England closed his eyes and tilted his head back, resting against the stiff airplane seat. Even in a private plane, he couldn't get comfortable. The rest of his band mates were sprawled out on their seats, some snoring loudly. With the demanding schedule of their world tour, flights from concert to concert really were the only time the band members were able to get a little shuteye.
Still, England couldn't sleep. He tried to blame it on the uncomfortable airplane seats or the case of soda America had sent him off with after the Los Angeles show, but, really, he knew why he couldn't sleep. The next stop on the tour was Beijing, China.
Before the tickets went on sale for this tour, England had set aside seats for certain shows. He made sure that America - the ungrateful whelp - and France - the wino git - would have front-row seats so they could get the full effect of how absurdly cool he was. There was nothing people loved more than rock stars, and if anyone knew how to rock and roll, it was England.
After much deliberation and an embarrassingly long period fretting over rejection, England sent a ticket for the Beijing show to China.
Why should he be nervous? He often asked himself this question, storming around the tour bus while his band mates were out. He was an icon of culture, class, and civilization, he was polished and respected, and now, he was a world-renowned rock star. He was cool, and the whole world knew it. He had no reason to be so upset over what China, of all people, would think of his show.
No reason at all.
China stared down at the envelope from England. After decades of little to no contact, suddenly this had come in the mail, along with a hastily scribbled note about hoping that China could come. A ticket to a show.
At first, China had thought that England was sending him tickets to a play, which wouldn't have been the rudest thing he'd ever done. China didn't mind English plays so much. The ticket was to a concert, though, for England's band, and China balked. Music wasn't as it once was - classic, soothing. No. Music these days - especially Western music - was loud, wild, and inappropriate. Of course someone like England would invest himself in music like this.
China kept his arms crossed, his fingers twitching. If he relaxed his arms, he was going to cave and pick up the ticket inside the envelope.
It actually might be funny to see stuffy, proper England leading a rock band.
He could hear the crowd murmuring on the other side of the curtain, and England felt a sudden jolt, a familiar thrill coursing through his body. There were only a few minutes left until the show started. His band mates stood behind him, plugging in their instruments and chatting with one another as well as they could over the rising noise of their audience. They knew not to talk to England right before a show; he closed his eyes for those last few minutes and breathed slowly in and out, waiting for the curtain to rise and his rock-and-roll adrenaline to kick in.
Over the speakers, someone announced the band in Mandarin, and the loudness echoed in England's ears, a pulse of excitement pounding in his heart. He heard the curtain moving upward and sensed the brightness of the lights flooding the stage. The announcer finished with fervor, and the fans screamed as the curtain lifted all the way up. England took one last breath and opened his eyes, a grin stretching across his face.
A group of teen fans in the front couple of rows had leaped to their feet and run up to the stage, shrieking and reaching out their hands, begging England to touch them. Fans were fans, no matter what part of the globe England traveled to. He laughed and waved one arm, the other steadying his guitar. The fans screamed, and England yelled back.
"Hello, Beijing!"
Behind him, the drummer counted off with his drumsticks, and the bass player picked up the beat. England dropped his waving hand to his guitar and looked out into the audience. Beyond the swarming mass of teenage fans, he could barely see the front few rows; the spotlight was blinding him. He wasn't so blind, though, that he couldn't see seat A-12, front and center, that he'd set aside months before.
It was empty.
England couldn't let his smile falter in front of the fans. He raised his arm and brought it swinging down, strumming his first chord. The fans screamed as the song took off, and England grabbed the microphone, yanking it towards himself and belting out the lyrics.
This was it: the rush. Suddenly, England's heart was pounding it time with the drums banging behind him, and he bounced on the balls of his feet, gripping the microphone tightly. His grin was no longer forced. If China didn't want to come to the show, it was his loss. England was too busy doing what he loved to think about getting blown off or stood up or...
Think about the music. Think about the music. Think about the music.
The lights were flying over the crowd, swinging back and forth, and England felt a delicious dizziness wash over him. It wasn't hard to focus on the band and the show. He slammed out another series of chords, grinning like mad. Rock and roll was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He just felt so alive.
England looked out into the crowd again as he reached for the microphone. The lights swung over the group of fans standing and screaming at the front, clawing at the stage. England almost dropped his guitar. Standing in the middle of the group and staring up at him was China.
England's grin was absolutely manic. He grabbed the microphone with renewed vigor and belted out the lyrics, bouncing in time with the music and slamming out riffs on his guitar. The fans were screaming and cheering even louder now - his enthusiasm was contagious - but the deafening roar was nearly lost on England. As he threw himself completely into the music, he looked into the group standing in front of the stage, waiting for the lights to sweep over again so that he could see China, real and in person, looking up at him.
The lights' rapid movement slowed in time with the bass guitarist's solo, and England, panting, bobbed his head in time with the beat. The song was nearly over now, but his adrenaline kick had only grown with China's arrival. As the light swept over the crowd, England caught sight of him again.
China's expression was mesmerizing. He stared at England with some combination of shock and appreciation. The first time the lights had swung by, China's arms had been crossed; now they were bent in front of him, hands clasped, and China was bobbing his head up and down in time with the beat of the song.
China couldn't believe how good England's band sounded. He'd expected to come to the show and get a couple of laughs out of seeing prissy England on stage with a rock band. Now he found himself shocked that England had ever done anything other than play electric guitar and sing these wild songs.
There was something about him that was different when he was on stage. He was so relaxed. China watched as England bounded across the stage and leaned over its edge, swinging the microphone with him, only to race back to the center and play a riff. England alternated singing and laughing, playing guitar and pumping his fist into the air, riling up the crowd. The audience screamed. England grinned and leaned back, strumming out a solo.
China had never seen him look so happy or so free. There was a youthfulness - but not a childishness - to his performance. Soon, China found himself clapping to the beat, bouncing up and down in time with the drums.
Their eyes locked just as England leaned into the microphone for the last verse. His face was flushed and his green eyes were bright, but his smile never faltered. China blushed immediately, knowing that England had caught sight of him at the most embarrassing time possible; he had pushed his way to the front of a pack of screaming girls and was really getting into the show. Worst of all, he was staring at England with this new-found sense of...what, exactly?
Whatever it was, England was staring back and had finally stopped bouncing around so much, standing firmly in front of the microphone and singing the last verse, slowing down with the end of the song. The lyrics were in English, and China only understood them so well, but England's voice dropped as he purred the last few lines, his eyes still locked on China.
The girls standing around China started shrieking and wailing, throwing their arms up towards the stage as if hoping to be touched, but China stood rooted to the spot. The band wrapped up the song, and England panted, looking a bit tired but pleased after that energetic first song. His blond bangs clung to his forehead, and he raked a hand through his hair.
The girls standing around China started pushing, trying to move him out of the way in their own attempts to claw their way onto the stage. With a fervor that surprised him, China felt a surge of anger at the idea of these girls forcing their way between the stage and him, and he pushed back, maintaining his spot in the front. While the fans pushed and pulled around him, China turned his gaze back to the stage. England was still staring at him.
England was on such a high from this show. China was standing right in the front row staring up at him like he was some sort of rock and roll god, and, quite frankly, that felt great.
America had stared at him from the front row, too, unable to believe that it was the same England on stage who had been such a grouch before. France had stared at him as well, unable to believe that there were pretty girls surrounding him and screaming for England - with good reason.
Seeing China stare was even better, though England couldn't quite put into words why. More than triumphing over America and France, he liked the surge of feeling adored. He didn't feel the same pride right now; there was a warmth that accompanied it.
England threw himself into his performance for the rest of the night. The next morning, no doubt, he would be exhausted and sore from all this running around the stage, but, for now, he had China's full attention and the rush of rock and roll.
China was enraptured by the show and the music; England could tell. He also couldn't help staring at China the entire time. At every show, there were thousands of fans in the audience who screamed, cheered, waved, and sang along to every song, but nobody had ever responded to the music the way China was now.
When they played slower songs, China closed his eyes and swayed back and forth to the rhythm. He seemed so at peace for someone in the midst of shrieking teenage girls at a rock concert. He was feeling the music, just like England.
All right, fine. England had to admit, there had been one reason in particular why he had been so nervous to send China a ticket to the show, why he'd been so excited to see him standing in the front row, why he couldn't take his eyes off of him right now. China was different. China was special.
England took the microphone as the band slowed into another ballad. He smiled again, waving to the crowd.
"Thank you, Beijing! You've been an amazing audience tonight - this has been a great show!" he yelled. The fans screamed. England grinned, his eyes searching for China and finding him looking back with a wry smile on his lips. "We've got one last number to play for you guys!"
China wondered when exactly England had turned into this cool, confident musician standing on the stage before him. When had he grown up and become this star?
England's last song was slow but had a good beat to it. His voice was gravelly, something China never would have thought would sound so good put together with a love ballad, but it worked. There was some sort of longing in his voice that found its way into China's heart as easily as the drum's rhythm.
He was staring again. China held back a blush. What was it about this new England that was making him act so ridiculous?
Maybe it was the fact that England kept catching him staring. Every time they locked eyes, China felt like an idiot, like one of these silly girls drooling over these rock stars as if they'd never heard music before. Of course, England's music was very different from anything that China had ever heard - in a good way, surprisingly.
As if on cue, England looked up at him and smiled as if they were sharing some secret - something China wished England would let him in on. He could hear the girls around him still shrieking, each yelling to her friends that the lead singer was "totally smiling" right at her. China wasn't sure if he felt pride or embarrassment at the knowledge that England's smiles belonged to him. At that thought, embarrassment won.
What was wrong with him?
England hit the last chord on his guitar and laughed to himself, still on a musical high. This was the best show his band had ever had - and he had China to thank. He held their eye contact the entire time he was shouting his gratitude out to the fans; hopefully China would understand that the "you" being thanked for the greatest show ever was not a generic, "everyone in the crowd" kind of you.
China smiled at him.
China debated staying after the show was over and saying hello to England. When he caught sight of the mass of teenage girls racing for the back entrance, though, he suspected that it would be difficult - if not impossible - to get England alone, and, even if he did, saying hello wasn't worth the furious response he was likely to get from England's fans.
Saying hello. Was that really all he had to say? For now, yes, he supposed it was. There was something different about England now, absolutely. This music had brought out life that had long since been lying dormant in England. A part of China wanted to congratulate him on this growth, but he had no idea how to say that without sounding ridiculous.
England would be leaving soon enough. He had a whole world tour to play, after all, and, no doubt, a schedule to keep. He would come back again, perhaps, and by then, China would know what to say over a cup of tea. By then, China promised himself, he would be able to put into words what he felt at that moment, watching the England he'd never known come to life.