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America sat cross-legged on the bed, a moth-eaten comforter wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he tried to focus on the screen in his hands. With the storm raging outside, it wasn't easy. The windows rattled loudly in the howling wind, single panes shuddering in their loose frames, and he flinched. Without street lights the blackness outside stretched on forever, and every so often the gnarled branches of an old tree rapped creepily against the glass.
He closed his DS and shoved it in the bedside drawer, sighing heavily. This place sucked.
He should have known he would end up somewhere like this. This was England's trip after all, and England and America had very different ideas about what constituted a good vacation. Still, America had been optimistic when the subject had been brought up, picturing sandy beaches or autumnal fairs.
It was only after England had bundled them both into a rickety car and started driving them down miles and miles of winding country roads that America had realised exactly what kind of getaway he was going to be subjected to. Instead of theme parks and clubs England had presented an itinerary of nature reserves and historic ruins, they were eating at ancient pubs rather than restaurants and they were staying not at a hotel, but in a creepy old cottage, surrounded by fields and forests instead of civilisation.
So, he'd failed to score the fun, free vacation he'd been hoping for. But he had a secondary motive for inserting himself into England's plans, and that was England himself, who he rarely got to spend private time with. If nothing else the trip could be an opportunity to get closer to England. Physically, if possible. If he found a way to share England's bed by the end of the week, he decided, he could call the vacation a success.
He'd quickly begun scheming.
Night one had seen him fail to convince England that he had a stomach ache and needed company through the night. He'd instead been accused of trying to weasel his way out of the next day's trip to the local botanic gardens. With a sigh England had told him that there was no need for the dramatics - he could stay back and watch the cottage if he wanted to. America had dropped the act in a panic, telling an exasperated England that he suddenly felt a lot better and there was no need to exclude him from any plans. He was not interested in being alone in this building, nor in missing the pleasure of seeing England in his element amongst roses and peonies.
On night two he had hoped to stage a power cut just as the sun set. In the dark they would not be able to investigate the cause and would be forced to huddle for warmth until morning. Then he had realised that the breaker was in the attic. One glance through the hatch in the roof revealed rafters dripping with cobwebs and, he was quite certain, the glowing eyes of a bat or too. He had quickly dropped that plan, unwilling to push through such horrors, and surrendered to bed.
He was determined that night three would be a success. England had, as usual, suggested a hilariously early bedtime for them both. America had accepted it without protest. They'd disappeared to their separate rooms, and he had since been trying to distract himself from his creepy surroundings with video games. A glance at his phone told him it had been an hour since England had bid him goodnight. At this sort of time the Brit was usually still awake reading, but he would be growing sleepy and hopefully more agreeable as a result. It was time to make his move.
In his pyjamas and with the blanket still draped across his shoulders he crept along the hall, wood planks creaking underfoot as he snuck past the toilet and stopped outside England's room. He took a deep breath and braced himself, throwing the door open without knocking.
"Dude!" he yelled, feigning breathlessness. A startled England all but fell out of his bed, book clutched to his chest in fright. "You have to let me sleep through here tonight! I saw a ghost in my room!"
England remained frozen for a moment, wide eyes processing the sudden intrusion. He recovered quickly from his shock, however, gaping mouth snapping shut as he took a steadying breath. "Calm down," he chided gently. "You almost gave me a heart attack. Ghosts are harmless, America. There's nothing to be afraid of."
America shook his head frantically. "No way! That thing was creepy! I'm not sleeping in there with it watching over me."
He did feel a little guilty about how easily the lie came to him, especially knowing England would believe it without question, but the deceit felt worth it when England shot him a kind smile and slipped out from under his covers.
"All right," he cooed, leaning over the bed to straighten out the pillow on the far side. America's eyes were glued to his ass as he did so, his fingers twitching as he imagined how those soft cheeks would feel in his grip. He snapped out of it when England turned back round to face him. "You can sleep here. Come lie down."
America fought to hide his triumphant grin as he dove under the covers. He still had to play it scared if he wanted to squeeze some snuggling out of England too.
"Thanks dude! No way I can sleep through there after seeing that. I- what are you doing?"
Across the room, England was bundling himself into his dressing gown and easing himself into a pair of white slippers. His book was tucked under his arm and he was making for the door that America had left swinging open.
"Don't worry about me," England told him, looking oddly excitable and sporting that same eager flush he got when hallucinating fairies and unicorns. "I'm happy to swap with you. I do like to make new friends, and ghosts always have the most interesting stories to share."
"Huh?"
"It is odd though - I didn't sense any spirits when we arrived. But never mind that, I'll help you move all your things through here when it's light again. Goodnight, America. I'll see you at breakfast."
And with that England hurried off, leaving a lone America blinking stupidly at the empty doorway.