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Chapter Text

England wanted nothing to do with this afterparty. Nothing at all! But the reason for such annoying festivities had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his prime minister. 

“The other nations think England is so cold, so cruel,” his boss whined dramatically one day.

England remembered the way his stomach dropped. Him, of all nations? “Cruel?” he’d asked.

”Yes! Well, wouldn’t you think so too? What with our weather, and the classic British stereotype.” He laughed at the last jab, as if it wasn’t a direct insult to the nation standing in front of him. 

England had frowned then. “Right.”

And so they’d agreed that, since the next World Conference was being held in London, they’d hold an afterparty for all the nations who wished to attend at one of the finest dance halls in the city. That was all well and good for someone who liked parties, but England did not.

Hence the whole experience turned sour, like the bitter, nearly painful taste of a not-so-ripe blackberry. It wasn’t as if England could just not go. Not when he was the hosting nation and everyone, especially his boss, expected him to attend. 

“Mixer, sir?” a server asked him politely, standing straight and tall with a plate full of beverages balanced on her right hand. She wore a tight black skirt and a flowing blouse.

England looked up at her and adjusted his tie. “Gin?”

The woman shook her head.

England grumbled and waved her off. “No, thanks.”

Oh, sure, England used to like parties. But parties were only fun when you had something to be happy about. 1600? On top of the world. 1850? Rich. 1979? On cloud 9. But 2021? Economic recession. Could it get any worse?

He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to get the side eye from India or China. Didn’t want to deal with France. Didn’t want to share pleasantries with Portugal or Japan. Didn’t want to subtly avoid Russia, or look the other way when America walked by.

America didn’t need to be looked at, not if he’d already forgotten how they’d danced just down the street from here. But England didn’t like to think of it and stew in his anger. America had made a fool of England, but that was all in the past now.

For now, England just had to sit through the party and its soundtrack, all of whose songs were clearly recorded that very year. England sighed. How he’d kill to hear some music from the good old days.

Whoever was responsible for this noise would probably listen to someone as important as England. That was one positive to being a nation, he supposed.

England just sat there for another half hour though, back against the wall. Justin Bieber. Flashing lights. Taylor Swift. China wailing and dancing as if he were already senile. But even that did elicit not a smile from England.

That was when he heard a familiar melody, though he was sure he’d never heard it before. It reminded him of simpler days, the soft yet bright synth. Before he knew it, England was tuned in. 

I still remember when you left Kilkenny

And you told me I’ll return next year

I never meant to hold you to your promise

But the years went by and I’m still here

No, an ABBA song? The sound was unmistakable, but it was impossible. There wasn’t one song by the Swedish band England hadn’t heard before.

So you left for the city, I hope you like it there

You’re only here now to see the village fair

You’re just here for the music, that’s all

Or could it be? You miss the good old times when you danced with me

The sane synth riff from the start of the song belted out again, and England’s heart ached. This song was the story of estranged lovers. He let his eyes wander around the room, on France, then Hungary, Japan, Denmark, America… America. Was America not here “only for the music,” so to speak? America never came to London to see him. How ridiculous would that be now? Those fine times were long gone.

So is the outside world as you imagined?

Was it worth it severing the ties?

But hadn’t they listened to ABBA together, he and America? Hadn’t they both bought every record just like their people? ”So the mortals are good for something!” America would joke, as if they really thought that way. His wide white smile. The corners of his eyes would crinkle, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

Happy to see me, or a bit embarrassed?

The question on England’s mind at every encounter.

There’s a darkness deep in your blue eyes

England’s eyes fell on America once again. Laughing and talking with diplomats who likely felt incredibly important to be in the presence of the world’s superpower. Laughing and talking as if he didn’t just leave England alone one day without a word.

So you left for the city, I hope you like it there

You’re only here now to see the village fair

England’s stomach clenched tighter. Oh, it was so stupid how music made one feel! And wasn’t America a bit farther away only moments ago?

You’re only here for the music, that’s all 

Or could it be? You miss the good old times when you danced with me

Yes, America was indeed making his way over to where England stood, in the most criminally subtle of ways. England backed further towards the wall though it was of no use. So he looked away instead. But then the song was coming to an end, so quickly complete that it couldn’t have been over two minutes.

When you danced with me

The song closed with a few melancholy notes. Almost as soon as the music switched, over the cheers and conversation, England felt two arms wrap around his shoulders and someone press close to him. But not too close—the touch was gentile, volatile.

England smelled sunshine and hugged back.

Chapter Text

For a moment, England was simply lost in bliss; eyes closed, mind blank. Against his better judgment, his hands closed around the taut fabric of America’s suit. He drank in the nation’s scent–sharp cologne paired with the rich aroma of coffee. This was how America had always smelled.

England finally opened his eyes, which were threatening to leak tears thick with heartache. And then he realized where he was. He was hugging America as if the 50 years between their last embrace had not truly been that long. Pushing the blonde back, England’s bewildered expression quickly turned to anger.

“What are you–” he started, easily falling back into the short-tempered attitude he normally held when it came to the younger nation.

“I’m sorry,” America interrupted, stunning blue eyes wide. He actually looked distressed, much to England’s surprise. Though the words had come out quickly, they were heavy with meaning; and though England still held his haughty, scrutinizing glare, America offered his hands out apologetically.

England sighed, a shaky breath that released only through his nose. He turned away, unable to look America in the eyes any longer. What right did this– this absolute git have to walk up to England as if he was still his? To embrace him when he had never shown one ounce of heartache over their split? Looking into America’s eyes hurt. It all hurt.

The silence had gone on too long. Another song had long started playing, the mellow synth of the last now forgotten to England. There may as well have been nothing playing at all, for the lack of words between him and America was deafening.

“I don’t,” England began, awkward as ever, “I don’t quite know what you expect me to say to that.”

America finally took his hands back, attempting to place them gently back in his pockets, but instead looking rather miffed. England narrowed his eyes. The absolute audacity America had was rather sickening, but he still listened when America spoke. “I don’t know if I expected you to say anything, really. It’s just– well, the last song made me think of you.” He shrugged, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’ve been thinking for a while it was about time to apologize.”

“For what?” England hissed. The younger nation couldn’t even find it necessary to make eye contact when expressing something as important as this.

America’s fists dug themselves further into the pockets of his pants. He looked up with an irritated lour. “You know what I mean!”

England took a step closer. He wanted America to say it. To explain exactly how he hurt him. “You mean the second time you broke my heart?”

These words clearly struck a chord with America. His furious demeanor had shrunk a little, giving way to the mournful, apologetic face he had worn earlier. “Yes,” he responded, only slightly shaky. “I’m sorry I never end things right when it comes to you.”

England wanted to respond with something snarky again. He wanted to tell America he was incredibly correct, so much so that there was no fixing it now. Instead he only stood there, tapping his foot a couple times, at a loss for words.

Suddenly America’s hands were on his shoulders, the same gentle touch as before. England met his eyes, a deep blue and as solemn as he’d ever seen them. Either he was truly sincere, or he was an actor putting on one hell of a performance. “Let me make it up to you,” he uttered.

“How?” England shot back, shocked by the mere proposition.

“Let me explain everything,” America continued, and a familiar expression sprung onto his features. “I’ll take you out to dinner. Are you free, uh… let me think. Oh! Saturday. Saturday at 6.”

“What? No!” England began. This was going way too fast. America was again acting as if he wasn’t the one who had ended everything. He didn’t get to ask England out on a simple date after choosing to never be able to do that again. “You can’t just ask me that,” England protested. “Even if I wanted to hear your excuse-ridden explanation, you’d have to come with a better time and date.”

America, ever persistent, continued. “Okay, then what time does work for you?” He must have thought he was making progress. Him and his ability to easily charm.

“A quarter to never,” England insisted, taking a firm step to the left. He was going to leave America here, regretting ever thinking he could make up for his past mistakes. Yet wherever he stepped, America was there, stopping him from finding less dreadful company.

“Let me past!” England seethed. At the sound of his own voice, which could be likened to that of a whining child, his face heated. He hoped desperately it wouldn't show.

“England, please,” America pleaded.

“Don’t ‘England, please’ me!” England mocked, taking a deep breath.

“Fine,” America said, exasperated. He sighed as if England was the stubborn one. “You can go. And I’ll never bother you again.”

“Okay…” England voiced, both incredulous and suspicious.

“But don’t you want to know? I’ll tell you everything, it doesn’t even have to be dinner. I won’t feel complete if I don’t. It’s been too long, England. Please.”

“You tell me to go and yet you continue to beg?” England asked, his arms crossed. Against his will, he decided the idea of listening to America plead his case was starting to seem less horrible.

America shrugged, letting out a soft chuckle entirely without mirth. “Yep.”

“Saturday at 7,” England pronounced, stabbing his pointer finger directly in the middle of America’s chest. When he removed it, a solid imprint was visible in the fabric of America’s tie.

America looked confused, but he quickly began to smile. “Are you–”

“Shut it,” England snapped, giving America a glare before he turned to leave. “You better have the most damned good reason I’ve ever heard.”

As England walked away, heels of his Oxfords clicking on the ground, he heard America whisper a quiet ‘you bet.’ England shook his head. America had made him curious. What was the story he had never heard, after all these years? His head and his heart ached to know the reason.

What could be so important that it was worth throwing away everything they had?