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It was the dead of night. America laid on his back, drowsy but half-awake for no apparent reason. He picked up his phone; two-something in the morning, he could barely make out anything else due to his eyes being just about obliterated by the unexpectedly bright light from the screen. Putting his phone back on the table, he sprawled out, only for one of his arms to end up hitting something, and that something groaned sleepily and irritatedly in response.
Ah, right. England was here. In the same bed.
There was only one bed in the hotel room and neither of them were keen on sleeping on the floor or on the chair by the desk. It was funny, America thought, the way England absolutely refused to sleep anywhere but the bed, yet was rather freaked out at the prospect of sharing said bed. The way England got mad about things was (usually) funny. The way England reacted to things in general was often pretty funny. And maybe a bit cute. Just a bit.
Well, more than just a bit, actually. England was incredibly cute, even if he was annoying and nagged too much and acted like there was a gas leak in his house sometimes, even if he was obstinate and cynical and occasionally foul-mouthed and resorted to violence quicker than one might imagine (particularly towards a certain Frenchman). England, underneath all the prickliness, could be gentle in his own way; he was kind, even if wasn’t necessarily nice about it. He’d go on about about he isn’t doing a good deed for anyone’s sake but his own and to not get the wrong idea, but all that stubborn yammering managed to make it all the more obvious that he really was soft on the inside, and it was hilarious to witness.
He looked over, and was relieved to see England facing away from him. America couldn’t bear to see his face right now, not like this; he’d seen England’s sleeping face plenty of times before, where all the usual tension melted away and he looked completely and utterly relaxed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see England’s face at all. He just didn’t trust his reaction to it; there was already a persistent heat in America’s face just by virtue of the proximity, anyway…
How embarrassing.
He was too tired to cringe at how badly he wanted to hold England, too tired to have any sort of “I’m not gay, but…” mindset, but not tired or delirious enough to actually hold him. He slowly shuffled a little closer, resting his forehead upon the back of England’s neck; at least that could be explained away as him having simply moved around in his sleep. Yeah, that’s right, this wasn’t on purpose at all.
England’s skin was warm and soft against America’s forehead. England had a habit of putting a bit of cologne on whenever he got dressed, even for sleep; His cologne, noticeable but not overwhelming (and strangely relaxing), tickled America’s nose. Like this, England was so close yet so far away…maybe it was the sleepiness but this was mildly upsetting. As his eyelids finally grew heavy, he snaked an arm around England’s waist. They both knew America clung to things in his sleep, so this was fine, wasn’t it? That habit would be a perfect cover should England wake up before America could let him go. Yeah, this is fine…
“Good night, England.”
England did eventually wake up, America’s arm still around his waist. One can imagine he had a lot to think about that, but America was too asleep to care. He got up to fetch some water from the bathroom sink, and upon getting back in bed, proceeded to pull America in real close, his head on England’s chest. Hopefully, England won’t get roasted for this (he won’t).