'See, I'm smiling, that means I'm happy that you're here.'
When America was young, England would take him to the theater; this was a fundamental attempt to sway the young country's culture in England's direction, rather than down France's path of frivolous foods and gaudy clothing. America always seemed to enjoy these outings, even if he didn't completely understand the story; he loved it when people fell in love or the clash of the swords as two men fought bravely to the 'death.' England always smiled to see the boy sitting on the edge of his seat as Henry V riled his troops to fight, and he tried not to laugh as the colony buried his face in England's jacket as the conspirators strode forth to stab Julius Caesar. America loved these plays so much that he tried to put them on himself; England usually watched in mild bemusement.
Once America left, England was a bit concerned about him. Once England learned to keep his distance, the new nation did fine. He continued celebrating England's plays, while putting on a few of his own, which were about himself of course: the Wild West, serious dramas, and, for a short time, America was enthralled with racist humor. He'd frequently drag England to the theater to see either English plays (which England scoffed at) or original works (which England never knew quite how to respond to).
England was dragged through America's burlesque phase and his vaudeville phase, until the boy dropped everything thespian related and began on motion pictures. England enjoyed these much more because there was no talking in them. Charlie Chaplin quickly became one of England's favorite actors.
It was a long time before America began dragging England to the theater again. By now the boy had "grown out of" Europe's "stuffy old stories." England didn't bother not tell him that two of the musicals America dragged him to were based off old French and German works. He did, however, tell America never to invite him to the theater again.
---
"Wanna go see a play with me?" America blurted out the second England opened the door. England stared blankly back at his smiling, idiot face before slamming the door. America quickly stopped it with his foot and poked his nose in through the opening. "I'm pretty sure you'll like this show." He said sweetly, "I'm pretty sure it doesn't suck."
England rolled his eyes and sighed, "Is it English? I'm bloody sick of seeing my own plays, America."
"I don't think so," America replied after a minute.
"French? German? Italian?"
"No, no, no." America said slowly, "It takes place in Chicago; that's an American city, y'know."
England opened the door and stared at America's hopeful face. He ran a hand down his face and groaned, "If I go with you," America leaned forward; it didn't seem possible, but his smile got even bigger, "You have t' promise never t' ever ask me t' see a play with you ever again."
"Sure!" America exclaimed, grabbing England's wrist and dragging him along, "Now c'mon, if we don't hurry, we'll be late!"
"Hey, wait a tick!" England shouted as he staggered down his front step, "Y'didn't listen t' me at all, you ass!"
---
England sat slumped over in his over stuffed theater seat until someone tall sat directly in front of him. "Wha's this dreck called exactly?" He grumbled; America has neglected to ever mention the title.
"It's called Proof." The younger replied as he leafed through the playbill. England couldn't believe that they were given out for free.
"Well, wha's it about?" England hissed over the small space separating them.
The house lights went out and America replied, "We'll just have to find out."
---
By the time the play was over, it was late enough that America insisted on England staying at his house. On the way back to the car, America jabbered on about the play, "...such beautiful language, and-and an intriguing story, don't you think?" England opened his mouth to respond, but America gave him no chance, "Wow, I'd see it a thousand more times. How 'bout you?"
"Well, It was certainl-ah! Hey, where're you goin'?" He called after America who had stepped out in the street and jaywalked across. England made an attempt to follow and found himself caught in the headlights of an oncoming car; rather than doing the sensible thing and getting out of the way, he put out his hands in a futile attempt to stop the car. The vehicle screeched to a halt; the driver rolled down his window and shouted a few choice words at the Englishman, who returned them with gusto as he jogged to catch up with America.
"Wow, are you okay?" America asked; he'd stopped at the sound of screeching tires.
"Wha-I was almost just flatt'n'd! You're not ev'n phased!" England caught himself acting like a bit of a loony. He recomposed and dusted himself, "Yes, I'm fine."
"Oh good." America smiled and kept walking, "The car's just over here." England sighed heavily and shogged after him. "So, I didn't catch what you thought of the play."
"Well," England began again, "It wasn' the dog's bollocks, but it was better than a lot of things you've taken me to." He opened the passenger seat and climbed in.
"So, did you love it?" America asked as he put the key in the ignition. There was something honest in his voice that England couldn't ignore.
"No." He responded flatly.
"Oh, thank God." America sighed, much to England's confusion. "This was the most boring thing I've ever seen. I mean, it was about math for God's sake! Who writes a play about math?"
"You do, apparently." England muttered, then something hit him, "Hey! If you hate these, then why'd you keep askin' me t' go?" America fiddled with his hands in his lap and mumbled a few inaudible things. "Well?" England pushed the younger nation's arm roughly.
America ran a finger around the steering wheel and pouted, "I-I wanted to...impress you." He grumbled.
"'Scuze me?" England asked, cocking a bushy brow.
"I wanted to impress you!" America shouted, leaning over the car's central console, making England lean back until his head hit the window; in the dark, he could see a raging blush over America's cheeks. "You had all these great theaters and playwrights like Shakespeare, and...Wilde, and-and Dickens." England put a finger on America's lips: the only way he knew to make America be quiet for a second.
"Oscar Wilde was Irish," He corrected, "And Dickens never wrote any plays."
"That's beside the point." America mumbled against England's finger. He leaned back in his seat. "I just wanted you to be proud of me for something, I guess."
For a while neither nation spoke; America sat playing with the leather cover on his steering wheel and England stared blankly at the dashboard. "'Ow 'bout this," England offered; America raised his eyes, "I'll keep putting on plays, and you can take those plays, fill them with sex and violence, and make them into movies."
America drummed on the wheel. "Would that make you proud?" He asked sheepishly, staring at his hands.
"We both know that'll make you happy." England said, laying a hand on America's shoulder. The younger nation looked at the hand, then followed up the arm to England's face of calm green eyes, small, encouraging smiles, and very large eyebrows.
America shifted the car into reverse, "Deal." He smiled broadly, then put his arm around the back of the seat and leaned forward again. England immediately countered back but was surprised when America looked behind them to back the car out of the parking spot. The younger nation looked back at England with a raised eyebrow. "What'd you think I was doing?" He laughed, pulling back his arm.
It was England's turn to blush as he stammered, "I-I thought y-y'wer--" He was promptly stopped as America grabbed the front of his jacket and slammed their lips together in a sloppy, awkward kiss. Then he pushed England playfully in the chest, breaking it off.
"One of those?" He chuckled, shifting into drive, "What'd you think this is? One of your plays?"
"Heh heh, guess so." England laughed nervously, leaning back against the car door.
'See we're laughing, I think we're gonna be okay.'