The second day of the conference went much like the first, only worse. England was avoiding America like the plague, at the same time half of him (more than half) was telling him to do the exact opposite. Even worse, he got more than a few comments (mostly from Sealand – how did he always manage to sneak in?) about "How did that America – I mean, American food – taste last night?" And it wasn't just from Sealand – France, Korea, and even Romano all found time to make some sort of crack about Big Macs. Honestly, did they have nothing better to discuss than England's (lack of) sex life? And of course America was wonderfully oblivious to it all.

And England had suddenly become very aware of America's obliviousness. He had become very aware of America's everything, but most especially of the way America didn't really pa y that much attention to him. Yes, they would argue once in a while (several times a day), but these were usually brief spats, not prolonged arguments. They honestly didn't interact too much at all. Up until now, that had not been a problem for England.

It was now very painful. Painful because he desperately wanted America to pay attention to him, and painful because he was trying to deny to himself that he cared either way, and painful because he cared so much and America obviously didn't. It was awful. It was awful trying to convince himself it was wasn't awful.

By the time he got home that night, he was exhausted. He couldn't even recall what the topic of discussion had been that afternoon. He could, on the other hand, remember everything America had said to him all day.

He locked himself in his room and went to sleep.

He was determined not to have the same sort of encounter with America as the previous mornings, even if that meant getting up before dawn. In the end, the opposite happened, as he discovered when he woke up to the sun shining in his eyes. Dammit! He'd forgotten to set the alarm.

He dressed in a rush and managed to get there only half an hour late, which meant they'd only started fifteen minutes ago. A few people snickered as he walked in – probably at his hair, he hadn't had time to brush it. Wonderful. When he looked down at today's packet, he groaned. They were talking about Afghanistan. This was going to be entertaining in the worst possible way.

It was. America and Iraq were nearly at blows within half an hour. In fact, America fought with Iraq, Iran, Russia, China, Israel, and of course Afghanistan all before lunch. Honestly, this Middle East thing was almost worse than the Cold War. At least then it was just America and Russia glaring each other down and ignoring everyone else.

Eventually even England couldn't stand it anymore. No one else looked likely to say anything (in fact, they all looked like they were purposefully ignoring it), so he sighed and stood up.

"America," he said imperiously (and he could sound very imperious when he wanted to.) "If you don't calm down right now and stop picking fights with anyone who's got "Stan" in their name, so help me, but I will never help you out in another war ever again."

America turned from yelling at Israel and gaped at England. Finally he said, "The only one who's got Stan in her name is Afghanistan."

England was about to say something else that probably wouldn't have been a great idea when Japan said pointedly, "It's time for lunch, isn't it?" and there was a general rush for the door.

When they came back, however, America was looking quite different. One might even say he appeared conciliatory.

"Look, you guys," he said. "Before we get started, I've got something to say."

England distinctly heard someone mutter, "You've always got something to say."

"Okay, so I know maybe I haven't been all that smart when it comes to starting wars," America said. "You might say I've been kind of…overenthusiastic."

Well. That was new. America, acknowledging that he was too aggressive?

"And I know that invading Iraq might not have been the right move – sorry for that." He actually looked a bit embarrassed. How…odd. "But! I am a hero, you know, so wherever there's trouble, I've got to be there!"

And he'd been doing so well for a moment. "Oh, right," England said acidly. "Just don't expect the rest of us to always come rushing to be your backup, alright?"

America looked at him and grinned. "But you know, England, I've got something to say there - what was it now – "

And he held his arms out and quoted the last thing England would ever have expected.

"If we are mark'd to die," he said, "We are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live – "

Wait a moment. This wasn't – was it? It was! What on earth?

"The fewer men, the greater share of honour – "

Shakespeare? America was quoting Shakespeare? Good God!

"God's will!" America was really smirking at him now and for good reason, because England was staring at him like he'd never seen him before. "I pray thee, wish not one man more. You might remember that one, England – "

"Shakespeare," England said, and why was his voice all hoarse? "Henry V, the St. Crispin's Day speech."

Oh God. What was wrong with him? Why did just that – why did it make him want to grab America and make him say the whole damn speech? For God's sake!

"Exactly!" said America, tipping an imaginary hat. "And what I mean is, even if nobody else comes with me, I'm still going to go where there's trouble, because that's what heroes do! Anyway, that's all I've got to say. Let's get back to the discussion."

That was awful. Shakespeare. Why did he have to quote Shakespeare? And why was England going all tingly and warm from it? Urgh.

At the end of the day, England made it out of the conference room in record time (avoid America, avoid America), but that was when France grabbed him. Oh no.

"My dear Angleterre," he purred, throwing an arm around England's shoulders and steering him away from the crowd – not a good sign. "I realize you may not have much experience in this area, so I will advise you." This was getting worse and worse, and the catlike grin on France's face didn't help.

"What area are we talking about, exactly?" England asked, rather nervously.

"Just because you are sleeping with America now," said France. "Does not mean you have to flaunt it in front of everyone."

"WHAT," said England.

"It is so very gauche," France continued, nodding. "Please leave your love games at home."

"You're telling me –" England spluttered, and then hissed, "And I am not sleeping with America. What on earth makes you think I'm sleeping with America?"

France honestly looked shocked. "You are not? But you have been staring at him all week, and there is so much tension, you know… "

Then a grin split his face. Bloody hell. England was in for it now.

"Oh," France purred. "Oh ho, I understand."

"No," England said desperately. "You don't understand. Whatever it is you think you know, you're wrong."

"I do understand," France insisted, his grin stretching wider. "You are not sleeping with him, no. But you want to. You want to very much."

England was not going to tell him anything. Not in a million years.

"I am right, yes?" France said, his arm around England's shoulders again, leaning in rather creepily. "You want him, and you have the idea that he does not want you."

England was not thinking about the implications of that statement and he was not going to tell France a single thing.

France's smile looked like the Cheshire Cat. "Tell me everything."

"It only started the other day!" England burst out. So much for silence. "When he came to stay at my house and for some reason I let him and then he showed up at my door all wet and then he tried to make me breakfast and now I really can't stop thinking about him and it's terrible and it doesn't make any sense and what the hell am I telling you this for?" An awful thought occurred to him and he grabbed France's lapels, glaring at him. "If you tell anyone, anyone, I'll kill you! I really will!"

France snorted. "You think I am the only one who has noticed? You were practically undressing him back there! I thought you two would start having sex on the floor!"

"Oh, fuck," England groaned, putting his head in his hands.

"But do not worry!" France reassured him, patting his shoulder in a somehow not reassuring way. "He is clearly in love with you as well, so –"

No.

"L-l-luh," England stammered. "I'm not – he's certainly not – love? You must be joking!"

France just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I am not," England insisted. "In love with America!"

And he turned and walked off in a very dignified manner.

He was not in love with America. (He wasn't!) He was not in love with America. (It was just a – a crush!) He was not in love with America. (He couldn't be in love with America!)

Anyway, this wasn't love. Love was fluttery and pounding hearts and pink. Fine, he was feeling a bit of that, but mostly he was feeling awful and worn out and anxious and ill and depressed. That wasn't love. That was flu. For every moment over the past few days that he'd felt fluttery, there were ten moments where he just wanted to go home and go to bed. He wasn't in love. Love wasn't supposed to make you want to be sick.

Although he had to admit it wasn't America himself that was making him feel all ill. It was more the prospect that he was feeling this way and America didn't know, didn't care, and most importantly, didn't feel the same way in return. That was what was depressing him.

Well, yes, but the thing was, even if he was in love with America (he wasn't), it still didn't matter. Because America didn't know, didn't care, and didn't feel the same way.

And so he resolved, for what felt like the ten thousandth time, to give it up already. Stop mooning over him. Get back to life as normal.

Then he opened the door to his house. And for the ten thousandth time, he remembered that he couldn't just give it up.

What he was going to do was demand, "Why are you singing and putting up my Christmas decorations?" but what he did instead was say "Wuh," quite softly. Because America was singing. And putting up England's Christmas decorations.

England thought he might melt. Just a bit.

It wasn't as if America had a wonderful singing voice. It was a clear, high tenor, almost boyish. Not the sort of thing you'd normally call sexy. And putting up Christmas decorations wasn't exactly erotic, or even particularly cute.

It was just so – so – when was the last time he'd seen America do something like this? Do something like this for him? Well, never, because they didn't put up Christmas lights in the 18th century. Especially not in Puritan New England.

As he watched America drape tinsel on the until now half decorated tree, England decided they had clearly been missing out back then.

And the singing – if it had been "Jingle Bells," England probably would have been able to handle it. But America was singing that song, the one by that American (of course), and right now he could not have chosen a carol more guaranteed to root England to the spot.

"I'll have a blue Christmas without you," he was crooning, apparently oblivious to England standing in the doorway dripping snow. "I'll be so blue thinking about you…"

Get a grip on yourself! He doesn't even know you're here! He is not. Singing. About. You.

"Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree – " America stepped back and surveyed his own tree, looking pleased. "Won't mean a thing if you're not here with me – "

He finally spotted England and stopped abruptly, then grinned and gestured to the tree. "Like it? I noticed you never finished decorating, so I decided to do it."

"Um," said England. "It's. Nice." He still rather felt as if he was a puddle of something warm and pink. Not a lovely image.

America's grin slipped as England continued to stare battily at him. Stop that, you'll scare him off!

"Are you okay?" America said, now frowning slightly. "You look kinda…I dunno."

England melted even further, if that was possible. No, I'm not alright. I'm tired and sad and it's all your fault and all I want to do is get away from you and all I want to do is be with you.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he said, looking away and unknotting his scarf. "It's just – your singing…"

"Is it really that bad?" America said, now sounding mildly injured.

"No, it's good." Oh dear. Don't look at him. "I'm just – not used to it."

"Oh," America said, and laughed. "Well then, get used to it."

And he stepped close – oh – and put his arm around England's shoulders – oh no – and how could England have forgotten about this song? Oh bloody fucking hell.

"I don't want a lot for Christmas," America sang with a smile on his face. "There is just one thing I need…"

Oh no no no.

"I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree – " America was so damn close to him and what was wrong with him what was wrong with him –

"I just want you for my own – " No no no he doesn't mean it stop that - "More than you could ever know…"

"Make my wish come true…" He's smiling, he doesn't mean it, he wouldn't be smiling like that if he meant it –

All I want for Christmas," sang America and he needed to escape right now – "Is you!"

That was when England fell on his bum. There were three reasons why this happened. The first was that he really needed to escape from America's arm. The second was that if he had to be that close to America for any long he knew he was going to try and kiss him, which would be a very bad idea, and the third reason was the he had finally melted entirely, and if he were to continue standing he would need a support, and the only support within reach was America (see first and second reasons).

America laughed and said, "You know, girls do that whenever I sing." Then he reached down, grabbed England's hand without so much as a by-your-leave, and pulled him up.

There was a moment where, as England regained his balance, their bodies were momentarily pressed together, and England was glad America let go of his hand so quickly and he could stumble away, because he knew, he knew, that if he hadn't moved away right then he wouldn't have moved away at all.

So England nodded and ran up the stairs to his room where he locked the door and sat on the bed. He sat there for quite a while before he did anything, and when he did move it was only to roll onto his back and stare at the ceiling instead.

France was right.

The damn frog was right for once.

He was in love with America.