England sat at America's kitchen table, humming softly to himself while he stirred his tea and looked at the morning paper. He had been over in Washington for a week or so; their bosses had decided to meet to talk about issues that they apparently couldn't discuss via phone or email. England's boss bringing him along for no apparent reason only reinforced England's hypothesis that he had separation anxiety.
Well, the psychological issues of grown men aside, England had been forced to stay in America's house, due to his boss' other phobia- spending more money than was absolutely necessary.
But, honestly, it hadn't been as bad as England had expected. Sure, America had some odd quirks, but his house wasn't a pigsty and the git showered regularly. In fact, the American's house was surprisingly clean. Which was why the fact that it currently smelled like nail polish was somewhat surprising. Had Poland visited lately or something?
England quirked an eyebrow to himself. He was very well acquainted with the fragrance of nail polish- more so, in fact, than the cologne that Sealand insisted on dousing himself so thoroughly in ("To smell like a real man!") (England's entire house now smelled like Old Spice).
And, if he wasn't mistaken (he very rarely was), it was coming from the direction of America's bedroom. Odd.
England put down his tea and paper, and steeled himself to walk down the hallway, which now seemed a thousand miles long. He had barely been able to resist jumping America when they were within a meter of each other in the President's office- what would happen now that they were together in a much more private setting- in a much smaller room? England silently swore to himself that if he could manage to make it through this encounter without doing anything untoward, he'd actually read the relationship help book that the Frog had gotten him for Valentine's Day.
"Alfred?" He asked, nudging open the door. "Are you asphyxiating?"
"Mmphm," came the muffled response from the attached bathroom. England heard a dull thunk, and then the boisterous voice of his new house-mate. "Iggy! Why're you here?"
"… I'm staying here, you twat." England rolled his eyes and strolled into the bathroom. "By Joves, boy, what have you done to this counter?" The counter to which England referred was splattered with almost every colour of the rainbow. "Were you trying to paint your nails? Trying being the operative verb there."
"Well, I was..." America pouted, glancing down at his fingers, then wincing and looking back up at England. "I was trying to make them look pretty, but…. I sorta failed."
"I'd say you did, lad." England's eyebrows had migrated to the middle of his forehead as he surveyed the chaos. "This is going to be a pain in the arse to clean up."
"And I guess I'll hafta get one of the chicks to fix my nails," America frowned. "But Belarus is scary, and Ukraine isn't that girly, and Hungary's pretty scary too, and Seychelles always smells like dead fish-"
"Belt it, you wanker. I can paint nails just fine." England hoisted himself up onto the counter, not caring whether or not his pants were getting splotched with nail polish. He flicked America on the forehead after seeing his blank look, and grabbed the closest bottle- 'Havana Dreams'-, shaking it before setting it down in front of him. "No matter how many times I try to pound this into your thick skull, you can never seem to remember that I, too, was a punk. I can manicure with the best of them." England opened a bottle of nail polish remover and set to scrubbing the mess off of America's fingers. When he's finished with that (which was no easy task), England took the bottle of base coat, grabbed America's left hand, unscrewed the cap, and started to apply the polish. "Now, how am I going to keep you sufficiently distracted?"
"Umm… We can tell a story!" America grinned, leaning back in his office chair. Yes, he'd dragged his office chair into his bathroom to paint his nails. England didn't even try to figure the lad out anymore.
"We? I'm pretty sure storytelling is told from one point of view, Alfred." England finished his thumb and forefinger, and moved to the other half of America's hand.
"No, I do mean we!" America winked. "One of us starts a story with a prompt or a plotline or something, and then we take turns saying words to make the story! It's really fun!"
"… Alright, I'll give it a whirl. You start."
Half an hour and an extremely odd narrative about a purple panda who wore rainbow socks and started her own rock band later, America's nails were done and England was wondering what on earth possessed America to add in the part about Zac Efron sodomizing Ben Roethlisberger. Maybe the lad was reverting back to his hippie days, when he had drugs instead of breakfast.
"Finally done. Now, all you have to do is let them dry," England nodded, pleased both with his handiwork and the fact that he'd been able to hold America's hands for that long without turning crimson.
"Hey, Iggy?" America got up from his chair, hands held somewhat awkwardly at his sides, and England realized that they were equal in height, what with him on the counter and America being a tall git like usual.
"Yes?" England, much to his humiliation, could feel his face getting redder as America leaned closer, scolding himself that No, this was not a 'primo kiss opportunity' as Hungary would say, and America was most definitely not going to fulfill his body paint fantasy, especially not with nail polish.
"You've got some polish on your face." America guffawed at England's dumbstruck expression, but then composed himself. Sort of. He was still chuckling. "Man, you shoulda seen your face! You looked like you just shat a brick!"
"That's not funny, you bloody git!" England could feel his face getting redder, and scowled at the giggling blonde in front of him in a vain attempt to preserve the shreds of his dignity.
"But, really, Iggles…" America leaned in and pecked England on the nose, winking at the frozen Brit. "Thanks." He sauntered out of the room, and England wondered when America had turned into such a tease.
But, as England slid off of the counter and slumped in America's comfortable chair, he decided that it couldn't be him doing all the feminine tasks. He'd have to teach America to do his own nails- right after a quick wank and a cold shower.
Authoress' Random Ramble
I'm not going to spam you guys with USUK oneshots, I promise. I just found this and realized that I'd never posted it, so... yeah.
Also, Havana Dreams is a real color- it's a pretty light blue. Just in case that information was necessary.
Less than three, less than three