England once heard America telling Canada about their affairs, so to say. He had likened it to "one of those movies about middle school kids, where everyone's telling each other about everyone else's crush behind their backs." England made sure that America never again compared the beginning of their…relationship to some 12 year old's worst nightmare with a quick cuff to his head. That didn't change the fact that gossip had gotten them to where they were. Which wasn't far. But it was farther.
Tired of England's crying, everyone had started to tell America that he had a not-so-secret admirer. The taunts were relentless for a while. America, flustered, couldn't make a move. Not until France brought England to a bar and called America while England was still in the happy-drunk stage. America didn't know there was a happy-drunk stage.
America brought England to his apartment. America kissed him with all the passion and flame that had built up during their entire history. England was all too happy to give in. England begged. America refused. "C'mon, Art, you're too drunk for this." England could barely process the nickname. America was pulling away. Water and Advil on the bedside table. America was leaving. England could barely process anything after that. The happy-drunk stage was short lived.
America came back when England was sober. They could talk about it, though it was difficult with their stumbling words and red-hot faces. They eventually gave up and instead opted for more passionate kisses and touches.
Months passed. The "relationship" continued. Or, the sex did. And it continues. They're horrible romantics, though desperately in love with each other.
"This is my favorite thing," America admits, panting. He wanted to say it for a while. He pretends it's something he's said in the heat of the moment. England doesn't see through him.
"Really?" Sultry, sexy England from between his legs. Looking up at America with those amazing green eyes. "Tell me about it, love."
America just blushes at first. That word always gets him. Say it again, he wants to say. He tries to speak. Being with you is my favorite thing. Sharing this with you is my favorite thing. Tries to say anything other than what he ends up saying. "You're hot. And good at this."
England chuckles, going back to his task. Nuzzling, kissing, licking. "Well, after all, this," he murmurs, punctuating his words with a nudge to the large pulsating vein, "is my favorite thing."
America looks at him. Somehow still turned on, despite the pain in his chest. "It is?"
England catches his eye. His heart lurches. America's face is all red, his eyebrows furrowing. England looks down. He knows that this can't be one of his romance novels; it's his erotica. Apparently, America gets off on body worship. "Yes."
A moment passes. England looks back up and America is waiting. Always waiting. England reluctantly leans down. America reluctantly lies back. He doesn't have to make an effort; he's always thinking of England.