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Before there was The Kiss (and yes, it was a capitalization kind of kiss. It had to be – after all, it was The Kiss), there were actually a few other kisses. Four, to be precise. But, and it will be stressed, it was absolutely in no way England’s fault nor would he be held responsible for the disaster that followed.
Well, disaster might be a bit of a strong word. Emotional turmoil, perhaps.
Either way. Before The Kiss, there were four other kisses and yet, it still took England all four of those kisses and then some to realize that he was not the only member of the twosome having an emotional meltdown at something as simple as touching lips.
Thinking back, he, being the responsible party, probably should have realized. But really, when you’ve found yourself accidentally kissing your former colony, was there really a pattern of etiquette to follow?
So now he sat alone, thinking, staring down into a cup of cooling tea with his heart in his throat and sweat on his palms. What should be his next move? Certainly, America was also affected by these kisses… But was he affected in the way England wanted him to be affected?
Maybe he should go back over the events of the past several days. Maybe that would shed some light on his path.
England shut his eyes, taking a deep steadying breath and brought the cup of tea to his lips. Almost instantly, he choked, ducking his head and putting the cup down quickly. The tea was cold and he clicked his tongue in regret, standing and taking the cup into the kitchen to freshen his drink.
As he prepared himself a new cup of tea, England considered the events that had lead up to today, to him drinking tea alone in his house in Soho.
It all started, he supposed, with the first kiss.
This one, he knew, was not his fault in any way. It was, as it were, a happy accident.
--
The street was packed full of people and he was late – Ludwig was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, send him increasingly annoyed glares as the meeting progressed past his timetable.
Arthur checked his watch again and cursed under his breath, hoisting his briefcase up under his arm as he shouldered through pedestrians. He was less than a block away from the meeting hall, he had to be, but honestly, navigating downtown Barcelona could be such a pain, what with all the tourism. Why Antonio had insisted on his famous costal city for this particular meeting was beyond him.
He nearly walked smack into a tourist speaking very quickly in French to a confused looking Spaniard, waving a camera, and dodged out of the way. The Sagrada Familia towered over him, casting a massive shadow over the sidewalks and providing a brief relief from the relentless sun. Arthur sighed, stepping into the shade and looked around.
Wait. This wasn’t right? He should be…
He turned around and looked back the way he’d come. Oh, bugger it all, it had been so long since he’d spent any time in this blasted city he’d gotten completely turned around. He was going to be ridiculously late.
Behind him, the French was growing increasingly desperate and he briefly considered stepping in and translating. His Spanish was a bit rusty, though, and it would be a cold day in hell before he’d willingly speak French so he decided against it.
The crowd of excited tourists chattered around him and he harrumphed irritably. England was just contemplating the consequences of texting Ludwig and letting him know he’d gotten lost when something brushed against his back. Someone was standing very close to him – far too close for his liking, in fact.
Hot, irritable, late, and lost, England turned around with the express intention of telling this particular clingy tourist exactly where he could stick his map of Spain’s Top Ten Must See Landmarks and several things happened at once.
The French woman with the extreme desire to have a picture of herself in front of the Sagrada Familia shoved past him to try and get a better angle on the building, sending England tipping forward without warning. He caught a glimpse of a pair of wide eyes as blue as the sky and a swoosh of dirty blonde hair – flashes of a face that made his heart clench in surprise just as they collided. Pain shot up the bridge of his nose as it smushed into something squishy – a cheek, perhaps – and then his lips were on something warm and soft and inexplicably flavored like coffee.
For a brief moment of suspended shock, nothing moved. The world slowed to a stop – all around him, tourists walked in slow motion, sounds melting away into the background as everything in England’s vision focused on the single point of contact between his lips and the stranger’s. A stranger England had the sneaking suspicion wasn’t actually a stranger at all.
The moment passed and Arthur shoved, hard, breaking contact and stumbling backwards into an aging Japanese man snapping a picture of his family in front of the cathedral.
America stared at him, his eyes big and round behind his glasses, color high on his cheeks. His lips – the lips England had haphazardly fallen against with no warning – were parted slightly in surprise. England stared at them, feeling dazed.
“Whoa, dude!” America laughed, and England felt the sick swoop of panic churn his stomach as he realized, really realized, what had just happened. He had just kissed America. Albeit accidentally, he, Arthur, had still just planted one on his former colony.
And liked it.
No. No no no. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. America made his feelings on England very clear centuries ago and England was absolutely not about to get attached. Not again.
Belatedly, he realized America had been talking to him. He shook his head, hard, and looked at him. “Sorry, what?”
America frowned slightly, brow creasing and his lips twitched downwards at the corners. The expression was gone in an instant and Arthur was left wondering if he’d imagined it.
He must have, because America was grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. “Ludwig sent me out to find you, man! We’ve been lookin’ everywhere! Thought you’d gotten kidnapped or something. Then I see you through the doors just marching right past the freaking hotel, dude.” He laughed, throwing his head back and squeezing England’s shoulder.
England flushed delicately, brushing America’s hand off his shoulder. “Yes, well, you found me. Hurray for you.”
“Uh, yeah!” America smirked. “That means…” He leaned in and poked England in the nose. England froze, stunned, staring at America as he leaned into his personal space.
“I’m your hero, dude.”
America straightened up, hooking his thumb in his belt loops with a self-satisfied grin and England choked, finally regaining use of all his faculties. He spluttered, trying to come up with something to say, and America’s smirk grew until England clamped his mouth shut and turned away.
“Tosser.” He muttered and stalked off down the sidewalk. His heart was pounding in his throat, mouth dry, and all he could think about was the taste of coffee that still lingered on his lips.
“Aw, come on, Artie, I was kidding!” America took off in a jog after him. “Well, I wasn’t, but come on! That’s not even the right way!”
--
The whistling of the pot brought England crashing back to the present and he turned around, pulling the boiling water off the stove. He winced, hissing as a drop splashed from the mouth of the pot onto his skin, sizzling and he quickly poured himself a cup.
That first kiss… well, it didn’t really count. It couldn’t. It was more of an accidental lip bump, rather than a kiss. It hadn’t actually started out as an intentional kiss, so, reasonably, it shouldn’t have mattered. One time thing, accident, forget it and move on.
England stared down into his cup of tea, watching the steam rise. So why had it been so hard to forget?
Who was he kidding, he knew exactly why.
England looked up out his kitchen window and sipped his tea. “Ah…” He hissed out a breath, fanning his tongue with his hand.
Hot…
--
The second kiss happened a few weeks after the first and was one hundred and ten thousand percent France’s fault and England would blame the Frog for it until the day he died.
“Ah, but Amérique, why must you consistently shake hands? It is so businesslike. Why not the dual kiss, like myself and my dear Antonio, for example? Just between friends, hm? One per cheek, mwa mwa.”
England twitched, fingers crumpling in the newspaper he was reading. France had always had a loud, dramatic voice – perfect for storytelling, with grand sweeping gestures. He could command a room’s attention with a single sentence. It was something England had always noticed and admired or loathed, depending on his mood and the weather.
And right now, it was royally pissing England off.
“Dude, because that’s weird as hell!” America swallowed the mouthful of whatever he was eating. “Handshakes are firm! Manly. Heroes don’t just go around kissing anyone and everyone, you know?”
France threw back his head and laughed – England didn’t even have to look up from the paper. He knew that laugh and the motions that went with it. He tried to focus on that, on hating himself for knowing France as well as he did, and not on a brilliantly sunny afternoon in the shadow of a cathedral, of the Mediterranean in the air, and soft lips that tasted of coffee.
“Why, that’s probably because you’ve never tried it, before. Here, come here.”
“What? Dude, gross, I’m not kissing you.”
England yanked the paper away from his nose with a violent crinkle, glowering at the two of them. “Would you two mind?” He hissed, and America and France blinked at him, leaning over the cushions towards each other.
France grinned, long and slow and knowing and oh, shit, that was not a good look. Not on Francis’s face. That look had always spelled trouble for Arthur in the past.
He winced and France laughed lightly. “Oh, my apologies, Angleterre. Why don’t you show the boy how it’s done, hm?”
England glowered at him, preparing a retort when he realized what exactly France had just said.
He could almost taste the coffee.
America broke his daze by snorting. “Don’t you not do the kiss thing?”
“What?” England’s fingers crunched in the newspaper. America raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t you not do the kiss thing?”
England spluttered, feeling his cheeks heat. “What, you think just because I’m not the self-proclaimed nation of love over here, that I don’t know how to kiss properly?”
France looked as though Christmas had come early as America shook his head, raising his hands in defense. “No, wait, England, that’s not what I—”
But England, already annoyed, threw down his crumpled newspaper and stood up, stalking around the little table in the middle of the seating area to stand in front of him, hands on his hips. “I’ll have you know I’ve been kissing since before you were even discovered!”
“Yeah, I know, I’m not—”
“And another thing!” But England couldn’t think of anything else to say. His pride was at stake, here. For some reason, it was deeply important to him that America recognize that he was a good kisser. The specific reason wasn’t important – he just had to make it known. America had to know.
“Come here.” England grabbed at America’s collar, tugging on it until the younger nation tipped forward in surprise. He leaned down, fully intending on demonstrating the kiss on the cheek France and Spain used as a greeting, when, at the last second, America turned his head, parting his lips to speak.
America made a tiny noise of surprise but England was halfway gone already, fingers curled in America’s t-shirt collar. He lingered for a few seconds that stretched into an eternity, tasting that elusive coffee that he’d been subconsciously chasing with every drink he made himself for the last several weeks, before breaking contact.
For a moment, they remained that close, just breathing in each other’s air space, when France broke the silence with a chortle.
“Why, Arthur, mon cher, I had no idea you had it in you.”
Ice water dumped down England’s spine and he panicked, jerking backwards and smushing the back of his hand against his lips. America stared at him, lips parted slightly. His former colony’s ears were bright scarlet.
“Uh…” America began and England shook his head fiercely.
“Not a word.” He hissed, grabbing the newspaper off the mini table and stalking off across the lobby towards the elevator. He didn’t turn around, heart thundering in his ears as he jabbed the call button over and over, listening to France laugh brightly across the marble foyer.
Two kisses now. He thought, feeling panic clog his throat. That’s two.
--
England retreated to his sitting room with his cup of tea, settling himself back in his chair and reaching for his book again. That was, he supposed, the kiss where he knew he was in trouble again. Somehow, through the years of working apart and then together, of the wars and meetings and the world that kept on turning while they stayed the same, he’d become attached to the lad yet again.
Because that worked out so well the last time.
England winced, squeezing his eyes shut as he took a deep breath of air saturated with tea.
It couldn’t be the end of the world… could it? Well, certainly not the world as a whole. The world as a whole had shown itself in the past to be remarkably resilient. No, if it was the end of anything, it was England’s ease and peace of mind.
And, quite possibly, all the work he and America had put into mending their broken relationship.
England gripped the teacup tightly, setting it down on its saucer and opened his book to a random page. He stared down at the words, waiting for them to suck him in. Words he’d read thousands of times before. Words that weren’t working their usual magic.
His eye slid restlessly down the page, black ink blending together into a twisted blur as his eyes unfocused and he stared, past the book, thinking.
--
The third kiss was the first to happen on American soil, and the first for which England couldn’t blame anyone but himself, as much as he hated to admit it.
The bar was loud, full of drunk and laughing Americans. England sat at the bar alone, fingers curled around his drink, listening to the conversation swell around him.
The bartender was very pretty, the way bartenders tended to be, and kept shooting him mischievous grins every time he happened to catch her eye. He suspected it had something to do with his accent. Why the entire American populace seemed entranced with his accent was beyond him.
“Arthur!”
England stiffened, twisting around in his seat and frowning as he squinted, willing the alcohol in his bloodstream to stop blurring his vision. America was grinning, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with the superman logo.
Flanking him were Lithuania and… Canada, yes, that was it, both looking relaxed and at ease in the crowded bar. Out for a night on the town, it appeared. England gave them a polite nod, feeling his head swim. Maybe he’d already had too much to drink…
“Hello, Alfred. Toris, Matthew.”
Lithuania smiled, nodding back as Canada clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze before he headed towards the bar to order drinks. America jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you were in town, dude! We’re gonna grab a booth and down a few beers, wanna join us?”
England gave a half-shrug, something warm unfurling in his chest at the invitation. “Well, I s’ppose. I mean, ‘m drinkin’ already.”
America laughed, bright and easy, and England smiled stupidly at the sound. “I can see that. You already sound pretty hammered.”
“’m not.” England muttered, swaying as he forced himself up and off the barstool. He stumbled and Alfred caught him, hand at his elbow and oh, he was very warm, wasn’t he, all pressed up against his side like that.
There was a mental disconnect between the bar and the booth, because the next thing England realized, he was sliding on vinyl, trapped in against the wall with Alfred next to him. He hardly noticed the beer appearing before him, or that Canada and Lithuania appeared to be having a friendly chat about a hockey player.
He sat back, sipping his beer and letting the music of the conversation flow over him, rather than the words. Lithuania’s soft but firm voice melded with Canada’s easily, like a vocal harmony. America would join the conversation in a burst of sound, like the crash of cymbals in an otherwise low-key piece, and England’s alcohol addled mind liked the sharp contrast.
Or maybe it just liked America – England was too drunk to notice at this point.
At some time during the night, America’s arm ended up slung across the back of the booth behind England’s head, which made for a very convenient pillow. England sat, head against America’s arm, watching Lithuania slide in and out of focus, and thinking.
He thought about America, about his solid presence next to him in the booth, and about the two kisses they’d involuntarily shared in the past several weeks. In the privacy of his own mind, he admitted to himself that he wished it could be like this more often. Relaxed, together, warm and satiated. Adding kisses into the mixture wouldn’t hurt either.
England snorted, forgetting for a moment the other three at the table. “Load of bullocks, that.” He muttered, swigging a deep gulp from his beer.
“What was that?”
England blinked. They were alone, he and America, the bench across the table vacant. He frowned slightly. “Gone.”
America laughed a little. “Yeah, man, they left like five minutes ago. Toris is over there,” he motioned at the bar, where there was a large crowd of people clamoring for drinks. “getting us another round. And Mattie had to pee or something.”
Oh. And England hadn’t even noticed them leaving. He sighed, letting his head fall forward onto the table with a thunk. It fell with a decidedly harder thunk than he intended and he yelped out a whine of pain as his brain jostled against his skull.
“You are so smashed, dude, I swear, this is hilarious.”
Ah, America. That was America, how lovely. He liked America. America made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside – from the prickling of feeling that raced through his chest to the liquid heat that pooled just below his navel. It was a pleasant feeling. America was pleasant. God bless America.
“Uh, thanks?”
Uh-oh. Was he speaking out loud? His inner monologue did tend to vanish when he’d had this much to drink. He hadn’t even drunk that much, really. It was more… like… wait, how much had he had again?
“Too much, you giant dork.”
Well, that wasn’t very nice. England pushed himself up off the table and America’s hand fell from where it had been rubbing warm, pleasing circles on his upper back. He hadn’t even noticed and now it was gone and he missed it. Wanted it back.
As England turned to tell America that insulting people was, in fact, incredibly rude and how dare he call him names like that when he caught Alfred’s eyes. They were blue, blue as the sky on a clear summer day, and the skin around them was crinkled in a smile. Everything about the expression oozed pure affection and holy hell, it was making his toes curl inside his shoes. He wanted that expression turned on him every minute of every day.
For a few stretched moments, he just stared, breathless. America raised an eyebrow at him, and England watched its progress as it went up up up until it stopped.
His eyes dropped to America’s lips.
Again, there was a bit of a mental disconnect here, because one second he was contemplating America’s mouth, and the next he was kissing him – full on kissing, twisting in his seat so he could get better leverage. America’s glasses pressed into his cheek as England’s hand ended up on the back of his neck in the soft hair at the base of his head.
For a moment, it was bliss.
Then America was carefully but firmly separating them and England was forced backwards with an embarrassing whimper, back against the wall of the booth.
The sounds of the bar filtered into his hazy subconscious and he tuned in just in time to focus on America’s words.
“… while you’re drunk.” Alfred’s voice was tight, high and nervous.
England’s mouth turned down at the corners. Something was wrong, but synapses weren’t firing properly. He’d liked the kiss. Why hadn’t America?
He summoned all shreds of his sobriety and focused on the nation before him. America had a strange look on his face, and it frustrated England because somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d know why this whole situation was weird if he was sober. He’d recognize the look on America’s face and know how to fix it. Or at least how to deal with it.
England turned away from America, feeling sick.
Actually, feeling really sick.
“Hey, you ok? Arthur?”
--
The memory went a bit fuzzy at this point. And, by a bit fuzzy, England couldn’t remember a single thing that happened next. The next bit he could remember was waking up with a pounding headache throbbing behind his temples, and the sound of Canada’s quiet voice as he asked him if he’d like juice with his scrambled eggs.
England shut his book with a snap. He could feel the back of his neck prickling with embarrassment as he struggled to recall the look on America’s face.
Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. Or maybe it was far worse. Probably the latter.
He couldn’t remember specifics, but he did know that that made kiss number three. Three unintentional, unprompted kisses, forced on someone who’d made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with England. At least, not in any way that would make them closer than political allies.
England put the book on the side table and drained his tea down to the dredges.
It was kind of pathetic – he spent so much time shaking his head at the other oblivious nations he had the misfortune of watching during large meetings. Meetings were long – meetings tended to drag. After several hours of PowerPoints and speeches and the-economy-this and world-hunger-that, anything was more interesting. England oftentimes found himself watching the other nations, as kind of a personal project. Reading body language, mocking those who’d dozed off in his head, that sort of thing.
Spain and Romano were a prime example – the little sideways glances they gave each other nearly always bordered on laughable. During one memorable meeting, Spain had dozed off, head in his hand, and, when he thought no one was watching, Romano had given him a look so laden with affection, England was surprised the sweetness of it all hadn’t given him a cavity.
So why was it that England could pick out an angst-ridden pining love affair from a mile down the polished wood of the meeting table, but couldn’t manage to get a read on the nation he’d once claimed to know better than anyone?
It just wasn’t fair sometimes.
--
By the fourth kiss, things were starting to get ridiculous.
They didn’t speak of the drunk-kiss incident, at least not much past the point of light teasing about holding his liquor.
And England was grateful, really, he was – the last thing he wanted was for his sudden lack of self-control to be touted around like it was nothing.
Because it really wasn’t nothing – he was a bloody master of self-control at this point. Realizing his erstwhile love for his former colony had suddenly and viciously returned full force (but really, had it been sudden or had he just been an oblivious idiot?) in a much different kind of light, self-control was a precious and rare commodity.
Like right now, for instance.
She was little and adorable and looked like she’d fit neatly into Alfred’s side like a puzzle piece sliding into place. Sarah, America had proclaimed, lighting up like a bloody chandelier at the sight of the White House intern, shoving back his chair to greet her. How was she, how was her life, was her puppy doing well, they should totally get together again, that last karaoke bar was awesome, dude.
England was not quite seething, but his stomach was twisting painfully in a sharp jealousy he had to keep telling himself he wasn’t allowed to feel.
They were in a meeting – and why was it always meetings? Was that all his life boiled down to nowadays? – with a few minor politicians from both the United Kingdom and the United States, and the bullet-points were crumpling at the edges in his hands.
After a pointed throat-clear from one of the government officials, America gave Sarah a smile and a side-hug, took the copies she made, and shooed her from the room.
The meeting progressed as meetings tended to progress, except even slower and more boring than usual, if that was at all possible.
England was so busy trying to dismantle and squash his jealousy that it took him a moment to realize that the meeting had more or less gone on lunch break without him.
And that America was snapping his fingers inches from his nose.
England spluttered, jerking back in his chair away from America. “Do you mind?”
America rolled his eyes towards the sky, as if to ask God why he was being forced to deal with England, which England found to be highly unfair.
“I asked if you were getting lunch. You were just sitting here staring at the wall, dude.”
On cue, England’s stomach growled and he cleared his throat, ignoring America’s delighted snicker. “Of course I’m getting lunch.” He hissed, pushing his chair back and standing up. “That is, if I can find someplace palatable in this ridiculous city.”
“Rude.” America slung an arm around England’s shoulders, pulling him flush against his side and drawing an embarrassing squawk of surprise. “Why would you go searching for a place when you’ve got me? I know the best places in DC, you’ll see.”
“That’s if I allow you to drag me to whatever hole in the wall burger joint you’re currently tossing about in that blasted head of yours.” England muttered, but he didn’t really protest much more than that as America steered him down the hallway. There was no point, really. It was either go with him and have a reasonably enjoyable lunch in his company, even if it was likely to be cheeseburgers, or refuse and be forced to stare down his wide-eyed puppy pout for the remainder of the meeting.
To England’s eternal surprise, it wasn’t a chain restaurant that America ended up ushering him into – it was a diner. A tidy little diner, tucked into a corner inconspicuously beneath an awning. If America hadn’t suddenly made a quick right turn, England would have walked right past it.
Alfred greeted the waitress like an old friend, asking her about her children and whether or not her daughter’s piano recital had gone smoothly while simultaneously plopping England down into a booth upholstered in red vinyl.
England looked around the diner, pleasantly surprised at the lack of grease, as America waved menus away. “No thanks, Janet, we’ll just have two specials. And a coffee for me and brew a pot of Earl Grey for my friend, please.”
“You got it, Al.” Janet smiled, tucking her pen behind her ear and headed for the kitchen. England watched her go before he realized what had just happened.
“Did you just order for me?”
America leaned back in the booth, slinging an arm across the back of the seat with a wide grin. “Why, don’t you trust me?”
And England did – despite the eye roll he sent in America’s direction, he trusted the lad with his life, and they both knew it. “Fine, but if it’s greasy trash like most of your food, I get to pick the next location.”
“Deal.” America’s reply was instant, and England belatedly realized he’d just implied there would be a next time. He licked his lips and reached for his water glass, fingers slipping on the condensation as he took a gulp.
A silence fell over the table as England desperately tried not to think about three very specific memories that were suddenly fighting for his attention and America looked around the restaurant and the people going about their lunches, the very picture of collected nonchalance.
Janet reappeared, setting a mug of coffee in front of America and a small blue teapot in front of England, setting a teacup next to it. The pot was steaming and England took an involuntary breath of tea-laden air.
“Food’ll be right up, boys.” Janet squeezed Alfred’s shoulder and headed for the next table over to whisk away empty plates.
“She seems nice.” England commented offhandedly, examining the teapot. “Is this Earl Grey?”
“Mm.” America makes a noise of affirmation around a gulp of coffee, swallowing quickly. “Yeah. Probably won’t be anything like what you got over there, but figured it was close enough.”
England poured himself a cup and took a hesitant sip, raising an eyebrow. It was good – a little different, of course, than his own personal brew, but the distinction was… not displeasing.
“Good?” America asked, looking for all the world like his entire state of happiness hinged on whether or not England liked his cup of tea, and England nodded.
“It’s interesting. You never could brew a proper pot of tea.” But he grinned as he said it, and the answering beam on America’s face sent his heart fluttering against his ribs.
After a moment, the grin faded and an earnest, thoughtful look crossed Alfred’s face. America let his arm fall from the back of the booth and leaned forward, splaying his hands flat on the table. “Arthur, look, there’s something I wanna—”
The clatter of kitchen doors interrupted him and both looked over to see Janet approaching with their meals. England looked quickly back at America, wondering if he was going to finish his sentence. There was something nervous, something anxious and excited growing in the pit of his stomach and he wanted nothing else right now than for America to continue his sentence.
But the tentative look on America’s face had vanished, and he was smiling and laughing with Janet as he took the plates from her.
England took a gulp of hot tea, letting the warm liquid settle in his chest before chancing a glance back at America, who was digging into his plate with gusto.
He looked down at his own plate. “Isn’t it a bit late for breakfast?”
America looked up, mouth full of ham. “Hm?” He swallowed. “Dude, A, it’s never too late for breakfast. And B, this place makes the best mushroom omelets this side of the nation. Or so I tell them.” He chuckled and continued tearing apart his food.
England shook his head, before reaching for his fork and slicing into his omelet like a civilized nation.
Alright, fine – this was one damn good omelet.
When he looked up again three-quarters of an omelet later, it was to America grinning widely at him. England swallowed his mouthful and did his best to look stern. “What?”
“Just admit it – I was so right.”
“I never said you weren’t!”
“Never said I was, though.”
“Oh, for heaven’s… do you really need validation that badly?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” England put his teacup down primly on its saucer. “Alfred Jones. You were right.”
“Yessss.” America pumped his fist in the air and drained the rest of his coffee. “You ready to go?”
England raised an eyebrow. “Surely it isn’t time—” He glanced at his watch and cut off midsentence. “Oh bloody hell, we’re so late.”
America snorted. “It’s ok. The others probably won’t be back anyway. Nothing ever runs on time with these things.” He threw a few bills onto the table and stood up. “Probably should get going though.”
England struggled to his feet, cramming a final bite of omelet into his mouth before following America out the diner and into the sunny street. They walked along the sidewalk side by side. England felt full – full of food and full of a warm buzzing feeling that wouldn’t leave him alone.
They got all the way back inside, nearly to the conference room where they would be forced to spend the next three to four hours when America suddenly caught him by the wrist, stopping England from taking another step.
England ground to an ungainly halt, not expecting it, and turned to America. “What is it, did you forget something?”
America was chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, eyes flicking over England’s face like he was trying to get a read on him. England frowned, confusedly, when suddenly America stepped in close and dipped his head.
He kissed the corner of England’s mouth, just close enough that if England were to turn his head a fraction of a degree to the left, he could make it a proper kiss.
England stood rooted in shock, one hand limp in America’s grip and the other frozen in midair, hovering somewhere near Alfred’s shoulder.
Something warm and wet darted out and touched the corner of his mouth and England felt a shiver run all the way down his spine to his toes.
America stepped back, color flushed high on the tips of his ears.
“Ah…” He cleared his throat. “You, uh… had a bit of omelet.” He pointed at his own face in the general area of his mouth, before flashing an uneasy grin and vanishing into the conference room, leaving England in stunned disbelief in the middle of the hallway.
--
A bit of omelet. Honestly, what kind of an excuse was that?
England stood up swiftly from his chair, throwing his book onto the cushion behind him and began to pace. Even if he did have a bit of omelet stuck to his face, there were other ways to let him know. A kiss like that was totally unnecessary.
Unnecessary… but not unwelcome.
England’s face burned and he stopped wearing a line into the rug to bury his face in his hands with a groan.
Four kisses. Four kisses that had done their duty keeping England tossing and turning at night, creating hypothetical situations in his head in which he didn’t go to bed alone at the end of the day.
Four kisses that had completely and totally destroyed England’s ability to hold a rational conversation with America.
Take this morning, for example. England had been so surprised to run into America in the halls of Parliament that he’d spluttered out a few random sentence fragments and taken an early lunch.
A lunch that happened to last the rest of the work day.
And now he was home, skin crawling with the knowledge that the United States of America was here, somewhere in London, and he was at home like a bloody fool instead of out being hospitable.
It just wasn’t fair. The appropriate thing to do would be to stay away from Alfred for a good long while, at least until this stupid infatuation ceased. Cut their relationship back to strictly professional. Email correspondence and no more personal lunches.
The omelet memory flashed back into his mind and he tried to swallow the sudden swoop of disappointment. That would be the rational thing to do – even if it was the complete opposite of what he wanted to do.
England turned back to his armchair and picked up his cup of tea – cold again – and headed for the kitchen to wash it out, stubbing his toe on the corner of a particularly ill-placed decorative table next to the couch.
He was bent over, swearing low under his breath, when a knock at the door stopped him cold in his tracks.
Fingers suddenly slick with nervous sweat, he set the cup carefully down on the table and headed for the door.
There wasn’t a long list of people who would be visiting him in Soho this late at night.
Alfred stood on his stoop, shoulders hunched against the brisk evening wind, hands in his pockets and a hesitant smile on his face.
“Hey, Artie. Can I come in?”
After a moment of staring stupidly, England found his voice. “Surprised you didn’t just barge in like usual.” He said, stepping back and letting America enter, shutting the door behind him.
For a moment, they just stood in the front hall in silence, not looking at each other. The air was thick with a strange, humming tension.
Finally England mustered his hospitality. “Would you like something to drink?” He offered, already stepping backwards towards the kitchen. He probably still had some coffee somewhere in a cupboard from the last time America had come to visit…
“Actually, I just came by to give you something.”
“Hm?” England frowned, turning back to America. “I don’t believe I left anything behind the last time I was in New York…”
America flashed a grin that was there and gone again in an instant. He took a single step, a sharp almost jerky, aborted motion that stopped short just in front of England.
“Alfred, are you feeling well, because you’re acting a tad—”
America cut off the rest of his words with a swift dip of the head and a soft, warm kiss. England’s breath stuttered to a halt and his entire world narrowed to zoom down and focus on the single point where their lips met. Heat pooled through his veins as adrenaline surged and his heart rate leapt through the roof.
Alfred’s hand was warm and firm on his cheek, guiding his head into position as he deepened the kiss. England’s brain caught up to his body and he stepped in so fast America stumbled backwards, bubbling a surprised laugh into the kiss.
“Shut up.” England mumbled, slipping a hand up and behind America’s neck and burying his fingers into the soft hair at the base of his skull. America made an obscene kind of choked groan that England felt all the way to his toes and he decided on the spot that he would do his damnedest to get him to make that noise as many times as possible.
England wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed, but the kiss eventually broke, leaving him dizzy and feeling a little faint. They stayed in each other’s space, breathing warm wet air through lips slick with spit and red with attention.
England rested his forehead against America’s, bumping their noses together briefly before they slipped together. He played with the short hairs at the nape of America’s neck aimlessly, waiting for his heart to slow.
“Whoa.” America breathed, and the arm England hadn’t noticed snake around his waist tightened. “Didn’t really think it was gonna go like that.”
“What exactly were you expecting?” England murmured, eyes shut. He didn’t particularly want to move. If he could choose to stand in that position for the rest of his days, he would do so without a second’s hesitation.
“I dunno, maybe two seconds before you punched me in the jaw?” America huffed a laugh into England’s ear and England shivered.
“Well, now you know that’s not bloody likely.”
“Man, I shoulda done this ages ago.”
“Mm.”
America pressed a kiss to England’s temple before disentangling them. “We, uh. We should probably talk. You know. About this.” He made a motion between them, but England only glanced at the hand. He was too busy examining the delightful redness of America’s lips, and the way his pupils were blown wide. “’Cause I’d really like for that to, you know, not be a one-time thing.”
England smirked, shaking his head. “Technically, I believe that was our fifth. So clearly, it’s not going to be a one-time thing.”
America rolled his eyes. “Come on, most of those were accidents, though. Totally doesn’t count. When I remember our first kiss, it’s gonna be this one. Not Barcelona, or that time in France, or the bar, or—”
England cut him off with a wave of his hand, trying not to focus too hard on the wave of heat that rocked him onto his heels at the casual future America had just projected. “Why don’t we just… why don’t you stay here tonight? We’ll talk in the morning. For now, we can just… erm, well, we can just be… here. Together, that is.”
America blinked and then smiled, a warm easy smile. “Sounds awesome, dude.” He bent down and started tugging at his shoelaces. England watched him for a second, appreciating the curve of his spine and the way his hair fell over his face as he focused on his shoes, before he turned around headed for the kitchen to track down that dusty package of coffee.
An involuntary smile curved his lips and he barely restrained himself from giggling aloud. It must be true what they say – if you truly love something, let it go. If it’s meant to be…
“Ow! Fuck, dude, why’s this table here? Oh, shit, uh, hey, I think I knocked over a teacup.”
England snorted fondly, rolling his eyes and grabbing a towel. It was getting late, and there was probably cold tea soaking a stain into his carpet, but England was still happier than he could remember being in a long time.
And as he rounded the corner to find America, balancing on one socked foot with a teacup in his hand and apologies written all over his face, he suspected that this particular night might just be the start of something absolutely extraordinary.