"Stay with me forever, England," America mumbles through kisses and heated breaths. What England would have given to hear that at any time but now. "I mean it, really, stay."
England sighs. America's body is too hot on top of him, not to mention that England's getting tired of being breathed on. "America, please."
"Feels so good." More breathless, senseless words.
"You'd say anything to keep me in your bed, love." England's not laughing, but America has the gall to do so.
"Yeah, I would. You're so damn good-lookin', sweetheart."
"Told you not to call me any of those foolish names," England breathes. Not even a practiced poker face can get him through rough sex with America. America laughs again.
"I don't know how you can talk all prim and proper with me inside you like this–"
"Stop it," England snaps, pushing America away. "Enough, truly. I've had enough."
"What?!" America whines. England hates when he whines. America nearly falls off the bed with the force of England's push. He eventually regains his balance and stumbles to his feet. "But I'm not done!"
"Finish yourself in the bathroom, for all I care." England grimaces as he attempts to get up and redress.
"Arthur–" America starts, but England stops him with a quick raise of his hand. His mood is clear enough for even America to understand. America stares, looking a bit helpless and torn for a moment – the boy's always been a good actor – before huffing and crossing his arms. "Fine, okay, whatever. It'd be nice if you could tell me whatever the hell I did this time, but whatever." America walks into the bathroom with heavy steps and shuts the door harshly.
England sits on the bed once he knows America won't re-emerge. Stay with me forever. He didn't mean it, England knew he didn't mean it. America doesn't know anything other than selfishness and sex; quick satisfaction, right away, then leave and go on with the rest of your life. That's how America goes about everything – his burgers, his milkshakes, his lovers, even his political conversations. England knows he shouldn't expect anything.
America's grunts from behind the bathroom door are distracting. They make England feel the strangest mixture of aroused and disgusted.
England looks down, involuntarily staring at his legs. He doesn't know what else to do. He can't seem to bring about any motivation to do anything but sit there on the bed. When the tears come, he quietly watches them fall.