Narrator:
England's house hadn't really changed since America was a child. Sure, his room had been emptied and redecorated, as well as Canada's and India's, but essentially, nothing had changed. The walls were a pale cream, formal, and regal like their owner, but also with a hidden warmth. There were decorative doilies and plants and the furniture was made of old and well-loved dark wood. Nothing had been moved. The only things which showed the signs of age were the oriental carpets which had once been stiff and new, but now were soft and worn. As the front door opened and allowed the men inside, America was hit with a wall of memories. He remembered how he used to sit at that table when it was shiny and new and have tea and crumpets at the same time every day with England. He looked from the front entrance in to the living room where a Christmas tree had sat every winter and he remembered decorating it the first winter that Canada stayed with them. He remembered holding Canada up as best as he could so he could place the bright red bulbs on the higher branches, and when they fell asleep by the fire, waiting for Santa. He remembered all the laughter, love, and pain that this house had held. It felt so strange to be back, he thought as he slipped off his shoes, still looking around.
"Come on in, I'll get some drinks. Wot's everyone's fancy?"
"Wine would be lovely, Angleterre," France smiled.
"Whatever's fine," said Canada.
"Yeah, whatever you're having," America agreed. Anything, so long as it wasn't vodka. America shook that thought from his head as England retrieved a bottle of wine and a bottle of rum along with four glasses. He placed them on the living room end table and served them carefully. France's wine was poured in to a delicate wine glass and the others had a hearty cup of rum. England handed the glasses to their new owners and urged them to take a seat on the living room couches. America and France sat down on the long couch facing the fireplace and Canada sat himself delicately on a nearby armchair. They chatted amicably, refilling their drinks many times, for over the years, the nations had all learned the benefits of alcohol in the toughest times. For America and Canada, beer was a way of life which bonded their peoples together. Rum had a long history in England, and in France, the wine poured as freely as water.
They appreciated the subtle numbness spreading across their bodies, and conversation changed from playful and robust to relaxed and quiet. Canada had begun nodding off to sleep, having already consumed enough alcohol to kill a large elk, and the others were sinking lazily down in to their chairs. England watched Canada tiredly, deciding that it was time to take the poor boy to bed.
"How far are your hotels from here?" France and America looked at each other.
"Quite a ways, actually."
"Yes, mine too."
"Tha's what I figured. Why don't you all just stay here tonight and head home in the morning?" America glanced at Canada and laughed.
"Haha, sure. It doesn't look like Mattie's going anywhere anyway."
England smiled at America and stood, walking over to the sleeping Canadian.
"Mattieu, let me take you to bed."
"Hnnh?" He asked, awakening slowly.
"Come on, get up you big oaf," England chided playfully, guiding the drunken blond from his chair and up the stairs. "You can sleep in the guest room."
Canada and England disappeared up the stairs and France took a slow sip of wine. He swallowed decidedly and set his glass on the table. America watched him, drowsily curious.
"America…"
"Hmm?"
"Do you love him?"
America alerted immediately, eyes growing wide. "W-who?" He asked gracelessly.
"Russia…" France whispered, eyes locked on the younger nation's and burning with intensity. America stared, startled and mesmerized before he replied.
"W-What? Why would you think that? I haven't had anything to do with him beyond an occasional spat since the Cold War," he lied, eyes turning toward the carpet.
"You're lying." America flinched. "You were with him, weren't you? That's where you were… Russia."
"I…I—"
"What happened between you? What did he do to you?"
"N-Nothing. I… He just… He saved me," America whispered, quiet as a secret. France took a deep breath and sighed.
"That's what I thought."
"That was it though… I-I don't have feelings for him or anything. No way in Hell!" France didn't say anything, just watched America carefully. America turned away, ashamed, pretending that he just found a sudden interest in the design on the carpet.
"He loves you, you know." America didn't say anything, just hummed silently, ignoring the nervous warmth, burning hotly in his chest. "He always has… since you were little." America felt his chest tighten painfully. Clearly, this wasn't going to just disappear. He looked to France, ready to say something when France stood. America's mouth sat open, ready to start and finding the words when France interrupted him.
"This isn't something I can help you with, Alfred. You have to figure it out for yourself. Do you love him?" He turned around, taking the empty bottle of wine and his glass with him to the kitchen and placing both the bottle and the glass in the sink. America heard the water run, his mouth still hanging open with a question he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.