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Chapter Two: In Which America is a Pansy
The next day found England sitting up in bed, holding his head and moaning. He squinted against the afternoon light pouring in through his window. "Bollocks," He groaned. "what happened?" A buzzing noise suddenly appeared somewhere to his right. He groped around on his bedside table until he located his cellphone. It was buzzing because he had a new text message…actually, he had nine new text messages. He flipped it open. The message was from America and read: Are u ok? If u don't answer in 2 mins I am coming over 2 check on u!
With a growing sense of apprehension, England checked the other eight messages. Three of them were more worried texts from America, asking if he was okay. One of them was from China and said: Take over some of my snacks. I guarantee your feelings will be returned, aru!
Two of were from France. The first one read: You sicken your big brother with your cowardice! If you would stop being a ninny and just talk it out this would all be resolved! A lover is like a kitten-good food, affection and communication are all it needs to flourish. What is he talking about? England wondered. And why is he calling ME a coward?
France's second text read: P.S. A lover is also like a croissant. Both taste best smothered in butter and honey! That was the typical French nastiness England expected.
The second-to-last text was from Russia. It said: Its ok England. No matter what happens you can still become one with Mother Russia, da! Oh bleeding hell.
The very last text (meaning the one he'd received first last night) was from America again and said this: Im so sorry England…but I cant explain it 2 u. I dont know how u would react. Btw are u drunk? Are u gonna b ok? Should I come check on u?
All of these texts startled and alarmed England. What in the world had he done last night? What was America unsure about? Why had he been texting China and Russia? And why France of all people? Looking over the texts again, England slowly remembered how yesterday he had started drinking tea but soon added gin to it. The ratio of tea to gin had gotten lower and lower until he ended up drinking a teacup of straight gin. That would explain the headache. His memories completely disappeared about halfway through aforementioned teacup of gin and he had no recollection of anything that happened afterwards. Blimey. I feel awful. He laid back down on his pillow and put his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight.
He had succeeded in partially falling asleep again when he was shocked out of his stupor by a bone-shaking crash from elsewhere in the house. Startled, he fell out the bed and onto the cold wooden floor, the temperature of which bit his skin like ants. Loud footsteps rushed up to his bedroom door. England only had time to turn his head towards the door before it was kicked in. "ENGLAND!" America bellowed, throwing himself through the now open doorway. "England! Engl-oh! There you are! I got so worried after you texted me last night!" The tall dark blonde worked his way around England's bed towards his comrade. "When you didn't reply this morning, I thought you'd…uh…you'd…" he trailed off into nothingness.
England shakily pulled himself off the floor and looked up at his intruder groggily. America's face was gradually turning an unflattering scarlet and he was staring intently at the wall while cupping his chin in his hand. "You thought I'd what?" Only when England succeeded in standing up straight and was hit by a draft from the open door did he realize that he was completely starkers, save for a pair of old argyle socks.
Oh bugger.
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America was still flushed when England entered the drawing room half an hour later, this time fully clothed. "Er, sorry about that. I…you know," England muttered. "Rough night." America nodded and laughed nervously. The two men stood and avoided each other's eyes for a minute or so. "So, er, what exactly did I text you about last night? I apparently deleted all of my sent messages so I can't read what I said."
Just as the last of America's flush drained away, it sprang right back up into his cheeks. "It was just a lot of drabble," he replied, scratching his head. "don't worry about it."
His distinct discomfort did not escape England's notice. "No, really, I want to know what I said, even if it was a load of waffle." A pause. "I apparently sent something similar to the other Allies, too." He looked closely at his friend to see his reaction.
Just as the Brit had feared, America's unease grew with those words. "Did you? Um. Well. I guess you'll hear about it sometime…you just sorta rambled about the past a lot…and you apologized for being gone so much when I was a new country. And…well, that was the majority of it, anyway." He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.
Sure, England may have been gone for a large portion of America's childhood, but the two had been around one another long enough to recognize certain nuances. England could tell that America wasn't lying, but also that he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. The slightly nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach (probably from last night's gin) suggested that he didn't really want to wangle out the rest of the story lest he suffer some sort of deep shame. "Right," he replied. That doesn't quite match up with the replies I got from the other countries. Did I say the same things to them or did I say something different? "Say, you wouldn't happen to have spoken to any of the other Allies, would you?"
"No, why?"
"I was just wondering if I said the, er, same things to them."
"Did they reply to you?"
"Yes."
"What'd they say?"
England fidgeted a bit. "Nothing major."
"Let me see their replies and I'll guess at what you said," America said, holding out his hand. "I've been around your drunk self enough to know."
Looking at the outstretched hand, England suddenly got the intense desire to never, ever let America see the other countries' texts. Especially France's. Damn France. "A-actually, I think I'm alright not knowing, really. Ignorance is bliss. You ought to know that," England added, feeling the need to take the mickey out of someone. "I feel dreadful, anyway. I think I'll go have a kip."
He turned towards the door but was stopped by America. "I really think I should stay with you. I mean, someone's gotta keep you from the gin, right?"
England was surprised. "Well…it would be nice to have some company…" America wouldn't have been his first choice, however. Maybe someone quiet, like Japan. "but don't you have things to do today?"
"Naw, the only thing I was planning on doing today was watching this really scary movie that just came out over at my place. It's called Demon Spawn from the Grave 2." He shivered, then snapped his fingers. "Say! That's perfect! You can come on over to my place and watch the movie with me! I'll keep an eye on you and you can make sure I don't get attacked by monsters!"
England's interest plummeted. He'd watched enough horror movies with America to know how ridiculous he acted when scared. "Not ruddy likely."
"Aw, please? It'd be so much fun!"
"Absolutely not."
A mischievous gleam appeared in America's eyes. "I made some more scones. They're still fresh."
England stiffened.
"Mmm, Coca-cola goodness!" America continued.
Damn this yankee and his carbonated beverages!
"If you don't come over I guess I'll have to eat them all myself. I probably won't ever make any more if that happens," America said with a sideways glance.
"FINE," England grumped. "I'll go if it means that bloody much to you."
America tried to fist-bump England, but was rebuffed and fist-bumped the air instead. He draped his arm around England's shoulders, much to the latter's dismay. "We're gonna have a great time, I mean it. We can make popcorn and have a pillow fight and-"
"First, don't touch me," England said, shrugging off America's arm. "Second, I need to go take an aspirin. I'll be back in a jiff; for heaven's sake, don't touch, break, or spill coffee on anything while I'm gone." With that, he flounced off to his bedroom and slammed the door.
America stood in his wake, a mixture of disappointment and amusement on his face. "You do that, England. You're always so polite, you know!" He half-yelled towards the doorway through which England had disappeared. "Such a pleasant guy to be around!" Geez, he thought. Just when I thought I'd made a breakthrough. Sometimes I don't think Arthur will ever change.
Late that night, rain had begun to fall. The drops on the window made a soothing pit-pat sound that England listened to while looking around at the house's décor. He hadn't properly been to America's place in decades upon decades. "You're going to love this movie! I've heard it's one of the scariest ever made!" America, holding a full bowl of popcorn, knocked some comic books off of a couch cushion and plopped down next to England. "I'm so excited!"
"I bet you are." England replied dryly, taking a scone from a plate on the coffee table between the couch and the big-screen television. This was going to be a right nightmare.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, England was slumped over on the side of the couch, holding his head in his hand. America was nearly in tears of terror beside him. "No! Never go in the dark room! Why don't you people listen to me?" He moaned, covering his eyes with his hands, but peeking out from between his fingers. England rolled his eyes. These American movies were so predictable. "OH MAH GAWD, IT'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!" America screeched, throwing the rest of the bowl of popcorn all over himself.
"PUT A SOCK IN IT!" England yelled at the squealing American. "That 'demon spawn' is so obviously computer-animated I can't stand it. Not to mention the protagonists in this movie are the thickest idiots I've ever seen."
Despite this criticism, America grabbed a couch pillow and wouldn't let it go until the movie was over. "Gosh, that was fantastic," he laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "I never want to go to a graveyard again. Did you like it, England?"
England shrugged. "It was alright. I've seen better and I've seen worse." He watched America start to pick up the scattered popcorn and reached over to help. His hand brushed the other man's a couple of times, which inexplicably irritated him. After the dishes were put away, he brushed crumbs off his jacket and turned to America. "I'm going home now."
America blanched. "You can't go home now. Did you just see the same movie I saw? I'm never going to sleep after that if I'm alone! No!"
"What?" England was taken aback. "I can't sleep here. That'd be…that'd be really strange! You're not allowed to be scared, anyway, aren't you supposed to be some sort of hero?"
"Demon spawn like the taste of heroes! Please, England, please stay! Honestly, I'm terrified…" He clasped his hands, begging.
England opened his mouth to say no again, but made the mistake of looking into his former colony's blue eyes. Those were the same eyes that first peered at him through a thicket of pussywillows, the eyes that chose him over France, the eyes drenched with fear when he was found on the floor this morning…the eyes that still hid whatever he had texted last night. Memories of a younger America begging him not to leave appeared in his head. It had always broken his heart to walk out on America, even when he knew he absolutely must. A rush of compassion softened England. "Fiddle sticks. Alright, I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, but I won't sleep over. I'd like to sleep in my own bed, please and thank you."
Instantly he was swept up in a massive hug. "You're the best! I'll go get ready for bed." America skipped off towards his bedroom, leaving England confused by his own decision.
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"Don't worry. I'll fall asleep as quickly as I can," America promised, snuggling under his covers in the darkness. He was clad in a light t-shirt and boxer shorts printed with dinosaurs. Nestled among red, white, and blue pillows, he certainly looked comfortable. England, fully clothed, lay on top of the comforter beside him. "Just like old times, huh?" America asked.
England glanced over at him in the dark. "Yeah, something like that. I hope you don't kick in your sleep like you used to. That hurt."
"Naw. I'm pretty sure I stopped that."
"Good." Silence hung heavy for a while.
America's breathing deepened and slowed until he suddenly jerked and knocked the man beside him with his foot. The action seemed to awaken him from his light sleep. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, England…I guess I just can't feel it when I'm alone! Sorry, sorry, sorry."
"Don't work yourself up. It wasn't as bad as it used to be. You used to really give me a thump, but that was more like a nudge," England replied. America accepted his words and closed his eyes again, turning over to face England. He usually kicked backwards in his sleep, so if he turned this way he couldn't kick the Brit. England was unprepared to see America's face as he fell asleep and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, as if he were spying on something private. He watched the other's breathing grow deep and steady again and found himself unconsciously breathing in rhythm.
England didn't want to breathe rhythmically with America. He thumped himself in the head with his fist, which startled America and prompted him to wiggle around sleepily until he found a cool spot on his pillow. Some silky dark-blonde hair fell into his eyes and was ruffled by his exhalations. After watching this for a while, England felt compelled to move the hair and so smoothed it back from America's face. It was shockingly soft and fine. How could anything on this crazy man be that delicate? "You may be a gormless nosey parker sometimes, but you're alright, really," he muttered.
To his surprise, America spoke back. "You say such weird words," he said without opening his eyes.
England was embarrassed that America had heard him. "They're not weird," he replied tartly. "You've just gone and turned the Queen's language into a dog's dinner, you have. Now shut up and go to sleep already."
"Alright. Goodnight, Art."
England did a double take when he heard that. He hadn't been called that in…over a century! America hadn't called him Art since…since that night. He mumbled a 'goodnight then' and lay perfectly still for what must have been an hour or so until he was absolutely sure America was asleep. He even whispered America's name to see if he'd respond. When the soundly sleeping man did not, he slid off the bed and stretched. Time to go home.
On his way out the door, a gleam of light from back inside the room caught his eye. He crept back into the room and followed the gleam to two pictures on the small dresser beside America's bed. With unsteady hands, England picked up the pictures and held them up to catch the light from the doorway. They were both of he and America, one when America was small and they still held hands, and one taken only a few years ago. America kept these beside his bed? England was touched and taken aback. He had always thought America tried to forget all about the pre-Revolutionary War years and the days they spent together. As he held the photos in his hands, Something New materialized deep in England's chest. It was fluttery and cold, but painfully hot at the same time. It caught his breath as if he'd missed a step while going down stairs. He put the photos back quickly and hurried to the door.
He slipped out into the fine, slanting rain and headed for home, aware that this Something New wasn't fading as he walked away from America's house. He wasn't even sure if it was Something New. As a matter of fact, it kind of felt like Something Old that had lain dormant inside him for a very long time.
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