The Pros and Cons of Text Messaging
Title: The Pros and Cons of Text Messaging
Pairing: USUK (APH)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: England wakes up with a hangover and bad morning breath and has no idea why America is at his house or being so... considerate?
***
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: Whyd onyt oysu asdkflvoe me??
I lovse oyu;j fw;lkjso meuch wn why’sodfij you lveave mwe you jerokj I hat oys fkjweroujl
***
England woke with a throbbing headache and a mouth that felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton and tasted like something had died inside.
“Unghh…” he muttered. You’d think that after decades, hell, centuries - a country would acquire a bit of tolerance for alcohol. As it was, all that those years of drunken escapades had done for England was make it quite clear exactly where his tolerance level was, which never seemed to be a good enough reason to stop drinking once he’d started.
There wasn’t anything important to do today, England was fairly sure, trying to work his brain into some semblance of awareness. He never drank if he had a world conference or meeting or any of the other various duties a country had to attend to. Right, they’d just finished up the latest group of world conferences in Paris the day before which was why he’d gone out drinking with France and Spain (who wasn't even really supposed to be there but came anyway either because France had invited him or else because the Italy brothers were there) in celebration of the end of a week of non-productive world meetings. He had a few days off before he had to get back to his duties.
Satisfied, England sighed and shifted a little deeper into the tangle of warm blankets and heavy arm-
England sat up and immediately regretted it when his pounding headache turned piercing. He winced, cradling his head.
“England?”
Even scratchy with sleep, the voice was entirely too recognizable and too loud.
“Shut up,” England groaned and prayed fervently that this was an alcohol-induced nightmare because oh lord, it was America in his fucking bed at his London flat. What the fuck? The United Fucking States of Fucking America! And he felt too shitty to even enjoy it. He was never drinking again in his life.
“Oh, you have a hangover,” America said.
When England finally gathered the courage to look over at him, America was yawning, hair tousled and T-shirt rumpled, and looking younger than usual without his glasses perched on his nose.
“Here,” America said, reaching over for a glass of water on the bed stand which England definitely didn’t usually keep there. “Come on, drink it,” he said, handing him two aspirins, when England just stared at him.
Still wary but feeling too crappy to care, England took the glass from America and drank. Sure, he knew America was usually the one to take him home when he got drunk because, for whatever reason, the other nations always called America even though America rarely went drinking at all. And so yes, England knew that America usually took him home and made sure there was aspirin and water sitting next to the bed when England woke up - but America was also usually gone in the mornings and not in the same bed as him.
America yawned again. “It’s too early,” he said and lay back down, pulling the blankets up again.
England stared, uncomprehending, at the tuft of golden hair poking out from beneath the sheets. Thinking about it made his head hurt more. All England wanted to do was go back to sleep, so since it was his bed in his apartment (and how in the world had he gotten back to London anyway? Last thing he remembered was downing his fourth pint at some bar in the Quartier Latin), and he was hungover and feeling too terrible to even kick America out of his bed, England lay back down too, stiff and wary.
America sighed and after a moment, he turned, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and pulled England closer. England froze, too confused to even protest when America hooked a foot around his ankle and tangled their legs together. America didn’t appear to notice England’s discomfort, only running a hand through England’s hair in a way that really felt very nice. It might not be a nightmare, but it was definitely a dream, England decided as he drifted back to sleep.
***
The second time England woke, it was to the heavy smell of grease in the air. He tried to ignore it - and then he took a second breath and had to stumble out of bed for the toilet. He upended the contents of his stomach twice and was still leaning against the toilet bowl, skin clammy and heaving for breath, when America found him a few moments later.
America was holding a greasy spatula and his sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up.
“Hey, England, you woke up! That… doesn’t look so great,” he said.
“Really,” England said, glaring up at him.
America put the spatula down in the sink and filled a cup of water for England. “Rinse and spit,” he said.
England held the glare longer, but America just held the cup of water out for England, expectant, until he took it. This was…weird, England thought even if he was glad to rinse the taste of stale alcohol and stomach acid out of his mouth.
It got even weirder when America wetted a towel for him and handed it to England. England washed his face but when he looked up, America was still there, looking at him with his brows faintly furrowed. England was starting to feel like he’d woken up in some alternate reality where… where America was nice to him?
“You feeling okay or do you need to puke again?” America asked, helping him to his feet.
England realized he’d been staring blankly at America for a few moments now, and blinked. “I’m fine,” he said.
America grinned then, all white teeth and blue eyes. “’kay,” he said. “Breakfast’ll be done in a minute if you think you can hold it down,” he said and left with his spatula again.
England stared as America disappeared down the hallway. America had stayed the night after bringing England home drunk. And America was in a good mood. And America was taking care of him.
England had to sit down again, feeling wobbly and disoriented, though he felt a little better now that his stomach was empty of alcohol.
In the end, he opted to brush his teeth and take a long shower to buy time while he tried to figure out why exactly America was here. He’d gone drinking with France and Spain last night because it was practically tradition for England to get drunk after attending any meeting with other countries, and especially one where America was also attending. This was partially because England really needed to de-stress after those chaotic meetings. The other reason was because America would go back home and England would feel both depressed and more depressed - the former because of the multiple rejections he’d sustained at the hands of America, and the latter because as depressing as that was, he was still hung up over his former colony.
So England had gone into a bar with France and Spain last night, just intending to have a few pints, relax a little - or as much as he ever could when in the company of France and Spain. Then one thing had lead to another and as usual, France had ended up trying to pick up every single vaguely attractive person in the bar, Spain had gotten an angry call from the more obnoxious of the Italy brothers and then spent a good hour repeating good-natured apologies into the phone, and England had found himself downing drink after drink until…
He couldn’t remember much of what had happened with the rest of the night. At least he and America, even if they had gone to sleep in the same bed, were both fully dressed. England felt almost disappointed before he reminded himself that he seriously did not need to damage the relationship between himself and America now that they had finally achieved this sort of complicated friendship-relationship whatever was between them thing. He had finally gotten over - or at least, didn’t think constantly about the heartbreak that was the American Revolution. They had gotten over the awkwardness of World War I when they’d had to start working together again. They were even on fairly good terms now, had fought several wars together on the same side and all.
England got dressed, feeling much more composed and himself though he wasn’t sure if he could stomach any of America’s greasy food right now. He stepped into the kitchen and found it, as he had expected, like a bucket of oil had exploded all over the stove and really, that smell clung and England might never get those grease stains out of his wallpaper. America was sitting at the small dining table, helping himself to more bacon.
“Morning England,” America said cheerfully when he saw England. “Or almost noon now, actually,” he said. “Want anything to eat? I made bacon and toast and sausages and eggs and-”
“Toast,” England said, sitting stiffly down. “Toast will be fine.”
America nodded and slathered butter all over two pieces of toast, which he put on a plate and handed to England.
America was serving him breakfast. England stared at him and then stared at the toast.
America raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“Right. Er, thank you,” England said, still feeling off-balance. He bit into the toast, which was, thanks to America, more butter than toast.
“Tea,” America said, putting down a cup in front of England.
“That’s not, er, not what you’re drinking is it?” England asked warily.
America laughed. “’course not. Coffee, see?” he said, holding out his cup. “Picked it up at M&S while you were still out,” he said.
“Oh,” England said, relieved. At least America wasn’t acting completely insane. He sipped his tea and stared at America, trying to figure out why exactly America was in such a cheerful mood. Usually on the mornings after, America had already buggered off and England got a phone call sometime later during the day during which all America did was complain about how he’d been dragged out to pick up England again and would England please start acting his age where it counted and stop getting drunk and nearly arrested for indecent public exposure.
“Do you like it?” America asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Your tea,” America said, looking at the cup in England’s hand.
England hadn’t been paying much attention to the tea but he shrugged. “Sure?” he said.
America beamed at him. “Great! I wasn’t sure if you still took it the same way - two sugars, right?”
England paused and took another sip. In fact, it was rather bland tea - like the leaves hadn’t been soaked enough and the flavor wasn’t quite right, but America had remembered that he liked his tea with two sugars? America usually refused to serve England tea even when England was a guest at America’s house.
“Right…” England said slowly.
He stared harder at America who was now going on about the severe lack of proper grocery stores in England and why was everything sold in such small portions?
England tried to think back to last night. He hadn’t done anything weird, had he? But usually when he got drunk, all America did was get annoyed at him.
“Want any more?” America asked. “Here, have some eggs and bacon,” he said, piling more food onto England’s plate.
England ate automatically, still trying to figure out what America’s plan was. Get him off guard and then …and then declare England his 51st state like France was always joking about? No way. Even America wouldn’t go that far. Had America played some horrible practical joke on him while he was asleep? No. America had the patience of a 3-year-old - he would be bouncing in his seat, bursting to see England fall for it by now and in fact, America seemed quite normal if happy.
And all of brunch passed remarkably peacefully. Partially because America was being so oddly pleasant, and partially because England was still too bewildered and hungover to get up the energy to yell at America about anything.
“You don’t look so great. Maybe you should go lie down again or something,” America said when England finished eating. And then America got up and started gathering things up to put into the sink.
England watched in shock as America actually cleaned up. America washed the dishes while humming to himself and even though he didn’t do anything about or even appear to notice the grease stains left on everything, America had actually done the dishes and put the food away. England hadn’t seen America clean up after himself well, ever. When he was a child, he either ran wild or else England cleaned up for him when he absolutely couldn’t stand the messes that America was making. Even now when they visited each other, it was always England who ended up doing the cleaning (although true, often America volunteered to do the cooking but that was only because America didn’t think anything not doused in grease was edible).
“Dude, you seriously don’t look so great. Maybe you should go sleep it off,” America said when he was finished. “I’m only doing the dishes for you this once - don’t think being drunk’s going to get you out of it again,” he added with a grin.
England stared at him.
America rolled down his sweatshirt sleeves. “Okay. Well, D.C.’s calling me. I gotta get back to the U.S. but call me later, ‘kay?” he said.
Then he bent down to where England was still sitting stunned at the dining table, brushed England’s hair back, and kissed him on the forehead.
England’s mouth dropped open.
America grinned brightly at him and left with a wave. The door slammed shut behind him a moment later.
England tried desperately to gather the pieces of his composure up again and failed miserably. He touched his forehead, still tingling where America’s lips had touched it.
“What the-what the bloody fucking hell was that?” England asked.
He needed to go back to bed.
***
Two hours later, England was still awake and pacing now. He was even considering calling France, which was a very bad sign indeed. America had gone crazy. And it could be France’s fault. In fact, it was probably France’s fault like everything that went wrong in England’s life was. After all, France must have been the one to call America to pick him up, right? And England certainly wouldn’t put it past France to put something questionable in something America ate or drank. Or maybe France had driven America mad just by being so…French. It happened to England all the time.
France picked up on the second ring.
“Allo?”
“France you buggering fuckhead, what the hell did you do to America?” England demanded.
“England?”
“Yes, it’s me. Whatever you did, fix it!” England snapped.
For all that England couldn’t stand France, abusing him always made England feel better.
He did not expect France to burst out laughing on the other end of the line. “Oh my… you do not remember last night?” France asked between wheezes.
“Of-of course I do, fucking frog,” England said. He wasn’t lying. He remembered everything. Right up until the fourth drink.
“You have no tolerance, my darling,” France said, still chuckling weakly. “Shall I tell you what you did?”
“I told you I remember!” England said, not about to show any weakness in front of France.
“Ah, so you remember how do you say in English… snogging young America and declaring your eternal love for him? My dear, it was almost romantic, you could say… though usually for such declarations, I advise roses and a good wine,” France said.
England felt all the blood drain out of his face. “What?” he croaked.
“Ah yes, as obtuse as America is, even he has understood your intentions this time,” France said breezily as though England’s world wasn’t going to pieces. “Though if you ever feel lonely, feel free to come to your big brother here, and-”
“If you don’t shut-oh forget it, why the hell did I call you?” England said and hung up on him. He wouldn’t put it past France to lie for his own entertainment.
He called Spain instead who was too simpleminded to lie to anyone, but Spain more or less corroborated France’s story.
“Yep, you kissed America as soon as he saw him and he turned as red as a cute tomato,” Spain said cheerfully. “He even got mad until you started saying how much you loved him and then you cried about him leaving you and then dumping you all those ti-”
“Right. Okay. You don’t need to keep going,” England said, feeling like his head was going to explode if his face got any redder. “S-So I, er… so he took me home after that?”
“Well by then we were in London cause you said you wanted to go to a new bar there, but you couldn't find it so we just went to a couple of different ones," Spain said. "And when America came, you volunteered to lap dance for him, but you passed out instead so he took you home,” Spain said. He sounded so chipper about it England wished Spain’s armada still existed so he could sink it all over again. And since that wasn’t possible anymore, maybe just spread rumors about the size of Spain’s vital regions to Romano.
There was still something he had to know, though.
England nervously cleared his throat. “Er… so… that is, so did he, you know, say anything about it after I…erm…”
“Hmm….” Spain left him waiting for several suspenseful seconds.
God, did America declare hate for him forever? Hopefully not if this morning’s odd behavior was anything to go by… but then, America could be planning murder behind that cheerful façade. England had seen and read American Psycho before. He knew how it went.
“Nope,” Spain answered.
“Nothing at all?” England asked, knowing he shouldn’t hope for anything by now - he’d already gone through a century of painful heartbreak that still wasn’t entirely healed by now - he should know better and still, he found himself hoping.
“Don’t think so,” Spain said.
“Okay. Fine. Thank you,” England said and hung up.
He sighed and sank deeper into his chair. He had just doomed his relationship with America. He was so never ever drinking again.
***
TO: lachenilledorée
SUBJECT: C’est très mignon, n’est pas?
TO: fuckingfrogdipshit
SUBJECT: Send that to anyone else and I will make sure you eat your own fucking entrails.
Delete it OR ELSE.
***
England was on his way to the pub when his phone rang. He pulled it out and winced when he saw it was America calling even though normally he would have looked forward to a call from America. But fuck, centuries of pent up secrets that he had confessed to America just because of one drunken night?
“Hello?” England finally answered. Knowing America, America would just keep calling until England picked up.
“England! I just got home,” America said cheerfully. “Are you still in bed? That looked like a pretty bad hangover this morning.”
“I’m fine!” England snapped, humiliation and nervousness making him more irritable than usual. “I’m…” He trailed off, looking desperately around for some place he had an excuse for going to.
“You’re not going to a bar again, are you?” America asked, suspicion lacing his tone.
England laughed nervously. “Of course not, er, where would you get the idea?”
“Only because that’s your solution to everything - Christmas, birthdays, after wars, after meetings, when you're bored…”
“I get the point,” England snapped. He didn’t really drink that much… did he? Well, he knew he certainly didn’t drink as much as say Ireland or Germany. He didn’t even drink wine with his every meal like France and the Italies did. Then again, he was talking to America who had the highest legal drinking age in the entire world.
“Don’t get drunk, I can’t come haul you home tonight,” America said.
“I never said I expected you to,” England said. In fact, he’d only half been hoping it would happen but mostly, he just wanted to drown his confusion and despair in alcohol. Maybe there was a reason Germany drank that much with Italy constantly dancing around him. There was a grocery store across the street from him, which was an excellent excuse. “I’m - I’m just going to Tesco’s. You ate everything in my house,” England said.
“Really…” America said, clearly disbelieving.
“Yes,” England said, annoyed.
“Fine but I better not get a call about you running around naked in someone else’s country again cause you got drunk,” America said.
England was glad America couldn’t see the fantastic shade of red his face had gone. “I-I haven’t-”
“Anyways, I’ll try to get time off soon again. Or if you’re not doing anything too important, come by,” America said. “I’m going to L.A. the next couple of days - new political thriller, isn’t it great?”
“All your movies are crap,” England said automatically.
“So you say but you still watch all my blockbusters,” America answered easily. “You’re just jealous my CG effects are so much better than yours.”
“Just because I don’t spend billions of dollars in production, doesn’t mean I don’t make quality movies, prat,” England said.
“Sure, and that’s why all your movie stars want to come to Hollywood,” America said and laughed. “Okay, I need to go. I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“Bye,” England said.
When he hung up, he found himself smiling stupidly at nothing in particular, still standing across the street from Tesco’s.
He sighed, giving up on his plan to head to the nearest bar and get dead drunk. Normally, with time off like he did now, he would go to one of his other residences around England - at the very least, retreat to his house in the suburbs instead of staying at his flat in central London. It was convenient to have an apartment in the city center, but it was also noisy and crowded and England enjoyed his peace and isolation. He didn’t want to leave just yet though, even if it definitely wasn’t because his sheets still smelled like America’s aftershave. He didn’t want to go back to the flat at the moment either though, considering he would just sit around thinking about America the whole time so England headed for the theatre district.
He was halfway through one of the modern interpretations of Shakespeare’s plays which he had only half been paying attention to, when the first text message came.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Look where i am rite now!
:D!
England very nearly had a heart attack.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Pay attention to where you’re going! Stop taking pictures while you’re flying, you idiot! Do you want to crash and die? - E.
The old lady in the seat next to him glared when his cell phone screen lit up again halfway through Orlando’s speech.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Naw, its cool. Ive been flying planes since they were invented! :D
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Why are you in an open cockpit anyway? -E
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Going past the Grand Canyon! :D U know how great that looks at sunset without a window in the way? Take a pic for u later. :D
England very nearly pulled out his own hair. Where had he gone wrong raising someone like America? He was certainly never this foolhardy. In fact, his preservation was the first thing England thought about and screw everyone else. The only one who had ever been an exception to that was America and that was because…
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Don’t.
The old lady had started coughing at him now. England shot her a glare. America didn’t text back for the rest of the play, which either meant he’d gotten himself killed or actually listened to England for once. And since America never listened to England…
England flipped open his phone again, the fluorescent screen lighting up small in his lap.
No reply.
When the play ended, the old lady who had been sitting next to him shot England a disapproving glare, clucking about disrespectful young people these days. England was both a little surprised and embarrassed - he hadn’t been reprimanded since he was a baby nation and even then it was usually by France or one of his brothers and they were hardly in any position to be lecturing anyone. England felt oddly chastised and rebellious at the same time - after all, he was centuries older than she was.
America still hadn’t texted back when England got back to his flat and England had started fingering his cell phone every few moments, hoping it would go off. America and his stupid adrenaline junkie attitude still left over from his pioneering and settling days.
When England had reread the same sentence over again for the thousandth time in two hours of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, he very nearly jumped when America finally texted him again.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Sheesh fine. Get u a postcard then. :D
Which England took to mean that America had arrived safely. He sighed.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
As long as it’s not one of your dreadful Hollywood.
And that started off a week of text exchanges. Which was strange because England almost never texted anyone. If he needed to speak to someone, he called them. All his important government officials and business chair-people, he reached by calling - they all answered regardless of where or when it was. The other countries, England also talked to via phone most of the time except when France wanted to send him the occasional embarrassing and/or lewd picture. Japan was also fond of texting but he never sent England anything that wasn’t official business anyway - Japan got along much better with America with their shared love of technology.
Even America, though England was closer to him than any of the other countries, rarely texted him before this. England usually spoke to America over the phone too and only for official business except when America called because he’d watched a horror movie and needed someone to talk to until America fell asleep. The time difference was usually enough that England was woken up early mornings for it though why America never called any of the other Europeans for this favor even if they had the same time difference as England, he had no idea. In fact, England had been fully anticipating having to come up with some excuse about the economy or currency rates or anything to call America to reassure himself that their relationship was not broken beyond all repair.
Instead of threatening nuclear war or even that he never wanted to see or talk to England again though, America was oddly agreeable all week. He kept up a running commentary of what he was doing and where he was and asked England enough questions that England found himself doing the same. Not in an unpleasant way - just like how America used to write him as a child even though America had never had enough patience to sit down for any longer than it took to write a sentence or two at a time and had atrocious handwriting. Now, he was a little older, and texted between breaks when he was bored, and had atrocious spelling.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Ima soldier hero!
We’re going to film part of it later @ tower bridge. Great, huh? :D
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Ima soldier hero!
Stop giving my place a bad reputation, prat.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Ima soldier hero!
U get tons more tourists. U like my free advertising :D
England found himself keeping his cellphone in his pants pockets, looking forward to the next time it vibrated with whatever new thing America felt it absolutely necessary to share with him. Sometimes it was one of the mansions he’d passed by in Beverly Hills with a funny statue in front. Or else he’d send pictures of the Szechuan food he was eating in Monterey Park, which America claimed was even better than the stuff China made. Or else he'd complain about the perpetual traffic jam around LAX or the stretch of freeway bordering the beach down the 1 by Santa Monica.
And England would tell him to stop taking pictures and texting when he was driving to which America would reply that he was in a traffic jam moving at less than 3mph so it was hardly going to get him killed and besides, he was a nation so it wasn’t even like a car accident could kill him. And then England would tell him that it could still maim him horribly and that was where it got weirder because America would say he’d be careful so England could keep looking at the face he liked so much.
Which, if it was coming from someone else like say, France, England would think it was flirting. But since it was America and America didn’t flirt - hell, America probably wouldn’t know flirting even if it waltzed up to him and started batting its eyelashes - England had no idea what it was. It was definitely more contact with America than they usually had though - much more considering they rarely spoke unless it was for business or they were in the same room - so he wasn’t going to complain.
Even when America texted him with nothing more substantial than because he was bored.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: (none)
I’m bored. What’re u doing?
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE:
Meeting my boss later today. Isn’t it late for you by now? Go to bed.
Then England would go to the meeting and find himself checking his phone beneath the table where they were taking their tea, waiting for America to text back. It was hardly polite, but no one appeared to notice or care, and England was feeling giddy like he was really the age he looked, waiting for a boyfriend’s text-
England froze at that realization.
“Is something wrong?” his boss asked.
England coughed and felt his cheeks flush. “Er, no, carry on. Everything’s fine,” he said just as another message came. He couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at the screen regardless.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Finished early today!
Catch a flight to ur place later if i can :D
“Mr. Kirkland?” his boss asked. “Do you have urgent business to attend to? We can call for a break.”
England stuffed his phone in his pocket. “No, nothing important. Go on,” he said and flashed a polite smile at the other representatives around the table.
He forced himself to focus on the situation at hand - parliament issues and all that. Important things to deal with. Right.
***
There was no one at his flat when England got there right after a dinner date he couldn’t get out of. He’d even taken a taxi all the way over though maybe the Tube would have been faster at the rate traffic crawled in central London. And then again, it was the weekend and half the Tube was shut down and England didn’t want to take the risk of getting stuck there.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: (none)
I thought you said you were coming today.
England sent off the message as he kicked the door open in a way that a flat as posh as his probably shouldn’t be treated.
The reply came almost immediately.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE:
It takes @ least 10 hrs to fly from my w coast! Miss me? :D
England found himself blushing up to the roots of his hair even with no one around to witness it.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE:
Of course not! Just don’t come over in the middle of the night. I’m not opening the door for you.
Knowing America, England still expected it when his phone went off at four in the morning.
“England! Let me up,” America said and England could hear him yawn even through the phone.
“Bloody… I told you not to wake me up,” England grumbled but he grabbed a bathrobe and went to open the door for America.
America greeted him on the other side with a bright smile, even looking more tired than he had in the photos, and wrapped England up in a hug.
England blinked, still groggy from sleep and even more confused now. It was one thing to be exchanging text messages with America all week, and even to be taken care of by him when he was hungover, and entirely another for America to be so clearly happy to see him.
America kissed him on the cheek and then shouldered his way inside, kicking the door shut behind him and dropping his duffel bag on the ground.
“Man, I like flying when I’m in the pilot’s seat but a ten hour ride from L.A. really takes it out of you,” America said and yawned again.
“You just don’t have the patience to sit still that long,” England answered. “I’m going back to bed.”
“’kay, me too,” America said.
England assumed that America meant to sleep on the couch like he usually did on the rare occasion that he stayed at the flat. Of course when America wasn't surprise visiting, they usually stayed at England's suburban London house because there were actually guest rooms there. So England definitely didn’t expect America to follow him right into his bedroom and start stripping off his jacket and kicking off his jeans to slide into bed next to England with just a T-shirt and boxers on.
“A-America?” England stuttered, still sitting upright in bed where he’d just shed his robe.
“Hm?” America asked, already stealing one of England’s pillows and pulling the blankets up.
It was four in the morning, though, and America was making it look so natural that England stopped protesting and lay down, stiff on his side of the bed.
America was already breathing deep and even, out cold almost as soon as he’d gotten into bed so England slowly relaxed. America had probably just watched a horror movie on the flight over. Of course, England decided, satisfied, and went to sleep as well.
***
When England slowly swam into consciousness, he felt incredibly comfortable. There was a heavy weight pressing around him, pushing him into the soft bed, and everything felt warm and heavy and contained.
“Mm…” England sighed in contentment, shifting slightly to bury himself deeper into the cocoon of warmth.
Except the cocoon moved with him. And a little like déjà vu, England went stiff in a moment of oh shit, did I get drunk last night? Pick someone up? Fuck! Before he remembered that no, he’d spent a perfectly respectable night embroidering and watching the news on the telly after he'd gotten home. And then he’d taken a long bath. And then he’d gone to sleep. And then he’d gotten woken up in the middle of the night by America. Right.
England slowly opened his eyes and found himself staring at America’s collar bone. At least this time, he wasn’t hungover, he thought. And could fully enjoy this, England most definitely did not think.
Sunlight was streaming through the window over the sheets that had been pulled over England’s head and he could see it reflect pink through the sheets and gold on America’s skin. “You… why are you acting like this?” England murmured.
America didn’t stir, his arm still wrapped around England and their legs tangled together. England could feel his breathing slow and warm beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt where England’s hands had been pressed sometime during the night. It had been ages since they’d slept together like this. There had been the few times when he and America had slept close together, yes, but the last time he could remember America actually being in the same bed as him, tangled up like this, it had been before the Revolution - far before the Revolution when America was still a child and liked to crawl into bed with him. Then England had gone away for awhile and suddenly America grew into an adult and they’d stopped sharing a bed and a room. And then relations got even worse and even when they got better, it was always sharing a bunk or having bedrolls beside each other. And none of those times was anything like this because it was America’s arm that was around him and not his arms holding little America. And it was England who felt safe in America’s embrace this time even when it went against everything he knew, and when America woke up, he’d probably just moan his bad luck at going to sleep with England.
“Right…” England murmured, moving back a little, shifting so he could look at America’s sleeping face. “I… just…” He reached up, brushed strands of America’s hair away from his eyes and the eyelashes that cast fine crescent shadows over his face.
“Hm?” America murmured.
England froze, fingers just above America’s face. “Shit! I didn’t mean anything, I was just going to get up-” England began scrambling back, only to be stopped by America who tightened his grip.
America blinked awake slowly. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “Few more moments… I still have jetlag…” he murmured.
“Wait, I’m getting up, let go,” England said, protesting.
He guessed America was still half-asleep or else there was no way he’d be holding on so tight to England, but all America did was squint at him again.
“What?” England asked, beginning to get uncomfortable with the long stare.
Then America smiled, sleepy, and leaned forward and kissed England on the mouth. It was a dry kiss, just a brushing of lips against lips. America’s arms were running down his back, soothing, and England found himself relaxing and sighing into it, feeling the inhale and exhale of America's breath, soft. The kiss trailed off slow, lazy and indulgent, with America’s hand stroking absently at England’s ear.
England sighed, but the thought was still nagging him and finally he pulled away, stopping America from following with a hand on his chest.
“America…” England began, and then not sure how to continue, said, “Are you awake?”
America’s confused look turned slightly annoyed. “Obviously,” he said.
“Um… what… why are you acting so weird?” England finally asked.
America, if anything, looked even more confused. “What?”
“You know, the-” England tried to gesture, mostly failing because the sheets were in the way and America’s arm was still loose around his shoulder. “The being nice and-and texting and um… the…” England trailed off, feeling entirely overheated now. He couldn’t look at America in the face.
“Isn’t that, er, how a normal person acts with their boyfriend?” America asked after a long silence.
“Boyfriend?” England echoed and stared at America’s face.
This time it was America who was beginning to turn pink and look away. “When you said, at the bar, remember?” he asked.
Declaring eternal love for him, France’s words came back to him.
England blinked. “But I… didn’t I say I love you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” America said and then looked at England expectantly.
“I… you… oh…” England said. He frowned. “But you…”
“Argh, why do you have to be so embarrassing?” America said, letting out a loud sigh and then rolled to sit up, pushing the sheets back. He got to his feet, scratching at his hair and groping for his glasses left at the bedstand.
“You…” England said, still repeating things back in his head. He wasn’t slow, he was just in a state of disbelief because after centuries, even with how America gave him aspirin when he was hungover and gave him water to rinse when he had to throw up, and how America thought to make him tea with his breakfast even if America wasn’t drinking any, and texted him and even made sure to call at least once a day even though most of their conversations didn’t have much more substance than America just calling to see how England was doing, and America flying over to London even though he should probably be attending some event in the United States, and… and… oh…
England shifted, sheets pooling around his waist, and tried to work out how to phrase the question. “So you... um…”
“Yes,” America said, without turning around but even the tips of his ears were red.
It was utterly endearing.
England smiled. “I never would have figured you to be a romantic or, you know, considerate,” he said.
America turned around at that, annoyed. “Obviously. Who do you think invented Hollywood movies? All the best romance writers come from me,” he said.
“Please, all your romance writers are just imitating Jane Austen,” England said.
America grinned and walked back towards the bed. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a romantic?” he asked.
“What? You don’t believe me?” England said. “Shakespeare’s the one who wrote the most well-known romances in the whole world.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” America said.
And England found a grin spreading over his face, even if it probably looked silly and besotted and stupid and he hadn’t smiled like this in front of America for over two hundred years now and maybe that was why he was completely unable to stop it now. “Well then, let me show you,” he said and pulled America back down. And of course England’s smile was still nothing compared to the bright grin that was rapidly growing wider on America’s face by the second. “By the way, you know I’m rated the number one country when it comes to kissing, right?”
America beamed at him. “We’ll see who wins that one next time they do the polls,” he said.
***
TO: ursconesrshitbutistillloveu
SUBJECT: Make this ur wallpaper! :D
xoxo America
***
end.
And then England kills America for taking personal pictures of them in bed. The bad quality of the pics are entirely intentional cause you know, cell phone cams are total crap and it has absolutely nothing to do with my drawing skills or laziness of course ;D!
Pairing: USUK (APH)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: England wakes up with a hangover and bad morning breath and has no idea why America is at his house or being so... considerate?
***
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: Whyd onyt oysu asdkflvoe me??
I lovse oyu;j fw;lkjso meuch wn why’sodfij you lveave mwe you jerokj I hat oys fkjweroujl
***
England woke with a throbbing headache and a mouth that felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton and tasted like something had died inside.
“Unghh…” he muttered. You’d think that after decades, hell, centuries - a country would acquire a bit of tolerance for alcohol. As it was, all that those years of drunken escapades had done for England was make it quite clear exactly where his tolerance level was, which never seemed to be a good enough reason to stop drinking once he’d started.
There wasn’t anything important to do today, England was fairly sure, trying to work his brain into some semblance of awareness. He never drank if he had a world conference or meeting or any of the other various duties a country had to attend to. Right, they’d just finished up the latest group of world conferences in Paris the day before which was why he’d gone out drinking with France and Spain (who wasn't even really supposed to be there but came anyway either because France had invited him or else because the Italy brothers were there) in celebration of the end of a week of non-productive world meetings. He had a few days off before he had to get back to his duties.
Satisfied, England sighed and shifted a little deeper into the tangle of warm blankets and heavy arm-
England sat up and immediately regretted it when his pounding headache turned piercing. He winced, cradling his head.
“England?”
Even scratchy with sleep, the voice was entirely too recognizable and too loud.
“Shut up,” England groaned and prayed fervently that this was an alcohol-induced nightmare because oh lord, it was America in his fucking bed at his London flat. What the fuck? The United Fucking States of Fucking America! And he felt too shitty to even enjoy it. He was never drinking again in his life.
“Oh, you have a hangover,” America said.
When England finally gathered the courage to look over at him, America was yawning, hair tousled and T-shirt rumpled, and looking younger than usual without his glasses perched on his nose.
“Here,” America said, reaching over for a glass of water on the bed stand which England definitely didn’t usually keep there. “Come on, drink it,” he said, handing him two aspirins, when England just stared at him.
Still wary but feeling too crappy to care, England took the glass from America and drank. Sure, he knew America was usually the one to take him home when he got drunk because, for whatever reason, the other nations always called America even though America rarely went drinking at all. And so yes, England knew that America usually took him home and made sure there was aspirin and water sitting next to the bed when England woke up - but America was also usually gone in the mornings and not in the same bed as him.
America yawned again. “It’s too early,” he said and lay back down, pulling the blankets up again.
England stared, uncomprehending, at the tuft of golden hair poking out from beneath the sheets. Thinking about it made his head hurt more. All England wanted to do was go back to sleep, so since it was his bed in his apartment (and how in the world had he gotten back to London anyway? Last thing he remembered was downing his fourth pint at some bar in the Quartier Latin), and he was hungover and feeling too terrible to even kick America out of his bed, England lay back down too, stiff and wary.
America sighed and after a moment, he turned, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, and pulled England closer. England froze, too confused to even protest when America hooked a foot around his ankle and tangled their legs together. America didn’t appear to notice England’s discomfort, only running a hand through England’s hair in a way that really felt very nice. It might not be a nightmare, but it was definitely a dream, England decided as he drifted back to sleep.
***
The second time England woke, it was to the heavy smell of grease in the air. He tried to ignore it - and then he took a second breath and had to stumble out of bed for the toilet. He upended the contents of his stomach twice and was still leaning against the toilet bowl, skin clammy and heaving for breath, when America found him a few moments later.
America was holding a greasy spatula and his sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up.
“Hey, England, you woke up! That… doesn’t look so great,” he said.
“Really,” England said, glaring up at him.
America put the spatula down in the sink and filled a cup of water for England. “Rinse and spit,” he said.
England held the glare longer, but America just held the cup of water out for England, expectant, until he took it. This was…weird, England thought even if he was glad to rinse the taste of stale alcohol and stomach acid out of his mouth.
It got even weirder when America wetted a towel for him and handed it to England. England washed his face but when he looked up, America was still there, looking at him with his brows faintly furrowed. England was starting to feel like he’d woken up in some alternate reality where… where America was nice to him?
“You feeling okay or do you need to puke again?” America asked, helping him to his feet.
England realized he’d been staring blankly at America for a few moments now, and blinked. “I’m fine,” he said.
America grinned then, all white teeth and blue eyes. “’kay,” he said. “Breakfast’ll be done in a minute if you think you can hold it down,” he said and left with his spatula again.
England stared as America disappeared down the hallway. America had stayed the night after bringing England home drunk. And America was in a good mood. And America was taking care of him.
England had to sit down again, feeling wobbly and disoriented, though he felt a little better now that his stomach was empty of alcohol.
In the end, he opted to brush his teeth and take a long shower to buy time while he tried to figure out why exactly America was here. He’d gone drinking with France and Spain last night because it was practically tradition for England to get drunk after attending any meeting with other countries, and especially one where America was also attending. This was partially because England really needed to de-stress after those chaotic meetings. The other reason was because America would go back home and England would feel both depressed and more depressed - the former because of the multiple rejections he’d sustained at the hands of America, and the latter because as depressing as that was, he was still hung up over his former colony.
So England had gone into a bar with France and Spain last night, just intending to have a few pints, relax a little - or as much as he ever could when in the company of France and Spain. Then one thing had lead to another and as usual, France had ended up trying to pick up every single vaguely attractive person in the bar, Spain had gotten an angry call from the more obnoxious of the Italy brothers and then spent a good hour repeating good-natured apologies into the phone, and England had found himself downing drink after drink until…
He couldn’t remember much of what had happened with the rest of the night. At least he and America, even if they had gone to sleep in the same bed, were both fully dressed. England felt almost disappointed before he reminded himself that he seriously did not need to damage the relationship between himself and America now that they had finally achieved this sort of complicated friendship-relationship whatever was between them thing. He had finally gotten over - or at least, didn’t think constantly about the heartbreak that was the American Revolution. They had gotten over the awkwardness of World War I when they’d had to start working together again. They were even on fairly good terms now, had fought several wars together on the same side and all.
England got dressed, feeling much more composed and himself though he wasn’t sure if he could stomach any of America’s greasy food right now. He stepped into the kitchen and found it, as he had expected, like a bucket of oil had exploded all over the stove and really, that smell clung and England might never get those grease stains out of his wallpaper. America was sitting at the small dining table, helping himself to more bacon.
“Morning England,” America said cheerfully when he saw England. “Or almost noon now, actually,” he said. “Want anything to eat? I made bacon and toast and sausages and eggs and-”
“Toast,” England said, sitting stiffly down. “Toast will be fine.”
America nodded and slathered butter all over two pieces of toast, which he put on a plate and handed to England.
America was serving him breakfast. England stared at him and then stared at the toast.
America raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“Right. Er, thank you,” England said, still feeling off-balance. He bit into the toast, which was, thanks to America, more butter than toast.
“Tea,” America said, putting down a cup in front of England.
“That’s not, er, not what you’re drinking is it?” England asked warily.
America laughed. “’course not. Coffee, see?” he said, holding out his cup. “Picked it up at M&S while you were still out,” he said.
“Oh,” England said, relieved. At least America wasn’t acting completely insane. He sipped his tea and stared at America, trying to figure out why exactly America was in such a cheerful mood. Usually on the mornings after, America had already buggered off and England got a phone call sometime later during the day during which all America did was complain about how he’d been dragged out to pick up England again and would England please start acting his age where it counted and stop getting drunk and nearly arrested for indecent public exposure.
“Do you like it?” America asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Your tea,” America said, looking at the cup in England’s hand.
England hadn’t been paying much attention to the tea but he shrugged. “Sure?” he said.
America beamed at him. “Great! I wasn’t sure if you still took it the same way - two sugars, right?”
England paused and took another sip. In fact, it was rather bland tea - like the leaves hadn’t been soaked enough and the flavor wasn’t quite right, but America had remembered that he liked his tea with two sugars? America usually refused to serve England tea even when England was a guest at America’s house.
“Right…” England said slowly.
He stared harder at America who was now going on about the severe lack of proper grocery stores in England and why was everything sold in such small portions?
England tried to think back to last night. He hadn’t done anything weird, had he? But usually when he got drunk, all America did was get annoyed at him.
“Want any more?” America asked. “Here, have some eggs and bacon,” he said, piling more food onto England’s plate.
England ate automatically, still trying to figure out what America’s plan was. Get him off guard and then …and then declare England his 51st state like France was always joking about? No way. Even America wouldn’t go that far. Had America played some horrible practical joke on him while he was asleep? No. America had the patience of a 3-year-old - he would be bouncing in his seat, bursting to see England fall for it by now and in fact, America seemed quite normal if happy.
And all of brunch passed remarkably peacefully. Partially because America was being so oddly pleasant, and partially because England was still too bewildered and hungover to get up the energy to yell at America about anything.
“You don’t look so great. Maybe you should go lie down again or something,” America said when England finished eating. And then America got up and started gathering things up to put into the sink.
England watched in shock as America actually cleaned up. America washed the dishes while humming to himself and even though he didn’t do anything about or even appear to notice the grease stains left on everything, America had actually done the dishes and put the food away. England hadn’t seen America clean up after himself well, ever. When he was a child, he either ran wild or else England cleaned up for him when he absolutely couldn’t stand the messes that America was making. Even now when they visited each other, it was always England who ended up doing the cleaning (although true, often America volunteered to do the cooking but that was only because America didn’t think anything not doused in grease was edible).
“Dude, you seriously don’t look so great. Maybe you should go sleep it off,” America said when he was finished. “I’m only doing the dishes for you this once - don’t think being drunk’s going to get you out of it again,” he added with a grin.
England stared at him.
America rolled down his sweatshirt sleeves. “Okay. Well, D.C.’s calling me. I gotta get back to the U.S. but call me later, ‘kay?” he said.
Then he bent down to where England was still sitting stunned at the dining table, brushed England’s hair back, and kissed him on the forehead.
England’s mouth dropped open.
America grinned brightly at him and left with a wave. The door slammed shut behind him a moment later.
England tried desperately to gather the pieces of his composure up again and failed miserably. He touched his forehead, still tingling where America’s lips had touched it.
“What the-what the bloody fucking hell was that?” England asked.
He needed to go back to bed.
***
Two hours later, England was still awake and pacing now. He was even considering calling France, which was a very bad sign indeed. America had gone crazy. And it could be France’s fault. In fact, it was probably France’s fault like everything that went wrong in England’s life was. After all, France must have been the one to call America to pick him up, right? And England certainly wouldn’t put it past France to put something questionable in something America ate or drank. Or maybe France had driven America mad just by being so…French. It happened to England all the time.
France picked up on the second ring.
“Allo?”
“France you buggering fuckhead, what the hell did you do to America?” England demanded.
“England?”
“Yes, it’s me. Whatever you did, fix it!” England snapped.
For all that England couldn’t stand France, abusing him always made England feel better.
He did not expect France to burst out laughing on the other end of the line. “Oh my… you do not remember last night?” France asked between wheezes.
“Of-of course I do, fucking frog,” England said. He wasn’t lying. He remembered everything. Right up until the fourth drink.
“You have no tolerance, my darling,” France said, still chuckling weakly. “Shall I tell you what you did?”
“I told you I remember!” England said, not about to show any weakness in front of France.
“Ah, so you remember how do you say in English… snogging young America and declaring your eternal love for him? My dear, it was almost romantic, you could say… though usually for such declarations, I advise roses and a good wine,” France said.
England felt all the blood drain out of his face. “What?” he croaked.
“Ah yes, as obtuse as America is, even he has understood your intentions this time,” France said breezily as though England’s world wasn’t going to pieces. “Though if you ever feel lonely, feel free to come to your big brother here, and-”
“If you don’t shut-oh forget it, why the hell did I call you?” England said and hung up on him. He wouldn’t put it past France to lie for his own entertainment.
He called Spain instead who was too simpleminded to lie to anyone, but Spain more or less corroborated France’s story.
“Yep, you kissed America as soon as he saw him and he turned as red as a cute tomato,” Spain said cheerfully. “He even got mad until you started saying how much you loved him and then you cried about him leaving you and then dumping you all those ti-”
“Right. Okay. You don’t need to keep going,” England said, feeling like his head was going to explode if his face got any redder. “S-So I, er… so he took me home after that?”
“Well by then we were in London cause you said you wanted to go to a new bar there, but you couldn't find it so we just went to a couple of different ones," Spain said. "And when America came, you volunteered to lap dance for him, but you passed out instead so he took you home,” Spain said. He sounded so chipper about it England wished Spain’s armada still existed so he could sink it all over again. And since that wasn’t possible anymore, maybe just spread rumors about the size of Spain’s vital regions to Romano.
There was still something he had to know, though.
England nervously cleared his throat. “Er… so… that is, so did he, you know, say anything about it after I…erm…”
“Hmm….” Spain left him waiting for several suspenseful seconds.
God, did America declare hate for him forever? Hopefully not if this morning’s odd behavior was anything to go by… but then, America could be planning murder behind that cheerful façade. England had seen and read American Psycho before. He knew how it went.
“Nope,” Spain answered.
“Nothing at all?” England asked, knowing he shouldn’t hope for anything by now - he’d already gone through a century of painful heartbreak that still wasn’t entirely healed by now - he should know better and still, he found himself hoping.
“Don’t think so,” Spain said.
“Okay. Fine. Thank you,” England said and hung up.
He sighed and sank deeper into his chair. He had just doomed his relationship with America. He was so never ever drinking again.
***
TO: lachenilledorée
SUBJECT: C’est très mignon, n’est pas?
TO: fuckingfrogdipshit
SUBJECT: Send that to anyone else and I will make sure you eat your own fucking entrails.
Delete it OR ELSE.
***
England was on his way to the pub when his phone rang. He pulled it out and winced when he saw it was America calling even though normally he would have looked forward to a call from America. But fuck, centuries of pent up secrets that he had confessed to America just because of one drunken night?
“Hello?” England finally answered. Knowing America, America would just keep calling until England picked up.
“England! I just got home,” America said cheerfully. “Are you still in bed? That looked like a pretty bad hangover this morning.”
“I’m fine!” England snapped, humiliation and nervousness making him more irritable than usual. “I’m…” He trailed off, looking desperately around for some place he had an excuse for going to.
“You’re not going to a bar again, are you?” America asked, suspicion lacing his tone.
England laughed nervously. “Of course not, er, where would you get the idea?”
“Only because that’s your solution to everything - Christmas, birthdays, after wars, after meetings, when you're bored…”
“I get the point,” England snapped. He didn’t really drink that much… did he? Well, he knew he certainly didn’t drink as much as say Ireland or Germany. He didn’t even drink wine with his every meal like France and the Italies did. Then again, he was talking to America who had the highest legal drinking age in the entire world.
“Don’t get drunk, I can’t come haul you home tonight,” America said.
“I never said I expected you to,” England said. In fact, he’d only half been hoping it would happen but mostly, he just wanted to drown his confusion and despair in alcohol. Maybe there was a reason Germany drank that much with Italy constantly dancing around him. There was a grocery store across the street from him, which was an excellent excuse. “I’m - I’m just going to Tesco’s. You ate everything in my house,” England said.
“Really…” America said, clearly disbelieving.
“Yes,” England said, annoyed.
“Fine but I better not get a call about you running around naked in someone else’s country again cause you got drunk,” America said.
England was glad America couldn’t see the fantastic shade of red his face had gone. “I-I haven’t-”
“Anyways, I’ll try to get time off soon again. Or if you’re not doing anything too important, come by,” America said. “I’m going to L.A. the next couple of days - new political thriller, isn’t it great?”
“All your movies are crap,” England said automatically.
“So you say but you still watch all my blockbusters,” America answered easily. “You’re just jealous my CG effects are so much better than yours.”
“Just because I don’t spend billions of dollars in production, doesn’t mean I don’t make quality movies, prat,” England said.
“Sure, and that’s why all your movie stars want to come to Hollywood,” America said and laughed. “Okay, I need to go. I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“Bye,” England said.
When he hung up, he found himself smiling stupidly at nothing in particular, still standing across the street from Tesco’s.
He sighed, giving up on his plan to head to the nearest bar and get dead drunk. Normally, with time off like he did now, he would go to one of his other residences around England - at the very least, retreat to his house in the suburbs instead of staying at his flat in central London. It was convenient to have an apartment in the city center, but it was also noisy and crowded and England enjoyed his peace and isolation. He didn’t want to leave just yet though, even if it definitely wasn’t because his sheets still smelled like America’s aftershave. He didn’t want to go back to the flat at the moment either though, considering he would just sit around thinking about America the whole time so England headed for the theatre district.
He was halfway through one of the modern interpretations of Shakespeare’s plays which he had only half been paying attention to, when the first text message came.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Look where i am rite now!
:D!
England very nearly had a heart attack.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Pay attention to where you’re going! Stop taking pictures while you’re flying, you idiot! Do you want to crash and die? - E.
The old lady in the seat next to him glared when his cell phone screen lit up again halfway through Orlando’s speech.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Naw, its cool. Ive been flying planes since they were invented! :D
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Why are you in an open cockpit anyway? -E
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Going past the Grand Canyon! :D U know how great that looks at sunset without a window in the way? Take a pic for u later. :D
England very nearly pulled out his own hair. Where had he gone wrong raising someone like America? He was certainly never this foolhardy. In fact, his preservation was the first thing England thought about and screw everyone else. The only one who had ever been an exception to that was America and that was because…
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Don’t.
The old lady had started coughing at him now. England shot her a glare. America didn’t text back for the rest of the play, which either meant he’d gotten himself killed or actually listened to England for once. And since America never listened to England…
England flipped open his phone again, the fluorescent screen lighting up small in his lap.
No reply.
When the play ended, the old lady who had been sitting next to him shot England a disapproving glare, clucking about disrespectful young people these days. England was both a little surprised and embarrassed - he hadn’t been reprimanded since he was a baby nation and even then it was usually by France or one of his brothers and they were hardly in any position to be lecturing anyone. England felt oddly chastised and rebellious at the same time - after all, he was centuries older than she was.
America still hadn’t texted back when England got back to his flat and England had started fingering his cell phone every few moments, hoping it would go off. America and his stupid adrenaline junkie attitude still left over from his pioneering and settling days.
When England had reread the same sentence over again for the thousandth time in two hours of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, he very nearly jumped when America finally texted him again.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
Sheesh fine. Get u a postcard then. :D
Which England took to mean that America had arrived safely. He sighed.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Look where i am rite now!
As long as it’s not one of your dreadful Hollywood.
And that started off a week of text exchanges. Which was strange because England almost never texted anyone. If he needed to speak to someone, he called them. All his important government officials and business chair-people, he reached by calling - they all answered regardless of where or when it was. The other countries, England also talked to via phone most of the time except when France wanted to send him the occasional embarrassing and/or lewd picture. Japan was also fond of texting but he never sent England anything that wasn’t official business anyway - Japan got along much better with America with their shared love of technology.
Even America, though England was closer to him than any of the other countries, rarely texted him before this. England usually spoke to America over the phone too and only for official business except when America called because he’d watched a horror movie and needed someone to talk to until America fell asleep. The time difference was usually enough that England was woken up early mornings for it though why America never called any of the other Europeans for this favor even if they had the same time difference as England, he had no idea. In fact, England had been fully anticipating having to come up with some excuse about the economy or currency rates or anything to call America to reassure himself that their relationship was not broken beyond all repair.
Instead of threatening nuclear war or even that he never wanted to see or talk to England again though, America was oddly agreeable all week. He kept up a running commentary of what he was doing and where he was and asked England enough questions that England found himself doing the same. Not in an unpleasant way - just like how America used to write him as a child even though America had never had enough patience to sit down for any longer than it took to write a sentence or two at a time and had atrocious handwriting. Now, he was a little older, and texted between breaks when he was bored, and had atrocious spelling.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Ima soldier hero!
We’re going to film part of it later @ tower bridge. Great, huh? :D
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE: Ima soldier hero!
Stop giving my place a bad reputation, prat.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE: Ima soldier hero!
U get tons more tourists. U like my free advertising :D
England found himself keeping his cellphone in his pants pockets, looking forward to the next time it vibrated with whatever new thing America felt it absolutely necessary to share with him. Sometimes it was one of the mansions he’d passed by in Beverly Hills with a funny statue in front. Or else he’d send pictures of the Szechuan food he was eating in Monterey Park, which America claimed was even better than the stuff China made. Or else he'd complain about the perpetual traffic jam around LAX or the stretch of freeway bordering the beach down the 1 by Santa Monica.
And England would tell him to stop taking pictures and texting when he was driving to which America would reply that he was in a traffic jam moving at less than 3mph so it was hardly going to get him killed and besides, he was a nation so it wasn’t even like a car accident could kill him. And then England would tell him that it could still maim him horribly and that was where it got weirder because America would say he’d be careful so England could keep looking at the face he liked so much.
Which, if it was coming from someone else like say, France, England would think it was flirting. But since it was America and America didn’t flirt - hell, America probably wouldn’t know flirting even if it waltzed up to him and started batting its eyelashes - England had no idea what it was. It was definitely more contact with America than they usually had though - much more considering they rarely spoke unless it was for business or they were in the same room - so he wasn’t going to complain.
Even when America texted him with nothing more substantial than because he was bored.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: (none)
I’m bored. What’re u doing?
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE:
Meeting my boss later today. Isn’t it late for you by now? Go to bed.
Then England would go to the meeting and find himself checking his phone beneath the table where they were taking their tea, waiting for America to text back. It was hardly polite, but no one appeared to notice or care, and England was feeling giddy like he was really the age he looked, waiting for a boyfriend’s text-
England froze at that realization.
“Is something wrong?” his boss asked.
England coughed and felt his cheeks flush. “Er, no, carry on. Everything’s fine,” he said just as another message came. He couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at the screen regardless.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: Finished early today!
Catch a flight to ur place later if i can :D
“Mr. Kirkland?” his boss asked. “Do you have urgent business to attend to? We can call for a break.”
England stuffed his phone in his pocket. “No, nothing important. Go on,” he said and flashed a polite smile at the other representatives around the table.
He forced himself to focus on the situation at hand - parliament issues and all that. Important things to deal with. Right.
***
There was no one at his flat when England got there right after a dinner date he couldn’t get out of. He’d even taken a taxi all the way over though maybe the Tube would have been faster at the rate traffic crawled in central London. And then again, it was the weekend and half the Tube was shut down and England didn’t want to take the risk of getting stuck there.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: (none)
I thought you said you were coming today.
England sent off the message as he kicked the door open in a way that a flat as posh as his probably shouldn’t be treated.
The reply came almost immediately.
TO: browsman
SUBJECT: RE:
It takes @ least 10 hrs to fly from my w coast! Miss me? :D
England found himself blushing up to the roots of his hair even with no one around to witness it.
TO: americanidiot
SUBJECT: RE:
Of course not! Just don’t come over in the middle of the night. I’m not opening the door for you.
Knowing America, England still expected it when his phone went off at four in the morning.
“England! Let me up,” America said and England could hear him yawn even through the phone.
“Bloody… I told you not to wake me up,” England grumbled but he grabbed a bathrobe and went to open the door for America.
America greeted him on the other side with a bright smile, even looking more tired than he had in the photos, and wrapped England up in a hug.
England blinked, still groggy from sleep and even more confused now. It was one thing to be exchanging text messages with America all week, and even to be taken care of by him when he was hungover, and entirely another for America to be so clearly happy to see him.
America kissed him on the cheek and then shouldered his way inside, kicking the door shut behind him and dropping his duffel bag on the ground.
“Man, I like flying when I’m in the pilot’s seat but a ten hour ride from L.A. really takes it out of you,” America said and yawned again.
“You just don’t have the patience to sit still that long,” England answered. “I’m going back to bed.”
“’kay, me too,” America said.
England assumed that America meant to sleep on the couch like he usually did on the rare occasion that he stayed at the flat. Of course when America wasn't surprise visiting, they usually stayed at England's suburban London house because there were actually guest rooms there. So England definitely didn’t expect America to follow him right into his bedroom and start stripping off his jacket and kicking off his jeans to slide into bed next to England with just a T-shirt and boxers on.
“A-America?” England stuttered, still sitting upright in bed where he’d just shed his robe.
“Hm?” America asked, already stealing one of England’s pillows and pulling the blankets up.
It was four in the morning, though, and America was making it look so natural that England stopped protesting and lay down, stiff on his side of the bed.
America was already breathing deep and even, out cold almost as soon as he’d gotten into bed so England slowly relaxed. America had probably just watched a horror movie on the flight over. Of course, England decided, satisfied, and went to sleep as well.
***
When England slowly swam into consciousness, he felt incredibly comfortable. There was a heavy weight pressing around him, pushing him into the soft bed, and everything felt warm and heavy and contained.
“Mm…” England sighed in contentment, shifting slightly to bury himself deeper into the cocoon of warmth.
Except the cocoon moved with him. And a little like déjà vu, England went stiff in a moment of oh shit, did I get drunk last night? Pick someone up? Fuck! Before he remembered that no, he’d spent a perfectly respectable night embroidering and watching the news on the telly after he'd gotten home. And then he’d taken a long bath. And then he’d gone to sleep. And then he’d gotten woken up in the middle of the night by America. Right.
England slowly opened his eyes and found himself staring at America’s collar bone. At least this time, he wasn’t hungover, he thought. And could fully enjoy this, England most definitely did not think.
Sunlight was streaming through the window over the sheets that had been pulled over England’s head and he could see it reflect pink through the sheets and gold on America’s skin. “You… why are you acting like this?” England murmured.
America didn’t stir, his arm still wrapped around England and their legs tangled together. England could feel his breathing slow and warm beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt where England’s hands had been pressed sometime during the night. It had been ages since they’d slept together like this. There had been the few times when he and America had slept close together, yes, but the last time he could remember America actually being in the same bed as him, tangled up like this, it had been before the Revolution - far before the Revolution when America was still a child and liked to crawl into bed with him. Then England had gone away for awhile and suddenly America grew into an adult and they’d stopped sharing a bed and a room. And then relations got even worse and even when they got better, it was always sharing a bunk or having bedrolls beside each other. And none of those times was anything like this because it was America’s arm that was around him and not his arms holding little America. And it was England who felt safe in America’s embrace this time even when it went against everything he knew, and when America woke up, he’d probably just moan his bad luck at going to sleep with England.
“Right…” England murmured, moving back a little, shifting so he could look at America’s sleeping face. “I… just…” He reached up, brushed strands of America’s hair away from his eyes and the eyelashes that cast fine crescent shadows over his face.
“Hm?” America murmured.
England froze, fingers just above America’s face. “Shit! I didn’t mean anything, I was just going to get up-” England began scrambling back, only to be stopped by America who tightened his grip.
America blinked awake slowly. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “Few more moments… I still have jetlag…” he murmured.
“Wait, I’m getting up, let go,” England said, protesting.
He guessed America was still half-asleep or else there was no way he’d be holding on so tight to England, but all America did was squint at him again.
“What?” England asked, beginning to get uncomfortable with the long stare.
Then America smiled, sleepy, and leaned forward and kissed England on the mouth. It was a dry kiss, just a brushing of lips against lips. America’s arms were running down his back, soothing, and England found himself relaxing and sighing into it, feeling the inhale and exhale of America's breath, soft. The kiss trailed off slow, lazy and indulgent, with America’s hand stroking absently at England’s ear.
England sighed, but the thought was still nagging him and finally he pulled away, stopping America from following with a hand on his chest.
“America…” England began, and then not sure how to continue, said, “Are you awake?”
America’s confused look turned slightly annoyed. “Obviously,” he said.
“Um… what… why are you acting so weird?” England finally asked.
America, if anything, looked even more confused. “What?”
“You know, the-” England tried to gesture, mostly failing because the sheets were in the way and America’s arm was still loose around his shoulder. “The being nice and-and texting and um… the…” England trailed off, feeling entirely overheated now. He couldn’t look at America in the face.
“Isn’t that, er, how a normal person acts with their boyfriend?” America asked after a long silence.
“Boyfriend?” England echoed and stared at America’s face.
This time it was America who was beginning to turn pink and look away. “When you said, at the bar, remember?” he asked.
Declaring eternal love for him, France’s words came back to him.
England blinked. “But I… didn’t I say I love you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” America said and then looked at England expectantly.
“I… you… oh…” England said. He frowned. “But you…”
“Argh, why do you have to be so embarrassing?” America said, letting out a loud sigh and then rolled to sit up, pushing the sheets back. He got to his feet, scratching at his hair and groping for his glasses left at the bedstand.
“You…” England said, still repeating things back in his head. He wasn’t slow, he was just in a state of disbelief because after centuries, even with how America gave him aspirin when he was hungover and gave him water to rinse when he had to throw up, and how America thought to make him tea with his breakfast even if America wasn’t drinking any, and texted him and even made sure to call at least once a day even though most of their conversations didn’t have much more substance than America just calling to see how England was doing, and America flying over to London even though he should probably be attending some event in the United States, and… and… oh…
England shifted, sheets pooling around his waist, and tried to work out how to phrase the question. “So you... um…”
“Yes,” America said, without turning around but even the tips of his ears were red.
It was utterly endearing.
England smiled. “I never would have figured you to be a romantic or, you know, considerate,” he said.
America turned around at that, annoyed. “Obviously. Who do you think invented Hollywood movies? All the best romance writers come from me,” he said.
“Please, all your romance writers are just imitating Jane Austen,” England said.
America grinned and walked back towards the bed. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a romantic?” he asked.
“What? You don’t believe me?” England said. “Shakespeare’s the one who wrote the most well-known romances in the whole world.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” America said.
And England found a grin spreading over his face, even if it probably looked silly and besotted and stupid and he hadn’t smiled like this in front of America for over two hundred years now and maybe that was why he was completely unable to stop it now. “Well then, let me show you,” he said and pulled America back down. And of course England’s smile was still nothing compared to the bright grin that was rapidly growing wider on America’s face by the second. “By the way, you know I’m rated the number one country when it comes to kissing, right?”
America beamed at him. “We’ll see who wins that one next time they do the polls,” he said.
***
TO: ursconesrshitbutistillloveu
SUBJECT: Make this ur wallpaper! :D
xoxo America
***
end.
And then England kills America for taking personal pictures of them in bed. The bad quality of the pics are entirely intentional cause you know, cell phone cams are total crap and it has absolutely nothing to do with my drawing skills or laziness of course ;D!