Disclaimer: I don't own these delicious characters (or fast-food corporations)… Enjoy~!
"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you."
America avoided England's eyes with a ferocious type of determination. When the Brit reached a hand forward, fingers splayed out, America flung his body in a sharp jerk to the left… and right into France.
A gurgled "Gah! Amérique!" and a hasty "Sorry, France, gotta go!" followed soon after. America shoved himself off the Frenchman, who in turn flayed and writhed around, pushing feebly at the strong American. Face flushed and hair disheveled, America spared a brief moment to nod at a bewildered France before taking off. The lecture room's doors shut with a quiet snap!
"What was that about, Angleterre?" France, still on the floor, propped himself up with his elbows and tilted his head in interest.
England blinked, shifting his gaze away from the doors America had just fled through. In no mood to deal with a flamboyant Frenchman, he scowled and grunted, "Go away, frog!"
France smiled sweetly. "Did Amérique reject our cranky, old Brit?"
England's scowl deepened. "Shut up, you git! Who're you calling old?"
France, shooting an amused glance at England, pulled himself up and sighed melodramatically. "I'm willing to be your rebound, mon Angleterre. We can make sweet l'amour."
England shrugged off the man's hand by his shoulder and slapped away the hand that had been trying to pat his arse. "Shove off!"
The blonde opened his mouth, but stopped when the doors were flung open with a harsh wheesssh! even England and France winced at. "Maybe next time," France finished in a quiet, simpering voice. England pushed him away with a harsh shove.
The Brit scoffed breathily as France sidled over to his seat, following his example moments later and turning his nose up as he made his way back to his chair. Germany and Italy stalked (former) and bounced (latter) in after Spain and Prussia's loud entrance. Soon, the other national personifications strolled in, milling about before finding their seats. America hadn't shown up yet, England realized, not that he was avidly watching the doors or anything.
With a final desperate look, ignoring the smirking Frenchman, England sighed as he made his way up to the podium. With a deep breath, he began, "Welcome—"
America flew in, looking everything like he'd just run to the White House and back. He laughed loudly and obnoxiously, claiming the hero had arrived, as was the norm, but Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was absolutely bewildered by the American's earlier scene. All the Englishman had done was question the younger nation's unusually early arrival, and then America had flipped like England was confessing his centuries-old romantic love. Not that there was such a thing to confess, mind you.
"Now that America has finally shown up, we can start—"
"Sorry, dudes! The line at McD*nalds was epic long." America smiled disarmingly, holding his one available hand up beside his chest in the universal gesture for peace and slurping a milkshake sideways from his other hand.
England opened his mouth, but America spoke over him, "So, what're we talkin' about?"
Germany, cheek already twitching furiously, gestured to England and hissed, "Sit down, Amerika. Ve vere going to talk about global varming."
"Very cool, my bros!" America grinned and sauntered passed the angry German. The smiling buffoon missed the older nation's hands reaching out as if to strangle him. Italy gently pried his friend's arms back to his side and smiled softly at him.
Germany swallowed, face flushed. "Global varming," he reminded weakly.
"Right." England eyed the assembled countries. None of them seemed to be missing, minus that one empty seat near America that went by unnoticed (I'm Canada, goddamnit!), and America was finally sitting down in his chair. Their eyes met for a brief second before his former ward looked quickly away. "Global warming."
"Global varming," Germany repeated, tone slowly darkening.
France clapped his hands and then preened when most eyes flew to him. "Angleterre here," he gestured impassively, "would like to start the meeting with an idea that involves changements."
England hastily diverted his eyes back to the other nations. "Right," he said, sounding like a broken record. Slowly he shook his head and gathered his senses. "A good way to approach global warming would be to start with the ignorant masses. Now, I don't mean that rudely. People need to know more about what it means, the effects, and the simple and daily movements that can help tone down the issue…"
After England finished his speech, there was scattered applause. Some of the nations didn't even open their eyes or lift their heads. He sighed quietly and passed the stage over to France. The Frenchman gladly swayed up, leaving his half-filled notes on the large table.
"A romantic, slow-moving film that embodies the essence of l'amour," France offered wisely, not bothering to introduce himself.
"Hahahaha! Dude, what does that have to do with climate change?"
"Ah, Amérique, a good question." He blinked, as if he couldn't believe he had just said that. "The movie will include aspects that promote recycling, solar power, and reserving water. Along with a steamy romance, of course."
(Everyone was ignoring the brrgg! brrgg! Germany was making as he hit his head on the table repeatedly. It had been going so well, too.)
England opened his mouth but, surprisingly, he shut it again. "A good idea to use the filming industry," he relented grudgingly.
France preened and flipped his blonde hair over his shoulder.
"But," the Brit continued, "your film industry is going nowhere and isn't nearly as popular. Plus, romance is dead." He shrugged casually.
France gasped so loudly and suddenly that if you didn't know him it almost would have seemed hilarious. Alas, France was horrified and his face mirrored it. Eyes blown wide and hands over his mouth, he rounded on England. "Mensonges! Lies!"
England narrowed his eyes and sneered, "Come off it, frog. You know your films are lacking."
France shook his head, for once not falling for the bait. "Non, Angleterre, romance is not dead." As an afterthought he added, "And my films are better than yours, you black sheep of Europe!"
England hissed and coiled up like a snake. "You—!"
"Hahaha! Hey, dudes! When do we get outta here?" America grinned. "I gotta see a football game later!"
England turned so suddenly to America his neck made a cracking sound. "It's I have to see, not gotta. And stop calling it bloody football!"
America chuckled, already in the motions of putting his notes away. "No way, dude. You need to start calling that what it's supposed to be called. S-o-c-c-e-r! Soccer!"
"Ve~!" Italy interrupted, waving and smiling at the blank faces. "I think we should continue this tomorrow! I'm going to go make pasta~!"
Romano slapped his brother's waving hand back down to the table. "Da fuck is taking so long?" He stood up, dragging his northern twin upwards with him. "I'm leaving!"
Spain stood up as well, kicking his chair back. "Wait for me, Lovino!"
Germany sighed and pushed himself away from the table. "Tomorrow ve continue this, ja?" At the collective nods and annoyed grumblings, the German quickly followed after the Italian twins and Spain.
As if a spell was broken, all the other nations scrambled to collect their things and be out of the door in record time. A few countries didn't even bother to stuff their notes in their briefcases, leaving them on the table for trash pickup. America, with his notes actually with him, tightly hugged between a hamburger and other non-important papers, was the first nation out of the door after Germany.
Soon it was just England, who was slowly organizing his folders, and France, who was sitting down and watching the shorter man.
"Is something bothering you, Angleterre?" he asked curiously, kindly.
England pursed his lips and looked off to the side, hands pausing. Was something bothering him? Yes. America was acting suspicious, though after the incident from the morning he had seemed to be normal once again. England still had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach with regards to the American, though, and it wouldn't leave him. Something was wrong.
He bit his lip before giving in. He needed another point of view, even if it was from the bloody frog. "I think something's wrong with Alfred."
"Amérique?" France was genuinely surprised.
England frowned and started picking his papers up again. The meeting room was empty of nations, excluding the two of them. "Yes, America, frog. He was early this morning… he was here before even me."
France put his hands on his chin. "That is unusual for our Amérique. Perhaps his hotel suite was uncomfortable and he wanted to leave quickly?"
England shook his head. "No. He'd just find a McD*nalds to stay at to pass the time instead."
He suddenly realized that that was what America had probably done after England had found him in the lecture room beforehand. But why? It was possible that America just didn't want to be around him for too long (England refused to admit that hurt), but America never was one for being subtle about his visitors. He would have just pulled out his cell phone and pretended to text if he really didn't want to talk, not totally evacuate the building. Maybe he had forgotten something? But then, what about the McD*nalds? He could have gotten that beforehand…. As well, the question of why he was early in the first place was attention-grabbing. England didn't know, and he wanted to, but he wasn't so sure it would be a comfortable answer.
France frowned in thought before shrugging slowly, gaining England's attention back. "Let us ask Amérique tomorrow. It is his turn to speak, non?"
"Yes," England said, nodding. His notes were tucked away and his section of the table was clean. Even though he already knew the answer, he asked anyway, "I shouldn't visit him, should I?"
France smiled gently. "Non, Angleterre. Just get some rest, and we will ask tomorrow."
England and France left the building side-by-side. It was relatively dark, the sky a cool blue with scattered purple clouds that still lit up the roads but had no sun in sight. With silent farewells, they separated to their respective cars. England waited until he saw the Frenchman's car lights begin to fade before turning his own vehicle on.
England knew he was going to regret it, and he knew France was not going to offer a sympathetic ear. But his worry was pushing insistently behind his temple, and he also knew he had to find America as soon as possible. So when England's car came to a familiar crossroad, he calmly turned the wheels the opposite direction from his house. He was seeing America, whether the boy liked it or not.
…o0o…
As it turned out, America didn't need to like it or not, because he wasn't even there.
After checking at the front desk, the woman told him that "Hmm, no, an Alfred F. Jones hasn't been here since," she glanced to her coworker and then at the clock, "five in the morning."
With some coaxing on the Englishman's part she handed him a spare key. It had taken him pushing his identification into her tight fists and producing a photo of America and him (one he didn't even remember being taken) for her to even consider the idea. She had bit her lip and then shook her head. By then, England was frustrated and tired. So he flirted.
The worker had glanced at his picture, his ID, and then at his sultry smile. With a snort, she passed the key over. "Be sure to tell your boyfriend that you have your own key."
England spluttered and turned a bright pink-red. "Thank you," he grit out, turning his back and stomping away. He mentally reminded himself to file a complaint later.
The woman smirked at him, kissing her hand and blowing when he looked over his shoulder. "Ta, ta, darling."
And then England was standing in front of America's room. The Brit suddenly grew anxious. What if this was a terrible, awful idea? The lady at the front desk surely would tell the other nation about a certain Arthur Kirkland asking for and receiving another key. Would America's anger and betrayal and hurt be worth poking around his suite? England shifted his feet, hand poised awkwardly in the air.
Voices drifting down the hallway alerted the nation that he wasn't alone. As the voices – two, it seemed, both men – grew louder and closer, England hung his head, pushed the key in, and turned quickly. He ducked in and shut the door seconds before the men rounded the corner.
England stood unsure and frozen by the door. He waited until he could hear the two men pass the suite, their laughs and jokes muffled by the door. When he was sure they were gone he breathed a sigh of relief and cautiously stepped further into the room. It was clean, was his first thought. Cleaner than what England had expected.
There were no pizza boxes or hamburgers stacked on tables, no clothes thrown over couches… it almost seemed like America hadn't even arrived. But as England continued searching, he passed by the bedroom. With a tentative glance, he tiptoed in. The bedroom had been the only place the Brit had found evidence of someone living. The white sheets were bunched and twisted in the middle and the majority of the cover was lying on the ground. The windows were also open, but England realized that security would be alright because not only was America's room facing another brick building, he was on the top floor.
All of a sudden, England felt lightheaded. His heart was racing. He could feel his magic wrap tighter around him, sparking and hissing. He had to leave. Impulsively, he grabbed the little filled-out note card beside the bed lamp and stuffed it into his pocket without looking. In his hasty flurry after only a brief hesitation, he grabbed the whole packet of notes to throw away completely. Let America think the workers had made a mistake and thrown out all of the cards.
England quickly slipped out, checked the handle to see if it was locked, and raced down the stairs after a brief flight through the hallways. His magic was flying around his head wildly, some stray strings lighting his eyes up with blues, greens, and reds. He couldn't panic, not yet. Stopping to catch his breath, his magic calming somewhat, he reran his snooping through his head to make sure he hadn't left any clues of his being there. Everything was positioned correctly, he knew, so there was nothing to alert the American. With a deep breath, he emerged from the staircase.
The woman from the front desk was still sitting there, but her colleague was gone. She was playing with one of her braids and making weird faces at the polished desk. With a cautious bounce, England approached her.
"Erm."
She looked up and the expression she had froze on her face, making the whole situation seem comical. Her lips were in a small pout as if posing for a lipstick commercial but her eyes were enormous and eyebrows narrowed. She quickly repositioned her features to one of polite professionalism. "Can I help you, Mr. Kirkland?"
He sneered. "Has Alfred shown up yet?"
She sneered back before realizing that it was an improper move and then attempted to make her face blank. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland, but as of a recent privacy request, I can either offer to call his room for you or you can use the key I gave you to check yourself."
England nodded, that was a yes then. "Thank you for your service," he bowed his head slightly. Though her attitude needed help, a lot of help, she had given him the key to Alfred's room, and for that he was thankful.
She smiled softly, chuckling. "You're one of a kind, Arthur." She turned to face him directly and stared. "I didn't tell Alfred you have a key, you'll have to do that on your own. He's a nice boy."
England nodded again. He knew America was a nice kid. An idiot, but one he was fond of. "I'll tell him," England lied.
She seemed to know that because she shook her head at him. "See to it, Mr. Kirkland," she warned.
"I will," he insisted. England turned and left without another word.
He adjusted his coat as it started to rain lightly around him. The streetlights were already on and giving the sidewalks an orange glow against the sprinkles. After a short moment of deliberation England slipped into one of the late-open cafes. He ordered some tea (Earl Gray, of course), and then grabbed a seat beside the window.
Sipping warily at the beverage, he produced the note card from America's room and then blinked curiously at chicken-scratch the American passed off as handwriting. England was almost sure he could remember teaching America proper penmanship, but it seemed those lessons were shirked off as well. He squinted. The Bs and Hs were hard to make out as their lowercase figures were too alike for his fancy, but the Brit came to the conclusion that is read:
Open from 6am to 7pm, ten blocks down: hooks for after meet, put on bold.
Hmm, England paused, that was probably put on hold, rather than bold. He leaned back in his seat and studied the inscription. What in the bloody hell was America doing?
...o0o…
America sneezed.
"Bless you," England murmured, his eyes flicking up to meet the younger man's before dropping back down to the paper he was reading. He carefully turned the page, licking his finger and holding it on the corner.
"À vos souhaits," France parroted mechanically. He was reading as well, but instead of the news it was a small and pink French romance book. He was completely enraptured with it as he would make small squeals and grunts occasionally.
America leaned his torso in and arched his neck to read over France's shoulder. England looked up, too, but only to watch America. The young nation was reading the book, his eyes darting from side to side quickly. France turned the page, and the American relaxed back into his seat.
"Dude, France, why do you like that?"
France blinked and raised his head. "Quoi?"
"The characters totally aren't gong to hook up." America crossed his hands over his chest and grinned. "They, like, hate each other."
France blinked again and dog-eared the book. "You could understand the words, Amérique?"
By now England had pushed the post aside and was studiously watching the two. It was just the three of them in the conference room, as the rest had left to grab small snacks and drinks. The nations had originally planned to start the meeting about an hour ago, but then something had come up with Germany and his boss, so it was postponed for two hours while the country sorted out the problem. America had been late by exactly ten minutes but since there was an emergency with the German, he hadn't missed anything and was to start once Germany was back with them.
America smiled and readjusted his glasses. "I've picked some stuff up, yeah."
France shook his head uncomprehendingly. "This book is hard to read for even native speakers."
England glanced between the two curiously. "What did it say?"
France opened his mouth but then shut it. He gestured to America with a circular wave. "Amérique?"
The dirty-blonde shifted uncomfortably. "Well basically the Violin girl doesn't like Pari and they are bickering at some ponce French cafe. Violet is an airhead and Perry has a cynical wit. They both point that out to each other and then pretty much hate the other."
England looked blank. France sighed but was watching the American suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "Voletta is the girl, and Paris is the rich businessman. She is a worker at a small café that he frequently visits, and when she came to take his order, he replied snappily. She did not take kindly to that and reciprocated. Thus a fight. Though," he paused, "Voletta did not like Paris' wit and he did not like her optimism according to others in the book, so Amérique is correct."
"According to the others?"
France smirked jauntily. "Oui, Angleterre. Since I have read this book multiple times, I know that those are the features that Voletta and Paris love the most about the other. And, Amérique, they do not hate each other. They do, en fait, hook up."
America grumbled. "I don't see how. Why would Paris like Voletta's idiotic personality? She'd just drag him down, and he'd be left with nothing but a nuance. I don't even see how she'd have friends, with a head like that."
England stopped moving as his breath left him in a sharp whoosh. What in god's name? "America!"
France was equally scandalized. "Mon dieu, Amérique, vous savez Angleterre vous aime comment vous êtes!"
America flushed a dark maroon and England suddenly realized the American could actually translate what the frog had said, leaving him the only one in the dark. He did not like that one bit. "What did he say, America?" he asked forcefully, gripping the nation's shoulder tightly.
America shook his head wildly, cheeks still pink.
France was staring at the American. "Alfred?"
"Did you know that the United States doesn't have a national language?"
France narrowed his eyes but England arched his large brows questioningly. "Oh?"
America nodded quickly and squirmed, futilely attempting to get out of England's grip. "Yep! So that's how I know some French, though I am nowhere near being fluent."
"Alfred," France said abruptly, "Angleterre and I were wondering if you are alright? You were early yesterday to the meeting, and we are concerned."
He laughed and never had it seemed more forced. "Yeah, dudes, I'm fine; a hero never gets sick!"
The two older nations waited silently for the American to continue. He realized this and stammered, "I just thought I'd forgotten something."
"It was the first day we were meeting," England deadpanned. He was steadily getting more worried, his magic flaring up around him. (His magical friends were on vacation, so it was just him and his magical core.)
America laughed again. "Dude, Iggy, I totally know that! The building just seemed familiar I guess, and I thought I had originally left something there. We all make mistakes, man." There was something off about that smile though; it almost seemed hurt, betrayed. But that was impossible. America couldn't have possibly known about his snooping! The lady at the desk said she wouldn't tell, and he had left everything the way it was.
"Oui, Amérique, we all make mistakes. You are not, what is it, lying through your teeth, though, are you?"
Luckily for America, who was slowly gaining the pink dusting back, Italy bounded into the lecture room with a broad smile and chirped, "Ve~! Germanyis feeling better now and they have fixed the problem~!"
Germany appeared and grabbed the happy nation by his arm. "Ja, the problem is better." The two headed straight toward their seat, and the other nations that followed after them took their lead and went for their chairs too. "Amerika?"
America laughed loudly, grinning. "Yeah, dude, hold on a sec!" He pulled his briefcase out and rummaged through it before pulling out a clean, white sheet of paper. He ran up to the podium cheerfully.
"So I, like totally, have this awesome idea..."
England tuned him out but continuously checked through his eyelashes to make sure the American was still rambling. With quick hands, the Brit smuggled the American's bag and held it hostage under the table. He ignored France's sharp intake of breath and shuffled through the folders hastily. When his hands felt something warm and wet he clamped down on a girlish squeal. Well, he found the idiot's burger. Shortly after, he felt the tell-tale sign of written-on paper. With a quiet cheer, he produced the page.
It was covered with doodles, all of various sizes and shapes, some cute and some serious.
France, whose eyes were scanning the page much faster than England was, snatched the paper away. "Arthur, you're getting carried away." He held the sheet behind his back, safely obscuring it from the Englishman's sight.
England scowled and snapped, "Shut up, frog!"
"What were you looking for, Angleterre? Actual notes? Love letters?"
He blushed. "You arsehole! Give it back!" When his attempt failed, he crossed his arms and mumbled, "I'm looking for his actual notes."
"And you think he is not using them now because…?"
England shifted. "I think he's hiding something."
France shook his head before glancing warily at the American… who was staring right at the two of them. Fuck. He could still save this. With a sly smirk he clapped slowly and praised, "Brilliant idea, Amérique!"
America narrowed his eyes. The blue irises were darting between England, France, and the place where his briefcase was originally. He was about to say something, but a sudden onslaught of surprised and worried voices erupted around the conference room.
"Francis, estás bien?"
"Frankreich?"
"No way that fucking idiot said something brilliant!"
"Francis! You're not sick, are you? 'Cause that would be totally un-awesome!"
As the other nations pushed their seats back and swarmed around France, England stuffed the doodles back into the bag. When he was pulling his hand out, he accidentally brushed his fingers over a worn folder. His magic wrapped around his hand, glowing a light purple. This folder was different; it was actually used on a daily basis. England bit his lip and looked around.
All the nations except Germany, who was knocked unconscious at the far end of the table with a harsh pink square on his forehead, were poking and prodding at France. For his part, France was loving the attention, smiling and smirking and patting. And America was—?
"England."
—Right behind him. England pasted an angry scowl on his face and turned around cautiously. "Yes, America?"
America's eyes were bright and glowing, his mouth dipping in the corners. "What are you doing," after a pause he tacked on, "dude?"
England hid a wince and scrambled for something to say. "There was a bug."
"A bug?" America's lips quirked.
He nodded frantically. "Yes, a bug, idiot. It crawled into your briefcase and I knew it would be disgusting if it found your fatty and greasy burger, so I tried to find it and get it out."
"Was it a big bug?"
Now the American was definitely mocking him. England glared, his enormous eyebrows narrowing. "It was huge."
America grinned widely. "Well then, thanks, Iggy!" He slapped him on the back. "So do you have it now?"
"What?"
America nudged the arm that was still in the bag. Right. England slowly released the folder and retracted his hand. "It got away when France made a scene."
"Right."
"Mh-hm."
America rocked on the balls of his feet. "So, Arthur, um, I—"
Germany, revived from his slump when Italy started ceaselessly poking him, yelled, "SHUT UP!"
Everyone jumped and hurried to get back in their seat. With a proud nod, the German continued, "France?"
France nodded, showing that he could manage the rest of the meeting.
"Good. Then ve vill continue. Amerika."
For once, America looked put out. "Yeah, yeah." He sidled back up to the podium. With a subtle shake of his head, he began cheerfully, "A hero is what we totally need…"
England released a large breathe of relief, slumping into his chair. France nodded to him out of the corner of his eyes, and he nodded back. Though England didn't figure anything solid out about the blue-eyed nation, he did set up his next move. Time to figure out who those hooks were that America was meeting.
…o0o…
Apparently England was an even bigger idiot than the self-proclaimed hero. If he could actually hit his head on the desk quietly, he would. But, alas, the librarian had a sharp ear about her; when this poor fellow sneezed (sneezed!) she sent him a glare that could and would burn a hole straight through his head. He booked it out of there as fast as he could. Which brought England back to his stupidity.
It was actually: Open from 6am to 7pm, ten blocks down: books for after meet, put on hold.
And if England had half a brain he would have guessed that the American wasn't looking for hookers. His relieved smile and happy heart from that news had nothing to do with the American, he was just worried about the… hookers. Yep.
It would have saved him a lot of trouble, too, if he had trusted in the innocent nature of his ally. As it turned out, England had to drive to the hotel to start from America's point. The woman at the desk was the same one from before and she had narrowed her eyes at him and mouthed I'm watching you. England had quickly left the lobby, unsure of why he went inside in the first place, and grumbled to himself about the lack of respect from his own subjects. From there, he had gone ten blocks, but was met with a dead-end. By then he was tired so he had asked the couple that was passing into the nearest fast-food restaurant. With scandalized looks they exchanged glances, so England offered that it was ten blocks from the hotel. The woman looked immensely relieved and pointed out the directions to arrive at the library, giggling as she revealed that she thought he had said hooks, not books, silly me.
So here he was, sitting at one of the library's small tables, with a random book he had grabbed on his way in making a winged shield for his face. Though the book wasn't really needed, because after talking with the couple England had suddenly realized he needed a disguise. So he had used his magic to make himself into something America would never guess. He was a girl, and a pretty one at that. She had blond hair and green eyes as well, but with small glasses. England, or Alice now, had also made some magical clothes for her which were a light blue. With caution, England poked his head up to scan the fantasy section. No dirty-blonde head in sight, wait, England squinted. Nope. Not in the fantasy section.
He picked up the book and stalked toward the history section. Maybe the buffoon was there. Two minutes later he stomped out. He had been hit on by a ten-year-old redhead, and if that wasn't freaky enough, the boy had a perverse mouth that would make France smile. Hitching his dress, he ambled over to the reference wing. Might as well.
England looked around. There was an older man sitting near the window, a book held loosely on his lap; two young teenagers were bickering in the shelves, arms flailing about; a young man was biting his lip and adjusting his glasses as he fingered some weary-looking books. The young man turned, facing England directly, as he walked over to one of the chairs with a stack of books in his arms.
America!
England gripped the book he was holding tighter and swaggered over to the American. When England's shadow fell over him, he looked up, blinking innocently at the young girl, shoulders tensing immediately.
"May I help you?" he asked, forcing himself to relax. He wasn't a nation here, nothing to be wary about. "Did I take the book you wanted or something?"
England froze. What to do? He was a girl now, so, act like a one! He giggled, bringing his book up to his lips. That was how girls acted, right?
America's lips quirked in amusement. "Right. Is that any good?"
England blinked.
America nodded his head at the small novel. "Fifty Shades of Grey?"
Oh bloody fuck. England smiled lopsidedly, attempting to go for a cute factor, but the expression just seemed like he was in immense pain. "Yes," he said, pitching his voice higher, "it's one of my favorite books."
"Oh really?" America smiled. It was a soft and endearing smile, one that would easily make any girl swoon. Luckily for him, he wasn't an actual girl. Unluckily for him, he was already head-over-heels for the young American.
"Yes."
"So what's your name?"
England replied quickly. "Alice."
"Well, hello, Alice. I'm Alfred." He held out his hand. England gripped it and gave a firm pump. "What can I do for you?"
"Oh, um, well you just seemed, uh, lonely. So I wanted to say hi."
"Thank you," he smiled beautifully. England abruptly pulled the other seat beside America closer and sat down. America blinked at the sudden movement, but shrugged amiably. He set the book he was holding onto the table and reached down to pick up his briefcase.
England eyed the stacked novels as America shuffled through his bag. The books were about global warming, obesity, national epidemics, and offered solutions and ideas. America couldn't actually want to read those, could he?
England's emerald eyes went straight toward the paper America had grabbed from his bag. Instead of the doodle England was expecting to see, it was a packet. The pages were a healthy mix of worn and clean and were filled to the brim with scrawled tidbits, ideas, and revisions in red ink from the last meeting with England's speech. America looked up and their eyes met.
"You okay, Ar-Alice?"
England nodded. "So you're interested in world issues. Politics?"
America grinned. "Yeah, dude. A great friend of mine gave this lecture yesterday about global warming and I thought it was pretty interesting." He pointed to the red inked notes. "See, those are from him."
"He sounds very smart."
"Oh, he is," America all but purred, leaning in.
England shifted. He didn't know how much longer his disguise as Alice would last. He pointed out, "Those are good notes."
"Thank you." America scooted closer. "I also draw, too."
"Really?" England squeaked, shifting further into the chair's back.
"Yeah." America leaned back, smiled (though it seemed more like a smirk), and browsed through his briefcase. Soon he produced the sheet England had stolen earlier. The drawings really were well done, his artsy American style fitting with the little thought-bubbles and expressions.
"They're wonderful," he breathed, carefully taking the paper in his hands to look closer at. He didn't get to see much of it at the conference because of the frog.
"That means a lot, Alice."
England looked away. Right, he was Alice now. Was it even possible to be jealous of himself? "So, Alfred, where do you work, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I work in the states, actually. I'm on a business meeting here."
"Oh?"
"Mhh-hm, but nobody really pays me any mind anyway."
"Why?"
America smiled, eyes twinkling. "See these notes? Well, I don't use them, I write the stuff down later when I'm alone. Everyone at the meeting just sees these wicked sketches."
England couldn't breath. "Why the bloody hell would you do that?"
America grinned, showing off his canines. "It's fun."
When England didn't move or even smile back, America sighed and sat back. "Dude, you have absolutely no sense of humor. I guess I do it because that way people will see an idiot, and not a threat. I dunno; I mean, it doesn't really matter does it? I get the right information and bring it back to my boss; we're powerful people, we get our power from being quick and smart. Does it matter how the other associates see me?"
"Yes."
America tilted his head. "Why?"
England grumbled and crossed his hands over his chest. "Okay, fine, it doesn't matter how the other people see you. But it does matter how you're doing this. Do you think it's fun to be made fun of? Do you like it? I don't see how you can like being bullied!"
America looked at him through his eyelashes. "My friend, the one who spoke yesterday, he teases me all the time: idiot, fat, useless, annoying."
Oh bloody fuckity fuck. He was right. "I'm sure he didn't mean it like that."
America smirked. "Oh?"
"I'm sure he loves you just as much."
All of a sudden, the American lost all the confidence he had like it was stomped out of him. England realized this, and suddenly noted that the American had been extremely confident when talking to him.
"I don't know about love," he whispered, moving back. England missed his warmth.
"Love?"
America blinked twice. "I don't know if he loves me just as much," he reiterated.
Love? What was… oh, damn. England had said love, not like. "No, you're wrong," England began, glancing down at his lap. He froze. The pretty, blue dress was turning into a more blue-green color. He was changing back. He had to leave. "I'm sorry, Alfred. I need to go; I have to meet my brother for football later."
England stood up hurriedly. America grabbed his arm tightly, eyes wide. "Wait, please!"
"I can't, I have to go," he said, and on his third try yanked his arm free. "I'm so sorry."
America was looking more and more flustered. He stood up as well and turned Alice back to face him in a fast twirl. And then he kissed her, locking their mouths together. England ceased struggling, melting into the kiss. It was warm and sweet and brilliant.
America broke off and they stared at each other, breathing heavily. England suddenly realized what had just happened and felt a crushing and squeezing amount of hurt. He felt suffocated. "Let me go!" he screamed and thrashed. America had just kissed him, no, had just kissed Alice. He had to go, he couldn't let America see who he had really kissed, he couldn't let America see him cry.
"Wait, listen, A—!" England managed to hit him solidly on the head and America reeled back, hands flying to his face. "Ow!"
They now had the attention of the whole library. The librarian, who had been talking to someone checking a book out, turned and stomped over to the reference section. The old man who had been watching the wind was standing, one foot forward. The two arguing girls had hands over their mouths and twin expressions of horror.
England turned and raced out, dress flying behind him. He passed the librarian in a blur and then was out on the sidewalk. He didn't stop running until he had passed the hotel and was near that café he had stayed at yesterday. Wasting no time, he ducked in and stopped to catch his breath beside the seat he had sat in the other day as his appearance quickly and subtly changed back into a man.
With a sniff, England smoothly molded into the line. He ordered some Earl Gray tea when his turn came and then made his way to his seat. With itchy eyes, England took to watching the people pass the shop by and every other occasion sipped at his drink. So when the bell on the door chimed, England didn't look up. However, when the sound of a chair being dragged and then deposited across from his table rang in his ears, he did look up.
America smiled shyly at him.
England hoped the other didn't hear his breath hitch. He faked a scowl; America didn't know he had just kissed him, so there was no reason to make him suspicious. "Idiot. What are you doing here?"
America ignored him, grin never faltering. "Did you know that you smell like a forest? And fresh parchment?"
England sat back in surprise. What in the world? "No, America, I did not know that. And that is important… why?"
"I really like Cinderella, did you know that?" he replied, continuing to spout off random nonsense.
England shifted. "No," he said cautiously. His magic was shifting around him but, for some reason, was not as flustered as he was himself.
"That was quite the reenactment, Alice."
England tensed. If he bolted for the door now, America would catch him. Maybe he could throw his hot tea at the American and slow him down? That could work.
America, not knowing what was currently going through the Brit's head, smiled wider. "Hey, hey, it's okay."
England snorted and turned his head away, hair falling over his eyes. America continued cheerfully, "Arthur, it's okay. I know." He reached a hand out to put on England's arm, but England snatched it away, holding it close to his chest. He ignored the flash of hurt on the American's face.
"What do you know?" he snapped, eyes hard. His tea continued to cool on the table.
America sighed, using both hands to surrender. "I know that you snooped in my suite. I know that you're Alice."
"Y-You know about the suite? What? How?" England looked away, mumbling, "I was bloody sure there was no evidence."
America smiled softly and England had never seen such a beautiful look on his face before. "You smell like the forest, Arthur. Like the forest and fresh parchment. I could smell you when you were at the hotel, and I could smell you when you approached me as Alice."
Wait, then did that mean…?
"I kissed you knowing it was you, Arthur," he said. "Please believe me."
England did. He believed the idiot. "Was that true about the notes? Do you really hide?"
America winced. "Yeah, I know. Not very heroic." He chuckled hollowly. "But sometimes I think it's better that way. To hide, but to still see. I can protect people better if no one thinks twice about me. I can make more friends that I otherwise wouldn't have."
"No, Alfred, you're still you. Those friends? They'll still be your friends if you show up to a meeting and talk about how technology can be incorporated into solving the obesity epidemic."
America shrugged. "If you say so."
England relaxed and fingered his tea. "I do." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Alfred? Yesterday morning, why were you early?"
"Oh," he blushed and scratched his head. "I was calculating how long it would take to get to the meeting. It takes preparation to show up late but not so late that you miss everything, Iggy."
England shook his head fondly and sighed, "Don't call me that, Alfred."
America smiled and England smiled back. They talked for a little while, figured out where they stood with each other, and rambled about various mundane topics. When America opened the door for him and he stepped out into the cool night air, he wondered aloud, "So, Alfred, what did Francis say earlier?"
America flushed a lovely pink and murmured in France's accent, "Something like my god, Amérique, England loves you how you are."
England reached down and found America's hand. Clamping them together, he swung back and forth as they continued to walk. "The bloody frog is right."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, you adorable idiot. And I hate you for making me say that."
"I love you."
England laughed. "I love you, too."
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~The End~
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Author's Note: Reviews will make Canada feel better about not being in this story at all! (I'm sorry, Mattie!) I tried, but it was no use, he's too invisible. On another note, that was my first kiss scene ever, yay! I also took liberties with Iggy's magic, so don't hate me for that.
Thanks for reading, lovelies! Remember, review for our sad, unappreciated Canada!