AN: Up in time for Single's Awareness Day/Valentine's Day/Saturday if you don't celebrate. I shall be celebrating by reading OTP fan fics, drinking some wine and eating my weight in chocolate covered strawberries. I am actually really freaking excited about that :) So here you go-new chapter for the precious babies. Sorry loves, they still have a bit of trouble ahead.
Pacing around his room, Alfred was in a state of pure panic. He honestly had no idea what he was going to do. Jumping headfirst into the Grand Canyon seemed like a viable option, but that would require leaving his room. Grateful that he had an attached master bathroom, Alfred blinked away tears, pressed some bunched up toilet paper to his bleeding nose and began to rummage through his cabinets for some band aids. He was relatively sure that his nose was broken—Arthur was scrappy when cornered—and he knew that there was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose.
He discovered two boxes of bandages on the back of the shelf and pulled them out. They were both children's band aids. The first box sported a scurvy cartoon pirate complete with eye patch and parrot. Pirates—NO WAY! He wasn't about to put a skull and crossbones bandage on his face and parade around in front of a former pirate who had just seen his junk.
Speaking of which, Alfred glanced dejectedly down and saw that there was indeed a way for him to lose his mojo without jerking off to England after all. His blush rising once again, he snatched up the second box of band aids angrily, grabbed the first one without looking and pressed it over the cut on his nose. He looked at his own reflection and was confident that the hot pink bandage with 'Princess' written across it was a much better choice than the pirate ones.
This was a literal nightmare. Worse than the 'showing up at a meeting naked and having everyone laugh at him' nightmare. He was actually naked in front of the one person that he didn't want to be naked in front of—wait. No…he did want to be naked with England. Just in a planned and sexy way, with a big bed and Arthur's tie undone. When he thought about being naked with England it was with the older man lying under him panting and gently touching his face, not elbowing him in the nose and staring at him in horror.
For the first time in almost a century, Alfred really wanted to cry. The United States didn't cry, but it was a very tempting thought. America sniffed, which hurt his nose, and fought down tears. The last thing he needed was to add puffy crying face to what was sure to be a busted nose and two impressive black eyes in the morning.
He could hear the shrill whine of a tea kettle downstairs. England was still here. That thought comforted him and terrified him. It was a good thing that Arthur was staying, maybe that meant that this whole situation could be brushed under the rug. Yeah, they could pretend it never happened and go back to being…sort of friends.
'Yeah right' Alfred thought dejectedly. There was NO way that things would ever be normal between them again. America couldn't recall the last time he had messed up this terribly—whenever it had been, he was sure that England had been there to help him out. But now England was part of the problem.
Kicking his feet as he walked back to his bed, America began pulling off his cowboy clothes, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor. Grabbing the first pair of flannel pajama pants he could find, he tugged them on, anxious to cover up after the evening's excitement. He glanced down at the floor where he had picked up the pants and saw his missing phone, half kicked under the bed. Picking it up, he turned on the screen to see that he had eight new notifications—all of them were from Arthur. After listening to three voicemails, each one increasingly more irritated, and scrolling through five text messages, America closed his eyes and flopped back onto his unmade bed. England had tried to contact him to tell him he was coming and America had been too preoccupied with his stupid ritual to take a second to look at his phone.
"Son of a bitch!" America moaned, slapping his palm to his forehead. Sometimes Alfred felt like the idiot that the other countries made him out to be, and tonight was one of those times.
Not knowing what else to do, Alfred picked up the phone again and dialed the second person on his speed dial—England was first, of course.
A few rings later America sighed with relief as the call connected and a soft voice greeted him saying, "Hey bro, shouldn't you be practicing?" Canada was the only one who knew about Alfred's enormous crush and his coping mechanisms. Even if the shy and usually forgotten country weren't his twin brother, Alfred knew that Matthew would never betray his most embarrassing secret.
"I fucked up Mattie," Alfred moaned into the phone.
"What?" Canada sounded confused and a bit concerned. "What happened?"
Taking a deep breath, America launched into the tale of the worst night of his life, hardly pausing for air while his brother listened in a shocked silence. Finally reaching the point where he had fled to his room, America stopped talking and hiccupped, waiting to see what his brother would say.
"Oh maple," Matthew muttered. "I am so sorry Al." The sympathetic Canadian didn't quite know what to say—Alfred's story was…horrifying, to say the least. Matthew didn't know what he would do if something similar were to happen to him and he wasn't sure what to tell his obviously distraught brother.
"Well, what do I do?" America questioned.
"Um," Canada cleared his throat before speaking. "I think you have to talk to him. You know, just get it over with and face him. Maybe England will just brush it off, you know how he doesn't like to be impolite—he probably wants to just forget it happened too." That was the best advice he could come up with on the spot, and the uncertainty could be heard clearly in the Canadian's soft voice.
Alfred closed his eyes. "Maybe."
"Yeah," Matthew seemed a bit more confidant. "Go talk to him. Get it all cleared up before the meeting tomorrow. It probably isn't as bad as you think," the Canadian lied.
"Okay," Alfred muttered.
"Listen Al," Matthew spoke up. "It's really late and we both should get some sleep. Your presentation is first thing in the morning, right?"
"Yeah it is," America had let his speech completely leave his mind after the events of the past hour. "Okay Mattie. Thanks dude. I'll talk to him and…"
Alfred trailed off and Canada felt a twinge of guilt. His brother was having a serious crisis but he wasn't kidding when he said he needed to get to bed. He would be much more help to America at the meeting tomorrow if he was well-rested. "It'll be okay. I'm sorry Al."
"Night bro," America disconnected. He didn't blame Canada for wanting to end the call. As supportive as his brother was, he knew that Matthew had no desire to hear about anything intimate involving his brother and England. Canada was probably suffering from enough second-hand embarrassment just hearing about it to give the poor syrup-loving country his own nightmares. America knew that his brother was right. He had to talk to England and get this whole mess cleared up as soon as possible.
Cracking the door of his room and peeking out, America sighed when he realized that the house was quiet, the lights were off and the guest room door was closed. England had gone to bed.
Taking a single step, he considered for a moment, knocking and getting this whole awkward thing over with, but the opportunity to put it off until later was too tempting. Closing his door softly, Alfred dove into his bed, and pulled the covers up around him. He would talk to Arthur in the morning. That gave him all night to lie in the dark and figure out what the fuck he was going to say to the beautiful blonde. America was pretty sure that he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight…
…He was wrong.
Sun shining through his curtains and across his face, Alfred woke groggily to the sound of his alarm clock beeping incessantly. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Alfred slapped his hand around trying to connect with the blaring alarm clock next to his bed. His glasses were still on, and the pink Princess bandage was half peeled off of his face. Grunting as he rolled over, Alfred's eyes shot open and he sat up straight in bed as he saw the bright numbers on his clock. It was almost noon. The meeting was supposed to start at ten!
"Damn!" he hopped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom. America grimaced as he looked into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin underneath bruised and angry. At least he had stopped bleeding sometime during the night.
Splashing cold water on his face, removing the pink band aid and brushing his teeth in record time, Alfred hurried into his room and grabbed the first pair of jeans and t-shirt that he found lying on the floor of his room. He knew that the outfit was inappropriate for a meeting—especially one in which he was presenting, but he knew that he would catch more flack for being so late than for his clothing.
Stumbling downstairs while pulling his beloved bomber jacket on, America ran into the kitchen. He found a single plate, fork, mug, and a small fry pan drying in the sink with a note by the coffee maker saying that England had headed to the meeting without him. There was no mention of the night before, but there was also none of the usual endearments that the older nation usually wrote in his letters to America. Arthur always peppered his letters to Alfred with 'loves,' and although he knew that it could simply be 'An English Thing,' Alfred liked to think that Arthur really meant the word.
If England had left without him, then that meant the limo was gone as well. America would have to drive. Grabbing his car keys and heading to the garage, Alfred just hoped that he wouldn't hit too much traffic on the way into town.
Despite a rather awful night of sleep, and the wretched feeling of jet lag, England had awoke rather early with plenty of time to prepare for the day's meeting, unlike America. After taking a quick shower and dressing, Arthur had wandered downstairs where he prepared himself a modest meal of eggs and toast. He knew that Alfred wouldn't mind the use of his kitchen, they both had free reign of the other's home whenever visiting, but he still took care to wash up after himself.
As he sipped his morning tea, England tried to imagine how the day was going to play out. Most likely America would try to laugh it off with some ridiculous comment, and that thought actually made England a bit angry. This was a situation that they just couldn't laugh off. It was awkward enough for the Brit to have to side-step around his feelings for the younger man, but after seeing the object of his desire all trussed up like a perfectly naughty Western present, Arthur wasn't sure that he could keep his feelings to himself for much longer.
Maybe this was the catalyst to finally confessing his feelings to Alfred. While England was achingly nervous at the prospect of telling America that he was in love with him, he actually thought that Alfred's embarrassing display from the night before may actually soften the blow and keep the blue-eyed country from mercilessly teasing him for his feelings. He should talk to France. The aggravating, wine-guzzling frog was England's worst enemy, and his best friend.
In spite of their constant bickering and public displays of animosity, Arthur and Francis were very close and France was the only one in the world to whom England had confirmed his love for America. Predictably, Francis had poked fun at him for falling for the ridiculous brat, but France was the country of love and he found all romance to be irresistible. The frog had spent the last few years trying to set the two men up with a variety of schemes; ranging from hinting that they should meet for a casual dinner, to not-so-subtly pushing Arthur into Alfred's arms and making disturbing smooching sounds.
England knew that America probably did not wish to see him so soon after last night's incident, and he wanted to try and speak with Francis about the whole situation before the meeting, if possible. Rummaging through America's drawers, he found some sticky notes and a pen and scratched out a quick explanation for his departure. Pulling on his worn pea coat, Arthur grabbed his briefcase, and went out front where the limo that he and Alfred usually shared was waiting.
Informing the driver that he wished to be taken to the conference center immediately and that America would be fine, England slipped into the backseat and took full advantage of the stocked bar during the short ride. He was going to need something to get through today.
When the limo pulled up outside of their usual meeting place, England was relieved to see that Francis was lounging outside of the building in a small outdoor café. He was leaning over the small table, his hand gently caressing the flawless skin of his waitress' hands. As Arthur approached he heard the smooth, accented voice purr, "Chéri, you have the most exquisite eyes I have ever seen—you are a true beauty whose painted lips cause my heart to—"
"Is that the best you can come up with?" England interrupted, his eyebrows furrowing. They were friends, but he still thought that Francis was a cheesy pick-up artist on occasion. The sad part was that most of the humans that he worked his magic upon were entirely smitten with the Frenchman—despite his awful compliments. "You sound like a badly written romance novel."
Francis pulled his hand away silkily from the young woman's wrist and narrowed his eyes at his old friend. "I would think that spending the night with your precious little Alfred would have you in a—a'hem—better mood Angleterre."
"Tea please, miss," England cleared his throat as he addressed the waitress and sank down into the seat opposite his friend. The girl looked confused, but she smiled and nodded and went off to gather the requested beverage.
"What is wrong?" France leaned back in his chair and regarded Arthur. "Usually you are remotely pleasant after spending time with Amerique. Why are you acting like yourself this morning?" Francis smiled seductively at the waitress as she returned and placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Arthur. "Chéri," he hummed as she giggled and walked away. Turning his attention back to his companion, Francis furrowed his perfect brow at the sight of England staring blankly into his teacup. "Angleterre?" he questioned.
"Oh god," England moaned and place his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table.
France was completely taken aback. The Englishman would never place his arms on a table in public—something was very wrong.
"It was terrible Francis," England wailed looking up into the Frenchman's worried face. Arthur soon found himself guzzling tea and prattling on recounting the previous night to an increasingly amused France.
When he reached the part about elbowing the young American in the nose, France laughed out loud for a good two minutes before Arthur's furious stare silenced his glee.
"I am sorry mon ami," France wiped a tear from his eye and smiled. "But you have to admit that you have gone where no one has gone before without severe bodily harm."
England knit his eyebrows together and cocked his head in a question. "Whatever are you talking about?"
France grinned wickedly. "You basically attacked The United States of America and what did he do? Sort of cried and ran away. Go ask some of the other nations how they have fared in the past in a similar situation."
Arthur's green eyes opened in shock. "Well," he sputtered, "of course Alfred wouldn't do anything to me—he knew it was an accident!"
This time France's smile was no longer lit with amusement, but a cruel twist. "He has been 'accidentally' assaulted before. It did not stop him from 'teaching his own brand of lesson' mon ami. Alfred isn't a forgiving man, despite his usually silly antics. You know that." Francis paused, allowing his words to sink in. "He didn't do anything because it was you."
Arthur became suddenly very interested in his teacup.
"I know you love him Angleterre," France tilted his head. "I would be willing to bet my bottle of 1967 Romanée-Conti that he is in love with you as well."
Lifting his head to look at the Frenchman, England pursed his lips, his green eyes lit with fear. "What if he isn't?"
"He is." France did not hesitate in his response. "Why do you think I have been trying to thrust you together for so many years—even before you told me how you felt?"
Letting out a shaky sigh, Arthur swallowed and met France's eyes. "I was thinking of telling him."
"Bon!" France clapped and leaned back in his seat once more. "This is magnificent! You can tell him that you love him and he will tell you that he loves you and then you can caress his muscular body and lay him down in front of the fire and—"
"Shut your bloody mouth," England held up his hand and glared at his friend.
France smirked in response, his eyes twinkling with laughter. He knew exactly how to push his friend's buttons. Any time France got overly detailed in his descriptions of sexual acts, especially with America, England would glare and insult him. It was so amusing.
"So," England resumed his tea sipping. "How do you think I should go about doing this then?"
France settled into his chair and casually checked his watch. They still had almost a half an hour before the meeting was to start. He waved over the pretty waitress with a smile and a flick of his wrist. "Let us order a croissant and discuss it shall we? I have so many ideas for you Angleterre," France grinned at his worried friend. "If you do exactly what I say, you will have little Amerique begging you to take him."
England liked the sound of that.
Romanée-Conti—One of the best and most expensive French wines ever made. Hailing from Burgundy, France it is usually a pinot noir. 1967 was a good year...
I really love America and Canada being bros and I ADORE France and England being BFFs. Cute losers...so cute...want to hug them all.