America gazed keenly at the door, long after England had closed it. His mind buzzed.

Wait. What? Whoa. 'Kay. Go away. 'Cause it was probably weird to hang around England's bedroom door after he had gone to sleep. Haha. This, America reasoned and pivoted, marching across the hall to his room to sleep and not think about how smooth England's hands were. 'Cause that would also be creepy.

Maybe he would re-read volume three of Captain America. That'd be fun.

After reaching his room and searching high and low, he finally located his starry P.J.'s under his bed and threw them on. He then took a running jump and belly-flopped into his cushy, queen-sized bed (which was weird 'cause he was totally not a queen) and buried his head in the multiple pillows, sighing contentedly.

Only then did the full weight of tonight actually hit him. Like a rusty old Dodge Caravan with no breaking fluid. England was here. In his house. In one of his beds. That wasn't supposed to happen. He didn't mind, of course. This was kick-ass! After so many blatant refusals, England was finally here…in his house…

"Maybe he wants company," America mumbled into his pillows. But it was kind of 11:00 and four in the morning in British time and company was probably the last thing England wanted. America rolled off of the bed anyway. Too bad what England thought.

I want company and England's the only one here, so there.

So America exited his bedroom and walked purposely over to England's. He raised a hand to knock on the door…and then lowered it. And raised it. And lowered it. And raised –

"I know you're out there, moron. Come in if you must."

America couldn't help but grin because he knew England didn't mean it and that made it all the funnier.

"Kay!"

He opened the door to find England propped up against the pillows, his lower half under the covers (for a moment America thought he wasn't wearing pants until he remembered that that would be so totally not England.) He was reading a book that looked like it came from the sixteenth century. They made eye contact and America grinned again. His original grin had never really gone away, so it basically just got bigger.

"What do you want," England asked wearily.

"Nothing really…just to chill."

England snorted and America sighed. "Dude, I'm being serious! I haven't seen you in, like, forever. How can you expect me not to bug you?"

England carefully marked his page in the ratty old thing he called a book and placed it pointedly on the table as if demonstrating how much worse off his life would be now that America had entered it. America fidgeted and eventually pointed to the bed.

"Can I sit?"

"May you sit?"

"Yeah – that's what I said – get your ears checked, old man."

England really didn't have the heart to tell him to shut it. He rolled his eyes and nodded and America wasted no time in shuffling over to make himself comfortable on the right side of the bed. He pretended neither to notice, nor care when England shifted as far away from him as possible without falling off the bed.

"What," England grouched, "could you possibly want at 11:30 the night before a big meeting?"

America rolled his eyes. Really. So pessimistic. "Like I saaaaaaid: I just wanna chill. I haven't seen you in aaaages. And…yeah, pretty much." He smacked his lips together and England wrinkled his nose. "Right. Fine. We shall 'chill'."

"Yay!" America sneakily settled himself a little closer to England. He didn't really know why, but he just wanted to, so he did. He was a total ninja.

"So what've you been up to that's been keeping ya so busy, Artie?"

"Arthur." England frowned and kneaded his forehead with the knuckles on one hand. He spoke with the air of an Undertaker or something depressing like that, America thought.

"For one thing, Greece's dwindling economy certainly isn't helping Europe's financial status – mine included. Oh, and France has been calling me non-stop for advice on how to control his people." He inhaled deeply. "He's such a coward. I cannot tell him how to speak to his own country when I'm positively swamped with my own work as it is."

America smiled, wishing England would open his eyes to see it and punched him lightly on the upper arm. He even made sure that it was really, really, super lightly so England wouldn't get mad at him and gripe about his crazy-awesome strength. 'Cause that had happened before. "Hey. Relax, man. You've got one more night of work free-ness." England twitched. "Yes – in which I was hoping to use to sleep." America ploughed on. "So don't talk about the economy or France or shit like that here."

The younger Nation studied England – his fingers trailing loosely through his messy blond hair and his eyes still closed. He was suddenly gripped by the weird urge to comfort the bugger.

"Hey," he said again. "I know exactly what you mean. My people are still struggling. And me along with 'em."

At this, England's shoulders relaxed slightly and America, satisfied with this result, closed his eyes along with England and leaned back on the pillows.

"I suppose you are…right," England muttered. "But you yourself tend to slack off when it comes to the actual paperwork."

America 'pffft'd' and a piece of hair dislodged itself from behind his ear to float over his forehead. "Haha, yeah – I guess you're right, too."

"Of course I am."

"And stuck-up."

"I would think that that particular attribute would be more suited to your personality, brat."

"Shuddup."

America grinned and maybe because he was crazy or fucked-up or randomly spontaneous or perhaps some strange combination of all three, he decided to lean to the side and rest his head on the top of England's shoulder. Don't be frumpy, don't be prudish, and don't be frumpy, frumpy, frumpy… He mentally cursed when England immediately stiffened, but America stubbornly refused to lift his head. After a long, uncomfortable silence, England spoke. "Alfred…why do you…" For the first time in a long time, England found that he could not finish his sentence.

America seemed to get it, though. He shifted upon England's shoulder (Alfred, huh?) and answered. "Trust me, man – I've been asking myself the same friggin' question and… I don't really know. There's just something about you…that, uh. I guess I just like knowing you're around. I worry about you sometimes."

England tensed again (shit, what did I do now?) and replied tersely, "that's not what you implied in the basement."

Oh.

"Yeah, well. I lied."

…Oh.

"Did you now?" England's voice was soft as he continued. "How is it that you can be so honest, Alfred?"

America yawned. "I dunno… I just find it's easier y'know?" You won't always know whether or not the result'll be good or bad, but at least you know you told the truth. I just work with it."

England 'hmmm'd.' That reminds me of a pixie back home. She said you would be happy if I saw you."

"…Smart chick."

"She is not a 'chick'," England protested mildly and brushed back a piece of America's hair that had been tickling his neck for a while previous. America made a contented noise in the back of his throat and for some stupid reason, England took that as an invitation to continue. America's last conscious memory was that of England's fingers running idly through his hair. That and – Score! I get to sleep in the same bed with England!

England sighed and opened his eyes. "When were you planning on leaving, my lad?" He looked blearily to his left and groaned when his vision was greeted by an open-mouthed, almost drooling Alfred Jones.

Just lovely.

This sudden flash of exasperation reminded England of his current situation: lying in the same bed with this idiot. He was just about to complete a full body turn and give the boy a hearty smack to the noggin, but stopped as an unexpected wave of compassion swept over him. Stupid boy. Stupid young man. It was precisely because America was no longer a child anymore that this could not be allowed to happen. But England wasn't cruel enough to wake him, despite past instances. He would just have to move.

He gently eased America's head off of his shoulder and lowered him down until he was lying securely on his back. He then turned to leave. And turned back. "Tch." It was the lad's own damn fault that he had chosen to sit on top of the covers. England ended up folding his side of the covers over America's sleeping form and removed Texas from his nose, folding the glasses and placing them on the bedside table.

Finally, he left because if he stayed any longer, he had a suspicion that he wouldn't be able to leave. And he had to. He didn't think he could handle sleeping in the same bed as America – not now. He turned off the light and shut the door quietly behind him, trying in vain to find a reason behind these foolish actions.

The now exhausted Nation wandered the hallway, searching for any other guest rooms – any at all, so he wouldn't have to sleep in America's bed. Of course, he found none. And of course, this meant the only other bed he knew the location of was America's. It wasn't that he disliked the boy. But things were suddenly becoming very confusing – too baffling for England's refined, defined tastes.

He closed the door behind him and moved towards the bed, kicking aside comic books and action figures as he went. This young man couldn't possibly be anymore juvenile. After a bit of fiddling, England managed to set America's alarm clock – in the shape of the Empire State Building – for 9:00 the following morning (thank the Fae that the meeting wasn't until 11:00.)

England snorted. The following morning? Ha. Not anymore.

He slid under the overly plush blankets (everything in this house was 'overly' now, wasn't it?) and reached across the bed to turn off the lamp. His head hit the pillow.

Oh.

The bed smelled overly of America.

England sighed and wondered how, exactly, he knew what America smelled like. He breathed deeply and told himself firmly that this was because he was tired and not because apparently America smelled nice. His head disappeared beneath the covers, only the top fringe of his bright blond hair showing. He swallowed and had to fight back the ridiculous urge to cry at the sheer stupidity of the situation. It was only a game of surprises. But now it had turned into something slightly scary.

England clutched the blankets, squeezed his eyes shut and fell into an uneasy slumber.

AN - Derp. That is all. And Hetalia still belongs to Hidekazzzzz Himaruyaaaaa.