Greetings~ What is this you might say? It's not Thursday! No it isn't! But I have exciting maybe somewhat sad news: Including this one, there are only four chapters left to go! I've pretty much gotten the whole thing written and I'd like to have this story wrapped up by the end of December. So for the next two weeks I will be updating twice a week instead of once for your reading pleasure.

This chapter is a little fragmented which bothers me but... oh well. Hope you enjoy it.

By the time England really gets around to making something it's closer to supper than either lunch or dinner. He had spent a great deal of time cleaning up the broken glass and covering the window. Usually he would have Scotland do it but he needed something menial to distract him and besides, knowing his brothers Scotland wouldn't be home until an obscene hour of the night. No doubt he'd be filthy fall-down-drunk either. It disgusts him a little he was somehow part of the same family as such uncouth individuals. Then again he had just almost mounted someone on the dining room floor.

In the time he had spent cleaning he had thought very seriously about what he had done. Had almost done. He hopes Alfred can forgive him for the slip. If only there was some way he could make up for it. At the same time to talk about it would be rather embarrassing. It was so hard to say the things he really wanted to say. The things he should be saying.

Well it didn't matter. After tomorrow America would sign the treaty and then there would be plenty of time to figure out the right words.

England looks down at the soup he is making. He crinkles his nose. It wasn't possible to burn soup right? It was probably fine. He sets the burner to low heat and goes to get America.

~.

Alfred lies on his bed, incredibly bored. He wears a fresh button up shirt, contemplating how much he wishes he had a shirt that couldn't be opened with ones mouth. Who knew England would pull a move like that?

There is a light knock on the door and America sits up. "Yeah?"

England's voice is soft, hesitant. "I...made soup if you're hungry."

The sheepish tone assures America that he probably has nothing to worry about from England at the present moment. He stands and opens the door. England looks at him then quickly looks away. "Um, I made soup."

"So you said."

"R-right..."

America can't help but feel baffled. It was hard to believe that the blushing, timid man before him was also the one that had violently kidnapped him from his home and had nearly sexually assaulted him mere hours ago. He doesn't quite know how to address the incident so unless England was going to he decides not to mention it.

"Well...Let's go eat then. I'm hungry."

England looks up at him and nods. "Alright."

The mood is rather uncomfortable between the two of them. England pauses once they get downstairs. "The dining room is mostly clean but it's still probably best not to eat in there. How about we eat in the living room instead?"

America shrugs one shoulder. "Sounds fine to me."

"Right, then I'll go get the soup and you can wait there."

America silently walks in the direction of the living room while England goes for the soup.

England brings it out in two large bowls on a tray. He places a bowl before America wordlessly and then sits across from him with his own bowl. America tries a spoonful of the dark substance and frowns thoughtfully against the spoon. Was this burnt? Oh well, tasted alright either way.

The two of them eat in near agonizing silence. It seems to stretch and even seems to make the food taste bad. Or maybe the food just sucked.

England tries to say something, changes his mind. A while later America almost makes a snide remark then decides it would just make things more awkward.

America can't help but feel relieved when he's finished eating. "It was... well it was interesting."

"Not too bad I hope? I think I got the recipe wrong."

America chuckles. "Like that time when you tried to make some French dessert and thought the flour was powdered sugar then burnt the cake into a rock anyway?"

England opens his mouth to defend himself then begins to laugh as well. "I guess that was a pretty pathetic attempt."

The two of them laugh, breaking some of the oppressive mood.

And time passes slowly.

~.

Once again America is lying on his bed, but this time he is considering going to sleep. The sooner he slept the sooner it would be tomorrow and the closer he would be to Canada's phone call. He slips out of his clothes until he is in his boxers. He is about to turn off the light when there is a nervous knock at the door.

America pauses. "...Hello?"

The door opens slowly and America stands frozen. Even the other day he hadn't really cared so much about England seeing him in his boxers but after today he feels somewhat uneasy. He looks around, thinking that maybe he should hide under the blankets, but his body doesn't respond. No matter, it's too late.

England peeks his head in and seems taken by surprise when he sees America standing indecisively between the door and bed in his boxers. For a moment he simply stares then seems to snap out of it and averts his gaze to the ground. "Sorry... I... I just wanted to let you know that tomorrow I have the outfit I want you to wear at the ceremony picked out and I'd like you to try it on."
America frowns slightly. Outfit...? What, the wedding dress? No fucking way. But he doesn't much feel like arguing right now. "Yeah, sure."

England opens his mouth, hesitates, closes it, opens it again. "I'm... I know I said it before but... I'm sorry about today. I... But I'm... I'm glad it means something when... Let's put that behind us shall we?"

America shrugs, nods. "Alright. We can do that."

England smiles weakly. "Goodnight Alfred."

After a pause America returns the smile. "Goodnight...Arthur."

England hesitates, as if wanting to say something more then finally closes the door softly. America turns off the lights before collapsing onto the bed. He rubs his face against the pillow. What a weird thing for England to say. 'I'm glad it means something.' He doesn't doubt it's in reference to what he had said earlier. Obviously it meant something. After all, England had been his big brother and had raised him. When he kissed him it was almost like a betrayal of that. What was there to be glad of?

England was so strange, much stranger than he had ever known.

After staring into the dark for what feels like a long time America finally slips off. Apprehension seeps into his dreams making it so he finds no relief even in sleep.

~.

England knows he shouldn't be doing this. If America caught him... well he looked bad enough right now but he can't help it. Holding his breath, he opens the door and blinks. His eyes are already adjusted to the dark and he can see the bed faintly. The deep, even breaths America takes are audible indications that he is asleep.

England silently walks towards the bed and stands over Alfred, eyes lovingly caressing his face in the dark. He's glad America sleeps like the dead. How creepy would it be if he woke up to see England standing over him while he slept?

After quietly observing him for a while England carefully pulls up the chair that sits off to the side of the room and sits next to the bed. He's sure that America wouldn't understand, couldn't understand why he was doing all of this. Even 'I love you' did a poor job of explaining it. In fact that would probably only confuse him more. England barely understands it himself.

How does one explain the need to possess another with such intensity it aches? To desire another person to the point it is frightening. To require someone as if they are oxygen. Especially when he had taken such pains to hide his growing obsession, his increasing feelings. England's equilibrium had been off since the shock of America's war of independence. To have him back would not only return that balance, it would finally set his heart at peace. Alfred would be his, to love and protect.

Arthur knows he should leave soon but he just wants to watch over America a little while longer. Even when his eyelids start to feel heavy he holds out. Just a bit longer... Then he would go. Just a little...

England falls asleep in the chair.

~.

America wakes up abruptly. Perhaps from a dream. He can't tell what had pulled him so unexpectedly from sleep but it is still dark so it can't be time to get up. He turns over, about to go back to sleep when he sees England slumped over in the chair. He freezes, breath catching in his lungs until he realizes that England is asleep.

America takes a deep breath. That had startled him. He sits up and considers England for a long moment. What was he supposed to think of him? He was his guardian, his brother, his chastiser, his friend, his debate partner, his captor, his would-be lover...

With a tired sigh he pulls the top blanket off of his bed and drapes it over England. "I don't hate you Arthur. I really don't. I hope you know that."

England mumbles something in his sleep. America shakes his head and crawls back into bed. For a long time he simply can't seem to calm his mind but finally, after much tossing and turning, he falls into a restless sleep.

~.

The light that spills into the room wakes England with a start. He hadn't meant to fall asleep! He sits up, his body cramped uncomfortably from sleeping in such an awkward position. His eyes are drawn to the blanket that slips down his body. He touches it as if not quite believing it is there. His eyes jump to the sleeping frame of America and water slightly. He swallows the lump in his throat.

Hope... Did he really dare to hope?

~.

America waits nervously on the bed. England was fetching the outfit he was to wear for tomorrow. Neither of them brings up the fact that England slept in America's room last night. This suited both of them just fine.

America's restless mind recalls something England had said yesterday. Something about a wedding dress... He grits his teeth. So help him God, if Arthur expected him to wear a wedding dress he had another thing coming! Fidgeting impatiently, he looks up sharply when the door finally opens.

England enters holding a hanger, a long protective cover containing the clothing inside. He presses it into America's hands. "Here, put this on. I'll be back soon to see how it looks."

Without another word he leaves the room. America glares down at it with loathing. As if a hero like himself would wear a dress! That was for the damsel! Finally curiosity gets the better of him and he unzips it, expecting to be sent into a rage.

For a moment all he can do is blink in surprise. It's not a wedding dress after all. It is a very expensive looking black suit. There is also a dark blue formal shirt and a black silk tie. America takes it completely out of its protective cover and holds it up. It was really quite nice. He purses his lips thoughtfully. But England had said... Well, as long as he didn't actually have to wear a wedding dress... America begins to undress and slips into the suit. It fits comfortably, almost perfectly. America looks at himself in the mirror. And damn did he make it look good. There's a gentle knock at the door.

"Yeah come in."

England enters, his eyes lighting up as he catches sight of America. "Wonderful, it looks like it fits perfectly! I'm relieved. Here, turn around for me."

America does as he asks. England nods approvingly and walks over, running his hands over the shoulders, head tilted as he examines him up close.

America looks down at himself a bit self-consciously. "I have to say I'm kind of relieved. I swear, I thought you were going to pull some crap and try to actually get me to wear a wedding dress. I would have punched your lights out if you had."

England adjusts his tie. "I never had any intention of making you wear a wedding dress. I was just teasing you when I said that. It's not like I'm doing this to humiliate you after all."

America can't help but frown. "Then would you tell me why you are doing this?"

England furrows his brow. Wasn't it obvious? Was Alfred really that thick?

"It's because-!"

I love you

But the words won't come. England dares not utter them. Because it would hurt more than he could bear if he said them and they were rejected. Maybe he was pathetic but he would rather die never having admitted it than saying it only to have America deny the words with contempt. That's why he would be satisfied if America would just admit he needed him. Knowing the words he truly wanted to hear would never be spoken, it would be enough for England to hear that much at least.

"... I don't have to tell you anything."

America sighs in frustration. "Fine. Don't tell me then."

England swallows hard. His chest hurts. But still, the words stay locked back in his mouth. He gives the tie a small pat. "You look... you look really good. As always."

America looks at himself in the mirror, and then England and America are looking at each other watch the other in the mirror. Almost simultaneously they look away. America pulls at the tie. "Can I take it off now?"

"Mm."

Alfred shrugs off the coat and loosens the tie, throwing both on the chair carelessly.

England watches this then steps up behind America and slips his arms around him, hands resting on his chest. He presses his face against America's neck and takes a deep breath through his nose. Underneath the lingering crisp smell of the new suit is Alfred's personal scent. He closes his eyes and tightens his grip. "Tomorrow you won't cause any problems right? You'll do what you're supposed to won't you? I don't want this to be difficult Alfred."

America puts a hand over England's left hand, the hand the rests above his heart. "What's the fun in that?"

England nuzzles his neck then very lightly bites it. "Do not test me. Quite frankly I am a bit too desperate to take resistance with grace."

America tightens his grip on the hand. "I see. Well... You know me. I'm pretty useless when it comes to following anyones rules but my own. Let's just say I'll do my best."

This is good enough for Arthur. He presses his forehead against Alfred's back for a moment then finally pulls away. "I'll let you get undressed then. Make sure you actually hang up the suit."

America waits until England has left then stares at himself in the mirror. Hesitantly he brings his hand up and presses it against the cool surface, eyes locked with his reflection's. It comes to his attention that he is trembling. He pulls his hand away and clenches it into a fist, willing his body to be still. It would be okay. Everything was going to be okay...

~.

America sits on a chair in the small study, a book in his hand. It is hard to pretend he is even vaguely interested in it. Across from him England works on a piece of needlework. Usually America would be teasing him relentlessly for his totally unmanly hobby but he didn't want to rile him up too much. After all, he might banish him to his room for bad behavior or something and this was one of the few rooms in the house that had a phone that wouldn't seem suspicious if America wanted to be in it. All he had to say was he wanted to spend some time with just the two of them hanging out, casually chose the room, and Arthur had been none the wiser.

Perhaps it had been a bit suspicious when he pretended to want to read a book but he had to act like he was deeply engaged in something so that when England was finally distracted it wouldn't occur to him to be worried about him. Thinking of which he had no idea how that was supposed to work. Scotland hadn't made an appearance since he left with Ireland yesterday and so America had never been able to hash over the details with him. He just had to hope it was all figured out.

America glances over the top of the book at England. Well, maybe one little joke. He can't resist. "What are you working on over there Arthur? A parade of unicorns?"

England doesn't rise to the bait so easily. "I will have you know this is an art form of which I am a master. And if you must know, I'm working on a rose currently."

America lets out a poorly suppressed snort of laughter. "Oh a rose, the manliest of all flowers."

England gives him a look as sharp as his needle. "Do shut up. If that book isn't interesting enough to capture your short attention span we can always do something else."

The humor deflates from the situation immediately. "N-no, it's fine."

He quickly sticks his nose back into the pages and lets his eyes unseeingly skim the page. After a minute of this his eyes flick as casually as possible to the clock on the desk that sits to his right. Less than five minutes left. His heart begins to pound wildly. It's almost like he can feel time slipping away. Where was the distraction? Suddenly there is a great whine from the other room. The two of them sit up.

America's face scrunches up in confusion. "Do you hear a dying cow?"

After another second the whine turns into some semblance of sound and then slips into music. England clicks his tongue in disgust. "Oh bloody hell! Scotland is playing his ruddy bagpipes! I could have sworn I took those away from him."

England shakes his head and tries to concentrate on his needlework. America glances nervously at the clock. It was almost five. The music continues. England's frown becomes more severe by the second. Finally he throws his needlework aside and stands, quickly exiting the room just as a clock begins to strike five from somewhere else in the house. America's whole body tenses until England is out of the room. The second he is out of sight, America scrambles next to the phone, prepared to pick it up at a moment's notice. However, the clock continues to toll, crying out the time... and then it stops. America licks his lips nervously, mouth suddenly dry. It was past five.

Call, please call...

Vaguely, he can hear England banging on a door, voice raised angrily. "Do you hear me? If you don't stop that playing this instant I'm going to smash that damned thing to pieces!"

Please call now. Now? Now! Please, please, please!

America holds his breath and wills for the silent phone to ring.

AN: I apologize for the dying cow comment -laughs- I actually really like the bagpipes. I also really feel terrible for lil' Iggy. But I sympathize with both of their situations.