They stared at each other across the kitchen in tense silence as America fumed and England gathered his scattered thoughts. He didn't understand how America had returned to normal without any warning. Had he woken up next to the real America and not noticed the change in appearance in the dimly lit bedroom? But hadn't the machine failed? None of this made any sense. Even worse, it looked like England was going to have to explain the past weekend to an annoyed American with no memories of the progress they had made over the past few days. England didn't even know where to start.
"Is this about speeding up the Transatlantic Partnership?" America finally asked as he fully stepped into the kitchen. He opened the coffee cupboard and gaped in shock at the amount of tea. "Dude, switching my caffeine supply ain't gonna work."
"Have you really forgotten?" England asked a little desperately, his thick eyebrows knitting together with worry. "I've been here all weekend."
America turned to stare at him. "You've been hiding in my house all weekend?"
"No, of course not! You agreed to let me stay. We visited the amusement park and the beach and Williamsburg. Don't you remember?"
"That doesn't sound like us," America said, though at least his expression shifted from shocked anger to puzzlement. "Williamsburg? Are you sure you didn't just get drunk and wander into my house at some point?"
England sighed. "Yes, Williamsburg. No, I didn't visit the pub," he replied, conveniently leaving out the night he did visit the pub. If America had forgotten that particular detail, he wasn't going to remind him. "I don't understand why all of you assumed I couldn't handle it."
"Probably 'cause you have a habit of spitting up blood on the Fourth," America muttered under his breath. He stared at England and frowned. "And what do you mean all of us?"
ߛ ߛ ߛ
It would be easier to explain, England decided, if they were actually standing in front of the separator machine. At least then America would stop suggesting that he had made up the story as part of a drunken fantasy. Not that England had drunken fantasies about multiple Americas! Certainly not. (Perhaps he would start after this weekend, but that was besides the point.)
"Look, I came to your house because I heard a child answer the telephone," England began to explain as he led America to the computer room. "And once I arrived, you, well, the other America, eventually said that you had a machine to split yourself into multiple parts," he said, gesturing to... what turned out to be an empty spot in the room.
"Huh," America said, staring at the blank wall.
England spun around and scoured the room, desperately looking for the machine. "It was here just yesterday!" he insisted. His heart sank; America was definitely going to think he was suffering from an alcohol-induced delusion if he insisted that America had been split into several versions of himself by a non-existent machine.
"Dude, relax." America laughed as he gripped England's shoulder with a strong hand, preventing the other nation from racing around the room. "I know what you're talking about. Tony probably took it. Sometimes he upgrades stuff."
"Hmm, you did talk about your 'friend' installing a power converter after the reverse button failed," England replied thoughtfully. "But that still doesn't explain how you're back to normal."
America gave him a strange look. "I don't think we're thinking of the same machine. I mean, a reverse button would kinda ruin the whole point."
"How so?" England asked, feeling more confused by the moment. First America had returned to normal, now the machine that started it all had disappeared. England didn't know if the two events were related, but it seemed that the universe had conspired to give him a very difficult morning. And he hadn't even finished his tea.
"See, it's a machine that takes something you like and gets rid of the annoying stuff," America said with a grin and energetic hand gestures, his usual manner when discussing any type of technology. "I don't know why you'd wanna stick 'em back in."
"Really? I thought it was a separator of some sort," England said quietly.
"Yeah! It separates the good from the bad."
"...like taking mustard off bread."
America frowned. "Don't you like mustard?"
"...or pulling sugar out of tea."
"Hey! Sweet tea is awesome."
"And if you used it on a person, it would remove their annoying traits," England said, feeling a rush of comprehension flood his body. To the extent he had considered it at all, he had assumed that the different Americas represented different eras. How wrong he was. Nothing annoyed England more than America's childishness, his narcissism, and his constant need to be a hero. In other words, Freddie, Al, and the other America. "But a personality trait isn't like mustard or sugar," he added thoughtfully, "so it would have to create a split version of the person to embody that trait."
"I guess? I hadn't really thought about it," America said, but England could tell from the way his gaze dropped to the ground that he was lying.
England called him on it. "You clearly did at some point, since you used it on yourself."
America scoffed and brushed the accusation aside. "Pfft. I think I would remember being split into two people."
"...four, actually."
"Four?!" America gaped.
"I think each of your annoying traits had its own personification."
"Huh." America crossed his arms and gave England a disbelieving look. "Pics or it didn't happen."
England sighed. It seemed strange that America could be even more annoying when there was just one of him, but perhaps it was the concentration of annoying traits that made America so insufferable. Not to mention the huge shift from three Americas who openly adored him to just one who constantly insulted him. "I didn't take any―" he admitted.
"Ah-hah!" America cried in triumph.
"―but if you check the date on your mobile, I think you'll find that you lost a week."
America's smug grin disappeared as soon as he pulled out his cell phone and confirmed that England was correct. "How...?" His frown deepened. "This must mean..."
"I was telling the truth."
"I'm a time traveler!" America shouted at the same time, his voice drowning out England's statement.
"You're an idiot." England planted his face into his hands and sighed deeply.
"Huh, looks like you did visit the bar," America said as he started scrolling through his texts. "One of my phones is telling the other phone to go get the car." He pressed a few more buttons on his phone and started to grin. A few seconds later, the phone began to play the sound of a drunken England's ranting. England glanced up, was that a video?
"Stop playing that!" England demanded, half-lunging as he tried to grab the phone out of America's hands. He wasn't ready to explain his drunken kiss when America still didn't believe him about their weekend together.
America just laughed and danced away, holding the phone above his head and slightly out of England's reach. He grinned while England glared at him and the video continued to pay. England narrowed his eyes. That keep-away tactic wasn't going to work against him; not when he knew America's secret weakness. England lunged forward, sticking his hands out at the last moment to tickle the other nation's sides. America doubled over in helpless giggles and England snatched the phone triumphantly.
"Hehe-hey! Wa-ha-wait!" America called.
With a tight grip on his prize, England raced to the nearest bathroom and locked the door behind him, all before America could even recover. Safe, for the moment, England turned his attention to the phone. The video ended with him planting a sloppy wet kiss on the other America. He must have passed out at that point because America scooped him up bridal style and England knew he would have complained if he were conscious. Once the video ended, England was shocked to discover even more pictures. Quickly scrolling past the photos of America carrying him back to the car, he paused for a long time when he found a picture with Freddie. The photo showed himself conked out in the backseat of the SUV, a bomber jacket covering his torso and Freddie asleep at his side. The cuteness was almost too much to handle.
"England, I know you're in there!" America shouted, knocking loudly on the bathroom door as he tried to force it open. "Come on, give it back!" The shouts and knocking grew louder and more desperate, but the Englishman couldn't pull himself away from the photo album. There were several more photos of the weekend, and every single one featured him. Pictures of him in his colonial outfit, and then in modern clothes later in the evening (though the only photo taken during the ghost tour was blurred). The U.S. was sneakier than England had given the teen credit for. Apparently the teen had been taking pictures each time he seemed to be fiddling with his phone.
England expected the photos to end with the Williamsburg trip, so he wasn't prepared to scroll past the last photo and find a picture of himself at the G8 conference in Germany several years earlier. Even more surprising, it was a truly gorgeous image. England had strolled along the River Spree during their lunch break and he looked relaxed and confident, smiling at a spark of light that England remembered as a kind pixie. The next few photos followed the same pattern; they were all beautiful, candid shots.
"Dude, this is totally not cool!" America shouted, pounding on the door. "Don't make me break down my own damn door."
England ignored him. Instead his cheeks flushed as he reached a collection of photos from a drunken night he couldn't remember. He knew that he tended to strip down to a ridiculous waiter outfit when he was completely trashed, but the number of times America had covered him with his bomber jacket came as a surprise. England really wished he could remember those nights.
"Are you even listening to me?" America asked as the pounding stopped.
"I can hear you just fine," England replied, satisfied that he had seen all he needed. "And I'll let you have your mobile back if you admit that I was right about this weekend."
"Okay, fine! You were right!" America replied a little too quickly. The poor nation was clearly worried about England's reaction to the secret trove of photos.
"See, lad, that wasn't so hard." England opened the door and found the phone instantly snatched out of his hands. America glared at him and stalked away. Perhaps England had pushed him too far. Even from the other side of the house, England could hear America stomp upstairs to his bedroom. The typical teenager behavior made England shake his head fondly. Now he understood what the United States had been going through. Because if you pulled away America's childish innocence and sweetness, stripped him of his confident self-infatuation, and deprived him of his heroic goals, all that was left was a sulking, confused teenager who was a little too snarky for his own good.
England debated following America upstairs, but somehow it didn't seem like the right moment to confess his long-buried feelings. He decided to give America some time alone. Admittedly, England probably shouldn't have stolen something as personal as a phone, but America had been secretly photographing him for years, so he felt that they were even in terms of invasions of privacy.
It felt strange to sit in the silent house and finish his cup of morning tea. One America normally was noisy enough on his own, and England had grown used to four of them. So when he heard a noise from the computer room, his first thought was that it was just Freddie playing a video game. A moment later he remembered that Freddie was gone.
"Is that you, America?" England called, his body tensed as he approached what should have been an empty room.
"No, ―ing limey," a voice replied.
"Oh," England said in disdain, scowling at America's alien friend as he stepped into the room, "it's you."
The gray alien replied with a string of curse words, but otherwise ignored England. The separator machine was back in the room, looking for all appearances like it had never left. The alien focused on the machine, pushing a complicated string of glowing buttons as he continued to swear. England wasn't sure if the alien was swearing at him or if he was swearing at the machine. Probably both.
"He doesn't need the machine," England said. "America's back to normal now."
"No, ―ing limey." The alien rolled his eyes at England.
"Are you saying he's not back to normal? He seems his usual self."
The alien pressed more buttons. "No, ―ing limey."
"I'm starting to think those are the only three words you know."
"Hell no, ―ing limey."
The alien pushed one final button and then stalked over to England, jabbing at England's chest with a hand-like appendage that had far more than five fingers. "You ―ing broke him, you ―ing fix him, ―ing limey," the alien said, before briefly glowing and then disappearing into nothingness.
"How rude," England complained to empty air.
Deciding that he should let America know that the machine was back (and that his 'friend' Tony was still a rude asshole), England stalked upstairs and knocked on America's door. It seemed that America planned on sulking for the rest of the day, because England found that he was now the one stuck outside a locked door as the person inside ignored him.
England cleared his throat. "America, your alien friend came back with the machine," he announced. When that statement received no response, he added, "He's still a rude git, you know. He swears more than Romano, and I didn't even think that was possible." England waited for a response and then knocked again, growing increasingly annoyed by America's silence. "Honestly, America, just because you look like a teenager doesn't mean you need to sulk like one."
"Go away, England," America replied, his voice muffled through the door.
"We still need to talk about this weekend," England said, working up his courage. It wasn't fair to keep dancing away from a straight-out confession, but after hiding his feelings so long, he didn't know how to tell the truth anymore.
"I'm not apologizing for whatever annoying-me did," America grumbled, jumping to entirely the wrong conclusion.
England chuckled. "Your annoying traits were rather pleasant, actually." He paused and waited for America to reply, before adding, "Why don't you come out so I can fill you in on what happened? We can go out for lunch," he offered.
Drawn by the allure of food, America finally opened the door. But there was something subtly off about his expression―when had the real America ever looked so thoughtfully annoyed? England stared. America looked too much like the U.S. and not enough like his other personality traits.
The alien was right; America hadn't returned to normal.
