A lot of things could happen, apparently.

The first few hours weren't too bad. America went out to buy coffee, and England looked at the remaining boxes of Christmas decorations, then remembered the choking incident and decided to leave them alone. His head was still aching, so he downed some aspirin, and then brewed himself some tea. He was just starting to relax a bit when America burst back in with a bag of instant coffee and commandeered his kitchen, which, as England rightfully pointed out, was rather rude for even for someone who'd been invited. Which America hadn't been.

America just laughed it off in that mildly infuriating way of his, then sat down with England tried to have a chat.

A chat.

As if they'd had a proper chat since the 18th century. What could they possibly have to talk about? "Oh, lovely weather, ta for ruining the global economy." "Invaded any middle Eastern nations lately?" "So, how about that global warming?" Yes, those would go over beautifully.

Luckily, America seemed not to have noticed that England was not contributing much to the conversation, and he was simply rambling on alone. England got by on "mm-hm," and "right" until America finished his coffee – did he even need it? He was so full of energy anyway – and ran back into his room to go look over his notes for the next day. (The idea that he even had notes rather surprised England, who had always assumed he simply made up all his ideas on the spot.)

It was all quiet for the next few hours. In fact, England was almost, in theory, able to forget America was there. In theory, anyway. As much as he would have liked to relax with a book or something, America's presence nagged at the back of his mind like an itch just out of reach, and he couldn't concentrate on anything, discarding one activity after another.

Finally he decided to just give it up and go to bed, which was right when America emerged from his room and demanded to know where the nearest McDonald's was, so England had to draw him a map, but then he left and England went to bed and it was honestly all right.

It was the next morning that his problems really truly started.

It was no good from the very beginning, really, since the first thing he heard was America's voice calling his name. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but then decided he would never dream about something like that. It was enough to make him want to pretend he hadn't heard, until America repeated quite loudly, "England! Where are the towels?"

"What?" England mumbled, and opened his eyes out of instinct. Well, it was a strange question.

Bad mistake. The last thing England wanted to see – and the first thing he saw – was America standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Especially when America was dripping wet. Especially when he seemed to have forgotten to put on a shirt.

England opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a croak. He coughed and managed to say, rather hoarsely, "Why are you even up?"

"Jet lag," said America, who was astonishingly casual for somebody standing half naked in the door of somebody else's bedroom (wasn't he supposed to be the prudish one?) "No matter how many times I come over here, I can never get over it. Anyways. Towels? Got any?"

It took England a minute to answer because he was being oddly distracted by the way a drop of water was sliding down America's neck, then slipping across his chest and slithering past his stomach into the waistband of his – "What do you need towels for?"

Oh, that was bloody brilliant, what do you think he needs a towel for?

"There's none in the downstairs shower," America said, starting to look at England as though England were a bit batty. Which was fair enough.

"Er," said England. "Towels. Right. In, um, in the cupboard across the hall."

"Thanks," said America, and closed the door.

What.

Was that.

He didn't think it was too odd to feel, well, odd about America doing something like that. After all, when one has houseguests, one doesn't expect them to show up half-naked in your bedroom. Well, except for a certain, er, sort of houseguest. Which America was most definitely not. Not at all.

So of course it was natural, normal, for him to feel a bit disconcerted.

What wasn't normal was lying back in his bed, closing his eyes and trying to fall back asleep yet being able to think of nothing but hot water and steam and slick skin and piercingly blue eyes –

Oh no. That wasn't right at all. He shouldn't be thinking things like that. It was America he was thinking about. He used to take baths with him – oh no, why was that putting those sorts of images into his head? That was inappropriate. That was wrong.

Right. The images were already fading away (not that he was forcing himself to think of other things.) It was just shock, that was all. After all, he hadn't seen America in that state of undress since around the 1760's, and he looked about eight then. It was only natural that England should be shocked by a grown-up America, shocked by things like the broadness of his shoulders and chest, things like the sort of sculptedness of those same bits, things like the line of golden hair that trailed from his navel down into his…pants…

Er. Yes. Ahem. Not to put too fine a point on it, things like that. Shocked. Right. Right. Natural. It was. Shocked.

He told himself firmly to start thinking in complete sentences and get out of bed, the latter of which, at least, he did. When he got downstairs, America was mercifully in his room (no, not mercifully, because England was over it by then, completely over it,) so he dashed off a note and left a spare key on the kitchen table, then hurried out the door. It was fine. He was over it. Just a bit of a shock, that was all.

America was late to the conference, of course. How he managed to get up early and arrive late was a mystery to England, but there you go. At least he was clothed. And England hardly felt awkward at all – no, he didn't care. It was just a bit of a shock. Get over it.

"Let's get started!" America proclaimed, hefting a stack of papers and ignoring the fact that the clock clearly stated they should have started half an hour ago. "Today we'll be going to the results of the Copenhagen summit this month!"

"Load of bollocks that was, too," England muttered to Japan on his left as America started passing out the papers. "With America refusing to do a thing unless China did, and China playing one of those mad mind-games, you know – "

America handed him his packet and his voice abruptly died off. Not because the packet looked particularly arresting, or because he cared if America heard him complaining, but because their hands had briefly brushed, and instantly his mind had once again leapt to that morning. Now, this was just silly! Why, only yesterday America had held his hand for nearly a minute and nothing like this had happened. He firmly told his brain to shut up. It didn't.

In fact, as America walked off, his brain remarked not-so-casually that America's backside looked awfully good in those trousers, didn't it?

The day went downhill from there.

England had never quite realized how many times you touched someone during a day, but now every time their shoulders bumped, or their fingers brushed, or once, when England was coming back from lunch and rounded a corner, they nearly collided head-on, England found himself jerking back as though he'd been electrified. Which was rather how it felt, actually. And these shock were nearly always accompanied by his traitorous brain making some snide comment.

You know where you'd like to feel that, it would say smugly when he pulled his hand back after America's fingers sent tingly feelings up his arm.

That could have been so interesting, it said, slightly disappointed, as England narrowly missed being bowled over by America in that hall, and it provided an extremely unhelpful image of the pair of them on the ground, trying awkwardly to get up…or not. The blasted thing then followed that up with a picture where America had managed to stand up, although England apparently was having some trouble, considering the way he was clinging to America –

He was starting to think all this was coming not from his brain, but somewhere a bit more southerly.

But the problem was, it didn't make any sense. He hated America. Well, he hated France as well, and he wasn't thinking these sorts of things about him. Furthermore, he hadn't ever thought anything like this before about America. It had all come on today. This led him to conclude one thing and one thing only – he had somehow gone mad. Mostly probably, he was still in shock from this morning. Brains could be fragile things. By tomorrow, it would all be over and he could resume life as normal.

This fact didn't make today any easier.

The awful climax of the day came almost at the end of it, right when everyone was packing up to go. England was hoping to get back home and lock himself in his room without further incident, but America had to go and ruin it all. From halfway across the room, he yelled, "Yo! England! I'm gonna pick up some Mickey D's before I come back to your house, okay?"

Two hundred-odd heads turned toward England as his face became bright red. Mortified, he pretended not to have heard America – as if – and hurried from the room. The look France gave him as he passed was practically rape in itself.

Four more days of this. He wasn't sure if he could stand it.