England followed America into his spacious kitchen – tiled, white and messy.

Well…messy by England's perspective.

There were a few cups and bowls and small plates stacked in the sink whilst the dishwasher remained neglected. Various pieces of abandoned cutlery were scattered across the counter-top, accompanied be small crumbs in every shade of brown. It was enough to make England grimace and turn away, but he was sure that other (he refused to think of them as 'normal') people wouldn't bat an eyelash.

He watched as America brushed whatever the hell lived on his table off, and, to England's mild disgust, onto the floor – somehow stubbing his toe in the process. When the unnecessarily loud curses subsided, England sat down carefully in front of his steaming cup of tea, crossing one leg over the other and closed his eyes, not wishing to continue to witness the horrid state of America's kitchen. America on the other hand, threw himself down on the chair opposite and dragged it closer to the table with one foot (no doubt scraping up the floor in the process, England mused) and wrapped his overly large hands around his mug of (dare he even think it) instant coffee.

"I dunno… Just us, I guess." America's earlier statement appeared suddenly in England's mind and he gripped his cup all the tighter.

He opened his eyes to see the boy fidgeting. Really…if the silence bored him that much, he should really plan something to say in order to fill it. England chose to ignore him, as was what happened more often than not. The lad would speak. Hopefully before he tore a hole in his trousers.

"So," America began and his former caretaker nearly laughed at the predictability of it all. "Big meeting tomorrow."

England raised one eyebrow and stared critically at America. "That's really all you can think of to say," England drawled. "You and I both know that we are prepared enough not need to discuss it. I don't particularly care about the meeting – that said, I would be quite shocked if you cared about it enough to bring it up."

America whistled softly. "Geeze, England. I was just tryin' ta make conversation."

"And you failed, my lad."

England sipped his tea while America spluttered, trying to find something else to say. "Uh. 'Kaaaay. How to get that stick out of your ass?" England thought he did a perfectly splendid job of ignoring this as well. America gulped his coffee down and his eyes roamed the ceiling, his mind grasping at straws until –

"Oh, I know! Let's play those video games we never got around to playing!" America grinned at England – earnest, charming, smothering and slightly contagious –

No. No – it was just a smile.

England opened his mouth to decline – like always – then paused. He suddenly remembered how much America currently outweighed him in this little game of theirs. So he stopped, smirked and accepted. And for the second time that night America's mouth formed a perfect 'o.' And England silently revelled in his ability to make the boy this silent, this vulnerable, this submissive…

Good God – they were just video games.

England was spared a heavy mental self-berating by America's obnoxious voice. "Dude, that's so awesome! You, like, never ever wanna do anything with me – especially video games. This is gonna be sweet!"

England frowned and tried to tell the lad that, no, they did do things with each other, but America had already leapt up and was looking at England expectantly. The older Nation sighed and set his empty tea cup on the saucer, getting up to follow America to who-knew-where. The boy kept beaming like a concentrated sun, England observed.

America led the way down a set of stairs to the basement. He jumped down the last four steps and zoomed off to a set of shelves in the back corner. Crouching down, he located a massive bright green bucket overflowing with the infernal video games. He heaved it up off of the floor and set it down none too gently on a small table between the couch and the overly large television.

"Phew! Okay, Artie – which one?" He blinked up at England who cursed softly as he found himself staring.

"Don't call me that. And nothing with countless 'headshots' as you call them," England sighed.

America's mouth flopped around as if it couldn't decide whether or not it wanted to pout, fly open or speak. "Bwuh… But those games are so much fuuuuuun!" This, England doubted.

"Of course, my lad." America sometimes wondered if England was just sarcasm personified. "But if we played those games I would end up either hitting you or your precious console. Those games are so unrealistic it makes my blood boil." Apparently the concept of a smashed console snapped America out of the 'headshot game' idea. He pondered, tapping his chin. Then his eyes re-lit and he looked back at England.

"Then how 'bout Mario Kart? It's supposed to be unrealistic, plus it's just racing. Something even your old-man reflexes can handle."

"Yes, I know what Mario Kart is. And I would shut it if I were you, you git. You're arse is going to receive a sever kicking when I win."

America barked out a laugh as if this was the most absurd thing he had ever heard while he dug around in his green crate (England had decided it was large enough to be referred to as crate.) Having located the game, he pushed, pulled, and twisted various knobs and buttons on numerous devices around the telly – what looked like enough electricity to power three houses for a day.

After finishing with this tedious task, he handed a controller to England and grinned up at him. "Now wouldn't that be a surprise. Just try to pull that off, Mr. Frumpy."

England scowled at the name and tugged the controller out of America's hand. "Just you wait, boy."

I I I

"WHAT. THE. FUCK!" The controller very nearly went flying out the window after England's fourth consecutive win. England set his controller down on the couch as his game character accepted the first prize trophy.

"Well, America. Have you eaten your words yet? I do recall you being oh so confident in your video gaming abilities. But hark! 'Mr. Frumpy' has beaten you again." England leered triumphantly as America pounded his fists on the floor yet again.

"It was totally the controller. I'm not used to it," the boy said glumly. "Ah ah ah." England shook his head and waved a finger condescendingly. "I do recall switching controllers at least three times, dear boy. You had equal chances with both."

America turned to glare at him from his spot on the floor. "It's not faaaaaair! How the flying fuck could I lose to someone like you?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"You're pardoned, geeze."

"Oh, shut it. What do you mean 'someone like me'?"

America rolled his eyes and blew air through his pursed lips before answering. "You know! As in here you are with your fancy sweater vest and your perfect tie and your dress pants and your stupid, pretty socks –" America ticked a finger for each item "- and all this, this, England-ified…stuff and you actually beat me at Mario Kart which is, like, my favourite game ever! What the heeeeell?" America whined, fell silent, and pouted.

England massaged his aching fingers and gave America a look. "You think my socks are pretty?"

America laughed and his eyes twinkled in the artificial light. "Weeeell, they're prettier than mine. All black and stripey. Plus mine've got holes in 'em." He wiggled his toes – toes which England could see quite clearly through said holes – to prove his point.

When England's expression remained more painful than revolted, America looked at him struggling in vain to regain some feeling in his fingers. He frowned fleetingly and crawled over to kneel in front of him. "Here – let me." Quick as Flash Gordon, America grabbed England's fingers and pressed the pads alarmingly hard.

"Ouch," England protested. "America, what –" He tried to pull his hands away. But America refused to let go. "Hang on, dude. I know some reflexology – perfect for joint strain. It hurts at first, but it feels really good afterwards." England frowned, but let America squeeze and pull at his palms and fingers. It was a strange sensation to say the least.

"Ah… I see." England cleared his throat. "Where did you learn this?"

"I had a fried who taught me. It's supposed to cure headaches and small illnesses and stuff, but I find it just feels good. It's also performed on the feet, but…uh… you don't play video games with your toes. That'd be really cool, though."

England 'mmm'd' and sighed as a particularly nasty ache disappeared under America's careful ministrations.

"What do you mean by 'had'?"

America pressed his lips together for a brief second. "She was kinda getting too close for comfort if you know what I mean.

England sighed again. Oh how he did.

"'S okay though. We had some good times together."

England smiled slightly and gave America's hand a small squeeze. "I'm sure you did, my lad."

America's hands glided over England's now, as opposed to administrating reflexology. Like a tender touch. Like he had temporarily forgotten the never-ending feud that existed between the two of them. England wanted to forget it. At that moment he really did. He just wanted to release the tension in his shoulders and trust America's judgment in this small matter. But his mind did not work that way. Not after two hundred years of semi-separation. He narrowed his eyes slightly and jerked his hands out of and away from America's. The boy looked down at them and England thought that they looked rather empty with nothing in them –

"Haha, wow! I guess I'm nicer when I'm surprised, too. I mean, there's no way in hell I'd do that normally, haha!"

America's statement hurt England more than it should have – it shouldn't have hurt at all. But England took some comfort in how forced the lad's smile looked. Wait, no – he shouldn't even care.

England cleared his throat and nodded once, speaking stiffly. "Right. Well. I'm going to bed. We do need to actually work tomorrow."

America squeezed his eyes shut. "Ewwwww, meetings! I hate 'em."

"Well, that's too bloody bad for you, now isn't it?"

"Heeey!" America looked at his watch. "Geeeeze. Meh. I'll come up with you, I guess."

America completed his electronic knobs and buttons ritual backwards, ending by placing the green game crate back on its shelf. He smiled up at England and pushed himself up. England turned towards the stairs. "Come on then."

"Yeah, okay."

Silence.

America hit the light, plunging them into near darkness. They made their way up slowly to the next landing.

"Hey, England?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you agreed to play with me…"

"Despite you losing four times in a row?"

"Um…haha, yeah, I guess."

"…I cannot believe I'm admitting this, but I enjoyed it, as well. Kicking your arse, I mean. Not necessarily playing."

"Haha, that's cool."

They had reached the guest room (England had most certainly not purposely looked at that picture.) "So…uh…goodnight," America chirped.

"Yes, yes – sleep well and all that."

They looked at each other. And England turned to walk quickly into the (not his) room, shutting the door behind him.