The suit was deceptive, America thought to himself as he watched England. People always said he was small – thin and short and not particularly manly. That he was pretty like a girl with huge eyes and plump lips. They teased him for his eyebrows and for his small and delicate hands.

But as America watched his former mentor leave the meeting room, he noticed that his back was wide and his shoulders strong and it was only the suit that made them look smaller than they were. He knew that while shorter than America himself and some of the other countries, he was still taller than many of them, and most humans as well. The supposedly delicate hands were gripping a teacup, and while dwarfed by its size, they were still large and strong and certain. His eyes were huge and his lips were plump, but his jaw was sharp and his cheekbones strong. His eyebrows were big, but not as big as everyone claimed, and when they furrowed over narrowed and serious green eyes they made his face look masculine and sometimes even menacing.

America knew all this. That England wasn't thin and short, or pretty and girly. But he teased the older (steadier, more experienced, smarter) man for it all the same. He still riled him up by complaining about his food (even if it really wasn't that bad) and his imaginary friends (that he'd actually seen and still saw every Halloween and knew were real).

He was silent as he watched the former Empire leave. He still held a plastic-case filled with important paper that he was supposed to put in his professional brief-case but his hands weren't moving. The blue eyes behind the glasses were fixed on the wide back of the only man whose attention he wanted but who wouldn't look at him with anything but anger.

He plastered a huge smile on his lips and called "Old man!" after England, only to watch him turn around, green (luminescent beautiful proud wonderful) eyes turned on him, spitting fire.

That was fine.

America grinned wider as England stomped over to give him a piece of his mind. The suit might make him look thinner than he was, and the teacup may dwarf his hands so they looked small, but that changed nothing. America knew it was all an optical illusion and under that suit and without that teacup, England was still tall and strong and proud. Even after everything he had endured, even if he was mocked by the other nations, and even if he would never look at America without that spark of rage in the depths of his (luminescent beautiful proud wonderful) eyes, the one that hurt like someone driving a stake through his heart.

Even if England wasn't taller, America felt tiny next to him, but that was fine. Every time England shouted insults at him something stabbed inside his chest, but it was fine. So long as he was next to him, so long as he looked at him and spoke to him, everything was just fine.

That jacket America wore was misleading, England thought as he watched the younger nation. People always said that he was chubby from all that McDonald's. They teased him for not being able to read the atmosphere, calling him stupid and naïve behind his back and sometimes to his face. They dismissed him as a young nation that knew nothing of the horrors of the world.

But as England watched America take notes during a meeting he knew that America was far from chubby. He worked out almost obsessively and under that misleading jacket was nothing but rock hard muscles. He knew that behind the ridiculous smile and even more ridiculous words intelligence lurked that would shock half the world into a coma. He knew that when he sometimes opened his mouth and said things that were completely unfit for the situation it wasn't because he didn't know but because he wanted to lift the mood. America wasn't naïve either. Whatever was left of his naivety after two World Wars was blown to pieces with Hiroshima and Nagasaki. England knew that he was not a child anymore, and that he knew the world and its horror as well as any of them.

But even so, England teased the (stronger, brighter, better) younger nation for his (nonexistent) weight-problem and tried to make him angry by calling him a stupid child. Still he mocked the other one by dismissing him as one would a toddler.

He stared at the younger nation with anger in his eyes, because he didn't know what else to do. England was not the forgiving type, and even if he wanted to (and dear god did he want to, more than anything he'd ever wanted) he couldn't find it in himself to swallow his pride enough to actually sit down and talk with America. To sort out the issues that still lay between them like a mile-wide chasm.

When America looked up, he made sure to glare into the (luminescent beautiful proud wonderful) blue eyes and the cheeky grin and insult (that hurt like someone stabbing a stake through his heart) that followed immediately after. Because America didn't need him anymore and he made every effort at rubbing that in England's face.

That was fine.

He opened his mouth to retaliate and soon they were arguing and England was dragging all the things he knew America wasn't into light. The misleading jacket may make him seem chubby and the ridiculous smile and words might make him sound like a naïve child, but that changed nothing. It was all an illusion and under the jacket and the smile America was impossibly strong, proud, smart and worldly. Even with everything he had not yet endured, even if the other nations mocked him and even if he would never speak to England without insulting him and showing clearly how badly he thought of him.

Even if England was older, he always felt like an immature child next to America, but that was just fine. Every time America insulted him something in his chest hurt like a stab wound, but it was fine. So long as he was next to him, so long as he spoke to him and looked at him, everything was just fine.