A/N: This was written while I was drinking a soda (because it was the only cold drink in mai refrigerator T-T), and... yeah. This is my first time writing these two, and, considering that it's almost 3AM, I doubt all the motifs I intended to portray came out the way I wanted. =/ Please enjoy!

Sweet Falsehoods

The soda has an unpleasant sweetness that nearly makes him gag as he lifts the bottle to his lips. It was so... tasteless, so unrefined, but it would be even more so to spit out the cheap liquid. He had accepted the gift from the American nation, and he would drink it, if only to be polite.

There was no class to the bottle, cheap plastic that was being manufactured at an alarming rate. With the lack of recycling his people seemed to at times pride themselves on, this bottle and thousands upon thousands like them would end up clogging the world's landfills like a vicious cancer.

Then again, perhaps he was simply being melodramatic. It wasn't as if America's mass-produced plastic would bring the world to ruin. His credit cards, his plastic packaging; there is nothing that lasts in his country. All his goods are convenient only so long as interest lasts; if they break, they are not fixed; they are replaced. There is nothing that lasts for long in his country; there is little tradition and no... reality.

"Well, England?"

He glances up and meets America's brilliant, practiced grin as he screws the cap back on the bottle. "Tastes like shit." It's not even real sugar; the taste is as fake as almost anything in his country.

America's grin doesn't falter – if anything, he smiles wider, eyes closing from the width of his grin. "But Eng-land~ " The way the brat's voice drags on grits the older nation's teeth, sticky with the taste of the not-sugar coating his mouth. "Everyone else says it's good~ They're all buying it~"

For several seconds, he doesn't dignify this with a response. You are correct, he wants to say, because no one can afford to make anything real anymore. There's a certain nostalgia to his way of thinking as he sets the still almost-completely-full plastic bottle on his desk, beside the cup of tea sitting daintily in his saucer, before he turns in his chair and crosses his legs and arms. He doesn't even realize that he's making a little wall around himself, as if to ward of the infectious nature of America's grin.

What's happened to Europe? England closes his eyes and taps a finger impatiently against his bicep, purposely ignoring the other nation still leaning over his desk. It used to be I would go to you to escape from the bloody gits here, but now... I come here to escape from you, and... you're everywhere.

"Obviously they have no sense," he stated finally, coldly, swiveling back around. "My people may be infatuated with your mass-produced items, but eventually things will return to the way they were." Get out of Europe...

Before Europe gets into you.

For the first time since he'd barged into England's study all smiles, brushing aside paperwork and protests with a hamburger in one hand and an unopened bottle of soda in the other, America's face fell. "H-hey, England..." He plopped both elbows on England's desk and rested his chin on his fists. A moment's silence as blue eyes stared earnestly into green before shutting with another stupid smile. "You're always so serious all the time~ You look ridiculous!"

Bloody git. He doesn't bother to hide his scowl as he matches America's position, pulling his chair forward and staring at the younger man's closed eyes for a moment before impulsively reaching out and yanking off his glasses.

"Hey!" America's eyes fly open, more from shock than anger, brilliant blue wide with confusion as he shifts his weight to reach forward with one hand. "What're you doing?"

With one finger, he folds the glasses and sets them on the desk. His elbow lightly bumps the soda bottle, and the impact jars him away from staring into America's eyes. With some consternation, he moves the half-empty tea cup full of lukewarm tea from the saucer and sets the condensating bottle atop the saucer in a bizarre combination of nostalgia and modern.

Then he leans back and takes America's glasses, unfolding them and ignoring the other nation's bewildered, halfhearted protests. Setting them on his nose, he looks through them at the younger man and frowns at the blurriness.

"Pity, I thought they were fake..." like you, is the unspoken thought that nearly falls from his lips as he adjusts them on his nose and raises both eyebrows.

"You're acting weird, England." America reached out again for his glasses, but England shifted his chair back and let the other nation's hand fall to the desk again. "They don't put cocaine in soda anymore, you know, so you can't blame your weirdness on me."

You. "Yes, yes, it's always about you," he remarks absently, again adjusting the frame with one finger. Strange how blurred the world is when he looks through America's eyes. "It's entirely your fault that I'm dreadfully mad, isn't it?"

Where is the world going? Led by a man with such blurred vision? So preoccupied is he, attempting to view the world through the frames that he doesn't move in time to keep America from snatching his glasses away.

He blinks several times and scowls as the world is brought into sharp focus again, America's nose nearly brushing his. "You're being weird, England," America remarks without putting his glasses back on, without donning his smirk or his smile.

He leans back in his chair and scoffs. "Bloody git," why are you here? You don't belong in Europe with the rest of us. "Get out," of my study. He stands and points to the door without looking away from the American. "Get out," of my life.

America freezes, glasses clutched weakly in his hand, halfway to being set back in their proper place. Without his glasses, he looks so much like the little boy England would escape the madness of Europe to see.

He closes his eyes and sits back down, blindly shuffling his paperwork, waiting until he hears the click of the door.

Without opening his eyes, he reaches for his teacup, and his fingers brush the cold soda bottle set ludicrously atop the fine china. Without opening his eyes, he twists off the cap with his thumb and forefinger, hearing the slight hiss of escaping carbonation until he brings the bottle to his lips and drinks deeply.

It's sweet.

Sickly sweet.

Fake sweet.

The carbonation bites his throat with a completely different burn from liquor, forcing him to pull the bottle away from his lips. "America..." you idiot.

You're always wearing that bloody fake smile. Which came first? The fake products, or the fake you?

Who came first? You to Europe?

...or Europe to you?

He sets the bottle back on the saucer and picks up his pen.

Then he pauses and tilts his head blindly toward the door as he hears footsteps approaching his desk.

"You know, you always call me a... what is it? A 'wanker'?"

It is his own eyes that fly open this time, to the sight of America crossing his room, glasses still held in his hand rather than on his face. "I told you to get out!"

He stands, eyes flashing, but America simply talks louder over him. "You're pretty dang dumb yourself, England." America slips his glasses back on and smiles, really smiles as he reaches toward England's desk.

He expects the American to reach for the soda bottle, but instead he lifts the teacup and drinks it down to the dregs.

America sets the cup back down, leaving a flabbergasted England behind as he finally actually exits the room and closes the door behind him with a click. He adjusts his glasses as he walks down the hall and doesn't allow his smile to fade as he pushes open the double doors with both hands and strides into the London streets.

End