular.

“So what are we gonna do today?” America said, even more perkily and with twice the grin.

England turned his glare in America’s direction, then set down his tea and reached for the back of America’s head. America thought, yay, morning nookie, but England just slapped his ear.

“Idiot,” he said.

America covered his ear and pouted. He thought about making some smart-ass comment about England’s age and being too much strong young man for him, but his ass really did hurt and he eventually settled for something a little more normal.

“It’s nice to know you can always be counted on to be a jerk in the morning,” America said. He winced when it looked like England was going to box his ears again, but England just stood.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Going to make some breakfast.”

America considered a snarky comment about running away, but before he had a chance to say it, England continued.

“And you’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” he said, and ruffled America’s hair. Then he went into the kitchen and America grinned and patted his sore ear and realized that the knot he’d always had under his diaphragm when he was with England was not there.

“France is coming. If you log on you’ll see his e-mail,” America said, loudly.

“Nosy bastard,” England griped back. There was the sound of clinking dishes, running water, the clicking of the gas burner on England’s stove being ignited.

It was the clicking that did it: America realized the knot wasn’t in his stomach but in his throat. He sipped some coffee but it didn’t help. He found himself counting every second, listening for everything and looking at everything and touching the couch and trying to memorize every detail, every bump in the rough silk thread of the cushions and the towel England had laid on the couch at some point; he was less accustomed to sentimentality than to nostalgia.

“I have to go back,” he called into the kitchen before he could think about his reasons for saying such a thing.

The clinking of dishes stopped for a moment.

America realized what he’d said, exactly. “In three days,” he added.

The clinking started again. “Ah. Yes, of course,” England replied with a sigh in his voice. America couldn’t tell if it was a relieved sigh or what.

But America was riled up and he had to know; he had to know now. “Seriously,” he called. “So, what are we going to do from here on out?”

England kept clinking things, but didn’t pretend he didn’t know what America was talking about. “I’ve thought about this. And I suppose I don’t really know. Things are changing all the time. Damned governments. I suppose...” The clinking stopped. “I suppose we go on as we have.”

America thought about this. Weird and normal at the same time. “We see each other pretty often, right?”

“Moderately.” There was a careful shrug in England’s voice. “Ah. What are you doing for the holidays?”

At the same time, America said “How would you like to spend new year’s eve in Times Square?”

England answered first. “Been a long time since I’ve done that. I imagine that I could work it out.”

“Awesome,” America said. “I’ll see what things look like for Christmas.”

He sat back and played with the couch cushions and the fringed edges of the towel and let his mind wander over the possibilities of international relations, until England carried a tray with something that smelled only slightly horrible into the dining room between the kitchen and the living room. “We don’t eat in the front parlor here, no matter what you louts do in the States,” England pointed out.

America grabbed his coffee and headed into the dining room. “There’s always Halloween, too,” he noted.

“Ah, that’s right.” England went into the hallway to yank open a drawer in the old-fashioned desk he kept there. He pulled out his ancient little book, then grabbed a fountain pen from the desktop and made a mark inside the book. He gave America a positively evil grin. “Another win for me. I nearly forgot. Would you like to know the current score?”

“God, no,” America said. “Not until I’ve caught up.”

“Never,” England said. He went back into the dining room and sat at the table and America followed. England sipped his tea and looked up at America over the rim of his teacup. “By the way. How do you feel about fellatio?”

Fell--? Oh. Ah.

“Why, I think it’s awesome,” America told him. He twitched in his chair and tried not to look at the food on the table.

England sipped his tea and smirked. “How convenient,” he said.

END.

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