"A clown can get away with murder."

~ John Wayne Gacy Junior

"The only thing they can get me for is running a funeral parlour without a license."

~ John Wayne Gacy Junior

After the kiss he and America had shared briefly, England hadn't met those cerulean eyes. During meetings the American would be facing the opposite direction of him—even while he spoke. Britain had began to wonder if he was frightened of him.

'Yeah, probably.' he rolled his eyes wryly. He could see it so easily—the way America refused to make any sort of physical contact, or even speak to him. The very rare times when he did, his voice was quiet and sliced up into stutters. Hell, had no one else noticed? This little bundle of joy that represented the happy-go-lucky, pop-culture filled nation known as the U.S.A. was now practically pissing his pants around the man he had supposedly received such joy out of irritating? Either all the other nations were far too oblivious to notice the sudden change of attitude, or they noticed but simply figured that it was none of their business.

England kept his eyes glued to the side of America's face. His chin resting in his hand, he thought, 'Why did I have to kiss him?!' He covered his facial features with his hand as a form of self-loathing. From the space between his fingers, he continued to stare. It wasn't quite out of admiration, but as if to say, "I'm so sorry." He felt like a complete asshole. It was as if he had raped America's mind of that beautiful state of oblivion and innocence that it had once so proudly flaunted. Britain wanted that innocence back so very much—even to the point where he pondered on whether or not to go back in time again. But of course, he had this irritating conscience that kept telling him to take a look at what had occurred the last time he did that.

"England!" a strongly Asian-accented voice broke said country from his otherwise ongoing daze.

England head lifted up, and the expression on his confused features may or may not have made him look like a complete fool. The tiny, "Wha?" that he let out only contributed to that problem.

China rolled his eyes. "It's break time, so stop your staring and get up or something." he ordered, walking away, but not before giving a quick flip of his long, shiny, nearly obsidian hair.

England didn't hesitate to roll his eyes as well, perhaps just to relieve the feeling that he had lost the battle that hardly occurred between them. "Hmph." he grunted stubbornly, raising from his seat and beginning to wander off to anywhere but the meeting room.

The stress weighing down heavily on him gave England the desire for the smooth feeling of steamy, English tea sliding down his throat. The hotel was the fancy kind that had a cosy room for tea and coffee—also providing seats for enjoying it. Now that was just about what the Englishman wanted—no, needed. As he entered the room, though, he saw that someone had already been making coffee. Someone very, very, familiar. In fact, it was the very American that had put the massive amount of stress on his shoulders.

Nearly having a heart attack, Britain began stumbling out of the room to meet the threshold of the door. It frustrated him, but he knew what had to be done.

'I have to settle this.' he told himself repeatedly as he moved closer and closer to America until he stood staring at his backside. He let his arm outstretch in determination to hold the American's attention. Though, unexpectedly, he found himself frozen halfway through, his hand stranded in midair. Why wasn't he moving, he pondered. He wanted to, of course he did. Perhaps one of the reasons squished inside his desire was because he simply urged to have contact with the man—but it was mainly to settle what had occurred between the two a few weeks ago. Yes, his proof of why he wanted it was there, so why did his body refuse?

Although he pondered on it endlessly, England truly did know why.

'I don't want to see those eyes filled with such fear as they were that day.'

Before he even thought about it, Britain knew why; for he had that same image lingering in his mind ever since that one morning. The image of his America shaking with fear for the brief, split second he had shared eye contact with America. Those eyes had struggled to appear strong and intimidating, but failed painfully. It seemed that as America noticed his failure, he hadn't a choice but to flee.

England could feel as fear bit him from the outside, before slowly spreading through every centimetre of his body as he stared at America's back. That fear, once reaching his arms, urged him to flinch away from the other. His foot lifted and fell back behind him—just seconds before he felt a boiling sensation hit his clothing and immediately sink across his chest.

Out of reflex, England simply exclaimed a startled, "Ah!" His eyes met with familiar cerulean ones that belonged to a certain American who was now a stuttering and apologising mess—shouting a short mix of "I'm sorry", "oh my god", and "dude" in roughly ten seconds.

The Englishman was too desperate to pry the now slightly weaker sensation from his skin to pay any attention to the very nation who had given him such heavy mental questioning. His fingers fumbled with his button-up shirt, dripping down one after the other before he was able to remove it fully. A warmth still resided near the area it had spilt on, but the air that let onto his chest seemed to have cooled him off.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, dude! Are you okay?" America asked frantically, offering England one of those fancy napkins that weren't often used to wipe food from one's mouth.

After mumbling a small thanks, he replied, "I'm fine—at least I am now." Oh look at that, he still had the courage to tease the other.

America rolled his eyes. "You were standing behind me, so in a sense, it's your fault too."

England let a small frown of defeat tug at his lips, but nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

In unison, the two turned to face each other before erupting into little chuckles.

"Okay, I guess it's kinda funny." America said in between the chuckles.

"Kind of." England scolded, though it was dismissed by the other man due to the fact that their chain of laughter hadn't broken. The Englishman embraced the precious atmosphere they now held; he didn't want to let it slip away. If was as if the previous day had never happened—for America seemed to pay no mind to the fact that their lips were pressed together a few weeks ago. The light-hearted air they breathed in gave his tight chest a chance to loosen. Although he wished it would last for an eternity, soon the chuckles and smiles faded into the air tediously, before they were left in lonesome silence with nothing but the rhythm of their breaths comforting them.

"America," England said in hopes of gaining said man's attention.

The American noticeably tensed up at the solemn tone Britain now possessed, as if he knew what would be said. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

England dug his nails into the sides of his trousers in mental and emotional anguish. "About last night . . ." he trailed off, his emerald eyes settling on the floor as if searching for comfort.

"Yeah?"

The European nation could feel heat collecting on his face as he struggled to put words into sentences. But in the end, all he was able to utter out was, "I...I'm sorry. It . . ."

Unexpectedly, America completed his sentence for him. "It was an accident."

England's eyes floated back up, clashing with the familiar ocean-like nirvana hidden in the other's eyes. Although he kept silent, the expression he wore asked what exactly he meant.

"The kiss." America stated nonchalantly. "It was an accident, right?" He tilted his head innocently and smiled at England.

The Englishman let his mouth hang agape momentarily, pondering on what exactly to say. He was stuck at a crossroad. One road guided him to speak honestly—to let his heart spill out as it had yearned for decades upon decades. Despite the good that road would do him, it appeared dark and murky—with lonesome howls and agonising shrieks coming from it. The other, led him to keep the emotions bundled up in his chest inside. It wouldn't benefit him in the long run, but it seemed so comforting by the sounds of birds chirping happily and the sun smiling down at him. Oh how England wanted to go down that deadly yet beneficial road, but his fear got the best of him.

With his heartbeat traveling to his ears, and his breath shaken with freight, he gave his dreaded response. "Right." He lifted his heavy head a bit higher, simply to smile assuringly at the American. The grin made his lips sting mercilessly, but he kept doing it. But what hurt the most was the words that came from those lips, for he knew they were all lies—lies being fed to the only person he felt he should give the truth to.