Chapter 1- You're spending a week with me!

Sunday 20th June.

"… who said that?" I inquire icily, eyes rising from the newspaper in front of me.

"I did!"

"Why would I want to spend a week with you? First of all, I'm far too busy-"

"Dude, who cares about work- you need to have some fun for once-!"

"I said no." Newspaper aside and arms now crossed, I glare at the younger nation across the coffee table, "There's no time for fun and games. It's the world meeting in 10 days and I have far too much paperwork to be hanging around with a loud, obnoxious idiot…"

"Oh come on! You know you want to really, I've already planned the flight so you can't back out of this!" America doesn't seem to have registered my blatant insult towards him, and continues to grin excitedly.

I snort and roll my eyes, "Well that was rather daft of you, wasn't it- assuming I'd want to go and organising ahead of time. I'm not going with you to New York."

"But…" America's eyes lose their enthusiasm as he looks down at the carpet, "I was really looking forward to this… I thought you'd want to spend some time with me, so we could get along like we used to."

Unnerved by how crestfallen he sounds, I fidget in my armchair and scowl, trying to find something interesting out my living room window to stop myself feeling guilty.

He continues to hit a nerve with a saddened tone of voice, "You never want to spend time with me anymore." He looks up with the most terribly heartbroken frown, and I can't help but glance once at his face. Irritated, I snap, "L-Look- FINE. If you really want me to go then-"

"Great! I'll wait here whilst you pack- have you got any coffee?" America beams, his previous sorrow evaporating. Had he been tricking me?!

"Why you-" Before I can protest and take back what I said, something hits me in the face. Pulling it off of my head, I stare at the brightly patterned flower print fabric. It's a Hawaiian shirt.

When I look up, he's disappeared into the kitchen. He calls cheerfully, "Oh hey, you baked cookies?"

I sigh heavily, walking past the door he entered to get my bag from my bedroom. As I walk up the stairs, he pokes his head out of the doorway, his mouth full of what I can only presume is my baking, "Dude, you didn't answer me- have you got any coffee?"

"Back of the cupboard above the kettle." I mutter, already dreading the week ahead.

"Wait- what? You actually have coffee?"

"No, America, I thought I'd tell you I did so you could make a mess of my kitchen for the sake of disappointing you."

"…so… you don't have any coffee?"

I reach the top of the stairs and turn around, "I was being sarcastic, you git!"

This week is definitely going to be a challenging one. I can barely stand his company now and I've only seen him for half an hour.

After packing my bag, putting in the Hawaiian shirt last with a reluctant sigh, I return to the living room. America is sat in my arm chair with one of my mugs, skimming over my newspaper with his feet up on my coffee table.

"Get your feet off of there-!"

"Hm?" He looks up, then grin again, "Awesome you're ready- let's go!"

"I swear you're deaf…" I growl, watching him dump down my newspaper, knock back his drink and get up. I stop myself from changing my mind as hard as I can manage. What possesses me to do so remains undecided. Perhaps it is about time I get out of London.

The fact America wants my company, when he usually ignores me for his more 'forward-thinking' friends, is also perhaps a motivation to go along with his plans. Maybe if I scold him enough he'll change his own mind and get bored of me. Then I can return back to my original plan for this week- do paperwork, continue with my embroidery and catch up on Doctor Who…

America stands beside his convertible and grins. I find myself staring at his car.

"America, is that-"

"It's a Saleen S7." He calls, with fondness in his voice, "Thought you'd like it!"

Show off… "I suppose we're going to fly over the Atlantic on its flight setting, are we?"

He gives me a funny look, but before he can open his mouth to moronically tell me it doesn't have flight setting, I say in annoyance, "That was sarcasm."

He laughs and unlocks the car. Again, I wonder why he seems immune to my temper today.

"Gimme your bag, I'll put it in the boot."

I do as he says and get in the car. I try to open the door and don't realise it goes up rather than out, jumping back as it does so and catches me off guard. Bloody show off with his bloody sports car…!

Sighing, I get in. I have to admit it's a pretty impressive car. It's silver on the outside and has a black leather interior. It smells almost new besides what I can only assume is an air freshener. Although it smells more like cologne.

America gets in and shuts both our doors, after giving me another funny look, "Can't you shut your own door?"

"I wasn't expecting it to try and hit me in the face."

"Yeah, whatever." He says with a smirk, laughing at my annoyed mutter of a reply.

I apply my seatbelt and hope for the worst- there haven't been many times where I've had the 'pleasure' of witnessing America's driving skills but there's enough to know I'm not particularly safe. Especially in a car that may as well have 'reckless' painted all over it…

The starts the car with eagerness and pauses to listen to it growl with life, his face once again full of fondness, "Gotta love that sound, right?"

I hum with disinterest, again hoping for the worst as I gaze out at my house, chin in hand.

After we leave the driveway where my mini cooper is parked, he gives me one look before slamming on the acceleration. I choke in surprise at the speed and force of the car as we race down the quiet road, drawing much attention from the civilians walking by.

"AMERICA SLOW DOWN-" I protest.

America smiles calmly, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, "Relax, dude! I know what I'm doing…"

He continues at what must surely be over the speed limit until he reaches then main road and stops. I let out the breath I'd been holding and give him a scathing look of warning. He doesn't notice, smiles to himself, and continues heading in the direction of the airport in Luton, which is a little way out of London. We'll be in the car for at least an hour and I hardly look forward to it.

For half of it we don't speak. Well, when I say that- America decides random conversation starters that lead to a dead end are a good pass time. He doesn't seem to notice I barely answer him and anytime I give him the cold shoulder he just starts on a new topic.

Eventually I ask him how we're going to get to New York.

"By flight, duh."

"At least you've decided something logical…" I comment dryly, before adding, "1st class, I presume?"

He looks away from the road for a moment to give me his third strange look of the day, "No…?"

I stutter in annoyance, "Wh- you expect me to tolerate-"

"-Better than that, obviously!"

I frown, half staggered.

He grins, "I booked a private jet for us both!"

I'm blank for a moment, "A… private… jet…?!"

"Why're you so surprised?"

I stare at him, then look away with an irate sigh, "… I should have expected you'd show off with a private hiring…"

So much money being wasted when we could have gone 1st class.

For a while we don't speak and listen to Radio 1 playing the news. Then I sigh again.

"I suppose you're expecting me to pay for this, aren't you."

"Huh?" America glances at me then laughs openly at the road in front of us, "It wouldn't be a holiday if I made you pay for everything. Yeah sure, food maybe- but the flight's on me."

"Th-there's no need to make me look poor. I may be in a recession of sorts but I can pay for my own half of-"

He interrupts me with a more serious tone, "Who cares- you need a break, I need a break, it doesn't matter who pays so long as neither of us are broke. Anyway, this is time for me to teach you a few things."

"A few things…?"I echo threateningly, glaring at him.

"You know, like how to have fun." The younger nation says casually, not bothering to hide the big smirk on his face.

"I'll have you know I am perfectly capable of having fun-"

The look on his face tells me he'll never believe so I trail off with a scowl.

After a pause, he adds with the same amused smirk, "Well, you're perfectly capable of scowling."

"Shut up."

When we reach the airport, and make our way to our privately hired plane, I spot it almost immediately. I stop walking to stare at it, hoping I've mistaken it for some other pillock's overly patriotic American flag jet, with 3 hostesses waving by the doors over-excitedly. But, of course, it's definitely the one we're about to get into.

I catch up with America and inquire with sarcasm, "Is that your jet? I never would have guessed."

"Yup, this is the one! Pretty cool, huh?"

I roll my eyes. Still oblivious, I see…

"Well, it's certainly you." I manage, with barely sincere politeness, although I try not to sound as disgusted as I feel looking at it. I don't like the arrogant air about it. Apparently his 'Saleen S7' is finding some other way of joining us in New York. He must be trying to make a fool of me with all this expense.

The hostesses continue waving with as much eagerness until we eventually reach them, like some kind of cheerleading squad. They do however fall quiet when we reach a 2 metre radius of them, where they then resort to stifled giggles and polite stances. I awkwardly nod in their direction as I walk past and climb aboard the jet, aware of America's amused eyes on me. When I turn around the hostesses are following behind him. I catch America's gleeful grin and narrow my eyes. America has a rather perverted taste in hostesses… The uniforms remind me of that obnoxious singer America was fond of for a while, Britney Spears. I believe there was a music video that involved a hostess uniform, or was that some other auto-tuned American pop-singer? Nevertheless, the three are showing far too much of themselves for me to be comfortable looking at them.

Once we're all aboard, America throws them a dazzling grin, shows them where to set down my luggage- that I barely recall being taken off of me, come to think of it- I mustn't get distracted by the hostesses… I remind myself. I realise America is giving me an expectant look, standing in the doorway to the passenger area. I hesitate before following him, edging past one of the hostesses with stifled awkwardness. The younger nation laughs quietly and I hunch my shoulders, glowering at him.

"Were they really necessary?"

"What, you don't like them? So much for the perverted ambassador-"

"I AM NOT-" I hiss, before being cut off.

"Ladies, if you would." America calls casually. The first hostess, a blonde with blue eyes, smiles softly and smoothly at me while hooking her arm around mine. I remain passive and avert my eyes from her gaze.

"This way, Mr Kirkland." She says politely, leading me towards one of the two leather, cream recliner chairs. For a moment I consider telling her I'd rather stand for now, but she gently encourages me to sit with her hand on my shoulder, "Would you like a drink, sir?"

"Um, w-well-" I stammer, now eye level with her breasts, "Perhaps just a water will do-"

"We'll have a bottle of champagne." America corrects, sitting in the other chair beside me. I throw him a narrow-eyed stare.

"Very good, Mr Jones." The blonde comments, nodding and disappearing out of the room.

"Really, are you trying to embarrass me, America?" I ask dryly, fidgeting in my chair.

Almost smugly, he replies, "Just relax and get used to it." He glances around at the empty room before saying in a more hushed voice, "The blonde's name is Sandy, if you're interested."

I redden, falter, and snap, "Why would I be interested?!"

"Oh come on, it's not like I'm judging you or anything. If you can't be allowed to act like a man, then I can't either."

I don't know quite what he means by that. Sandy, as America kindly informed me, returns with a bottle of champagne and places it on the table between us. As she bends over in front of us, I bring I hand to my face and avert my gaze, exasperated and well aware that America is finding my reaction funny.

When she leaves again I watch him help himself to pouring a glass. Then he pours a second glass and hands it to me. I frown into it but don't take a drink. America raises his with a smile of silent toast before tipping some back.

"I didn't know you liked champagne." I comment dryly, making my drink swirl in the glass a little.

"So?"

"Isn't the legal age in 21 in your country?"

He pouts, "I'm not exactly part of the legal age, am I. And what're you going to do, take it off of me?"

"I might." I mutter, finally sipping some of my champagne. It tastes sweeter than I remember it being… and it's easier to go down than I remember, too.

"Maybe the legal age in yours should be 25…" America muses, eyeing me pouring another glass a little later.

"Don't you start."

A different hostess to before approaches us and smiles politely. This one is a red head. I do like red headed girls-

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Kirkland?"

I hesitate, rub my neck, and say kindly, "No need to be so polite. Please, call me Arthur."

The hostess beams, "Alright, Arthur, is there anything you'd like?"

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

America snorts as soon as she turns around, mimicking crudely, "Please, call me Arthur!"

"If you're so pleased with the look of the hostesses you hired, then why don't you flirt with them? I have no interest in the matter-"

I stare as he stands up, hanging around until the red head from earlier returns to the room. Just as he confidently agreed, he obliges to lean casually against the drinks counter with a suggestive, soft grin. I stare in disbelief as he murmurs something to her, making her giggle and blush. I can't see her face as America is facing me, and his eyes leave her to give me a smug look. I glare back and look away, instead finishing my second glass of champagne. I don't look back up until he's returned to his seat.

"Satisfied?" He asks victoriously.

I grimace grudgingly, "Just tell them to start the bloody jet already so we can get to New York."

America does just that with an amused smirk plastered onto his face.