Work Text:
England sure hoped that America didn’t think his stares didn’t go unnoticed.
America had been acting funny for years. Not suddenly, it was gradual, barely noticeable in the beginning, and slowly became more apparent over time. It wasn’t a bad weird necessarily, it was more of an awkward, “I’m struggling to conduct myself normally” sort of weird. And it wasn’t with anyone else, just England.
‘Did I do something?’ Their last major conflict was a little over two centuries ago, and any recent personal conflicts with him were the usual mere bickering, after which America never seemed particularly upset (given that he was the one rage-baiting England, anyway), so that couldn’t have been it. They hadn’t even bickered today!
Or maybe America’s better at hiding certain emotions than he let on.
As he addressed the room, England could feel it, he could see it from his periphery, those eyes looking at him, and he couldn’t help but feel immensely uncomfortable under the weight of the gaze. America briefly looked away, but just a moment later, those eyes were once again glued to England, even following him back to his seat. Was America aware? Did he know he was staring? Did he just zone out? There was no way; if he zoned out, he’d probably be staring at one fixed place, right?
Their eyes met, and America jolted in his seat. ‘So he does know…’ He looked at America, and America looked at him, and neither of them said or did a thing about it. England wasn’t sure what his own goal was by maintaining eye contact; Was it supposed to be a deterrent? Or did he really want to look? Once America’s big mouth was shut, he was actually pretty nice to look at — no, he’s not, what?
Everyone was packing up and filing out of the room, and America was still staring, but this time he definitely had to be spaced out, given that his stare was still fixed on the spot where England had been sitting. “Can I help you,” he asked.
America jolted, a look of barely disguised surprise briefly crossing his face. “What are you talking about?”
“You were staring.”
America cringed for just a split second before composing himself and answering, “Haha, yeah, there’s something weird on your face.”
“What? Where?”
“Your eyebrows.”
Of course. “Tch! Idiot!” England stomped off back to his seat, packing his things.
“Wait!”
He looked up, awaiting a response.
“Drop dead, England!”
England resumed putting his documents away, his scowl deepening. It was so like America to say things like that, he didn’t know what else he was expecting. Admittedly, it stung quite a bit, not enough to bring him tears or anything drastic, but it still hurt a little. Just a little, though. He was not letting that guy get to him like that. America was no doubt shoving his papers into his bag sloppily, if the sounds were anything to go by, and just as England was going to leave, America approached him, no ounce of mockery in his expression and voice, and asked, “Wanna get drinks with me?”
England hesitated; the way America was being a twat just a moment ago left a bad taste in his mouth. Yet, to his own surprise, he accepted. “Yeah, sure.”
The air that hit them was frigid and rainy. The two walked underneath America’s umbrella, completely wordlessly. ‘He’s not normally this quiet,’ England noted. He wasn’t really in the mood to get his ear talked off, but this silence…it was weird and heavy with the weight of a multitude of unsaid words, and he himself had nothing to say — actually, no, he did have something to say, he had plenty to say, but he didn’t have the strength to say any of it. Nothing usually stopped him from saying things, so why now? Was it nervousness? Fear? Or was it the way America took his hand that rendered him speechless like this? Feeling shyer than he ever had in his life, England squeezed America’s hand, and suddenly, it wasn’t quite so cold outside.
So much for getting drinks with him.
A couple of other nations were there too. Not that he was mad, of course not. America didn’t mean to mislead him, but he was a little disappointed. Not because he wanted to be alone with America or anything, that’d be silly, England’s too old to be getting jealous, after all. But he was under the impression that it’d just be the two of them, and yet these other nations were here, disrupting everything, getting in his way…
‘Whatever. It’s fine.’
America’s hand was resting on England’s knee under the table, and it was the only thing keeping him grounded and curbing the annoyance simmering within him. Still, there were too many people, everything was too loud; he wasn’t normally one to turn down a trip to the pub, but he’d rather be anywhere else right now. His disappointment was beyond measure.
No, no, let’s be positive. They could always be alone some other time. Again, not specifically because he wanted to, but because that was the expectation.
Every so often, England stole glances at America from the corner of his eye; he had to admit, America was really handsome in this cozy lighting. He was handsome all the time, really, but it was definitely easier to appreciate his good looks when he wasn’t being so rambunctious. Seriously, what was this guy on? His disposition was that of someone who had nothing but caffeine flowing through his veins; indeed, he was often overwhelming and cocky and rude and couldn’t read the room even if his life depended on it, but his lively personality and the seemingly unending confidence he exuded somehow made him incredibly charming.
Charming…was that really the word England was looking for? Was the way America just said things as if he was just talking recreationally and not bothering to filter his own words charming? Was the way he just couldn’t be arsed to control the volume of his voice charming? Was his habit of suggesting the most braindead ideas charming? Not particularly, no. But at least America was pretty, that made up for his flaws, didn’t it? That sandy blond hair and those Columbia blue eyes and that winning smile of his could make up for pretty much anything, they were pure, effective propaganda, and England hated it and loved it in equal measure.
…Hang on a moment.
America’s hand had since moved a bit higher up England’s leg, now resting upon his lower thigh. Was that intentional? Why was America’s hand there, anyway? England would’ve said something about it, but that was a weird thing to point out aloud in public (America’s hand being there in the first place was weird, too, but still), and he nearly jumped out of his skin when his thigh was given a firm squeeze. What was this all about? If America was becoming anything like France…that was something that simply couldn’t be allowed.
Hours later, England was still stone cold sober; a rarity, given his track record. Everyone was going back to their hotel rooms; As America was leaving, the words came falling out of England’s mouth before he could catch them: “You can come to my place, if you want.”
America said, “Yes, please,” so goddamn fast.
Yes, England will admit he was happy about it, happy enough to “subtly” (it really wasn’t subtle) spoil America, let him do whatever he pleased, and they even watched a scary movie together.
That last bit? They both came to regret it, America because he was now fearing for his life, and England because he was now fearing for his sanity. America was too close, way too close. “Can you — agh — please stop squeezing me so hard?”
“Dude, I’m scared!”
“You’re going to snap me in half, damn it! Let go!”
“I won’t break you, I promise,” America said, his voice unusually soft. “So, until I fall asleep…?”
“…Fine.”
Of course, England conceded. Why wouldn’t he? At least America wasn’t going to break his back. That guy really needed to just hurry and fall asleep so England could move away from him, because heaven knows he can’t tolerate being so close like this. The proximity was making his mind race in the most unpleasant of ways, and America’s eyes on him certainly wasn’t helping. Shouldn’t he be trying to sleep? Why was he staring? Why did those eyes look at him that way? Why is America, the same man who fought a war to get away from him, looking at him like he wants him? Like he needs him?
“America.”
“Huh?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“…Like you want me.”
America’s hold became slightly tighter. “But I do want you.”
Ah. Ah. That wasn’t the answer England was expecting. He could only lie there in stunned silence, watching as America situated himself on top of him, their foreheads pressed together.
“Can I kiss you?”
Can he? Could he? Should he? If he does, there’s no going back. Just this could change everything for good…
But things change, anyway.
It was admittedly a bit sloppy, but that was to be expected. America’s lips tasted vaguely of the strawberry ice cream from earlier. England hands wandered about, slipping underneath America’s shirt, reveling in the feel of his bare skin. The sounds America made — the muffled moan against England’s lips and when he pulled away, the nearly breathless, needy utterance of England’s name…
‘Fuck.’
If things go further, it’s fine. More than fine, really. If it’s what America wanted, England would gladly spoil him however he wanted; after all, he’d conquered England’s heart, thoroughly marking it with Stars and Stripes.