England regained consciousness by means of a persistent poking on the crown of his head.

"Englaaaaaaand – wakey wakey. I let you sleep an extra half an hour 'cause I thought you'd want it, or need it – whatever. And I was gonna make you tea, but I was too lazy so you're gonna hafta do it yourself. Oh – and why are you hugging my pillow?"

England grumbled and batted the boy's hand away, slinking deeper under the covers.

"I'll…I dunno…spit on your head if you don't get up." America's voice was more obnoxious than usual, England thought drowsily. It must have just covered two octaves and every note in between –

England sat bolt upright with a grunt, almost colliding with America who had leapt back at the last second. "What time is it?"

"Uh…9:33, why?"

"Because I do not wish to be late on your behalf, America."

England looked down at the pillow he was currently clutching to his chest and flung it aside as if it had burned him. "I…I really do not know how that got there." "'Kay, well, I don't really care, but could'ja leave so I can change?" England stared at him. Oh. Right. Clothes. For the meeting. "Yes, yes, of course." England mumbled to himself and all but leapt out of America's bed (in the most gentlemanly manner) and out the door without looking back.

"See you downstairs then," America called down after him. The slamming of the door was all the answer he received.

After a hasty shower and an even hastier dressing, England tried once more – unsuccessfully – to make his hair lie flat. He paused to look at himself in the small mirror hanging over the dresser. Bright green eyes stared back at him – surrounded by scruffy blond hair, a scowl and…well. Eyebrows. Let's not dwell on that. All in all, England thought – mundane and not very extraordinary. His looks, that is, not his 'political status.' He scoffed, turned away and walked stormily out of his room. No, no the room - and down the stairs, eyes flicking to that picture before focusing on the steps once again. He checked his watch, and, since there was still time enough, went to make himself a cup of tea.

He was combing through the top cupboards, cursing at his inability to locate teabags among the mess of other items when America walked in. "Tea's in the drawer right below you," he said breezily."

England made an exasperated noise. "Why the blazes would you put tea there?"

"So you can reach it." America laughed and ducked as a teabag flew over his head.

"Fuck you." England didn't notice America wince behind him.

They fell into a strained silence. And the damned metal kettle took forever to heat. America checked his watch. "We'd better get going, dude. Traffic can get pretty unpredictable around here." England nodded and gingerly poured the hot water into the to-go mug, muttering something about electric kettles that America didn't really care about.

They shrugged on their heavy coats (it was just before New Year's Day) and walked out the door, America locking it behind him. He walked halfway down the driveway to the car before pivoting to retrieve the keys he had left in the lock. England resisted the urge to laugh and drummed his fingers on the hood of the car, waiting impatiently for America to unlock it. He did and England climbed into the passenger seat of a sleek silver Lexus ES-330, balancing his mug in one hand and nearly spilling it when America jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

England shot him a look. "Do try to be more careful."

"Yes, Dad. Geeze, England – it's my car – I can treat it however the hell I want to."

England chose not to reply and drank his tea while America reversed out of the driveway and drove out onto the road. The silence stretched on, the gentle hum of the engine not doing much to ease the tension. They had both put on their seatbelts a while ago and England rested his head on the strap; he looked out the window and sipped his tea occasionally.

The silence swelled…

"Hey, England…"

…And shattered.

England desperately wished he were somewhere else. "Yes?"

"Um. Are you alright?"

How England really wished he were somewhere else. "I'm perfectly fine," he replied shortly.

America blew air from between him lips and glanced at England before turning back to face the road. "Okaaaay…'cause I can kinda tell that you're not." England set his now empty to-go mug down on the mat at his feet and made a great show of adjusting his tie. "…That's good on you, boy."

Take the bloody hint…

"Uh. So – what's the matter?"

It's you – it's always you and your face and your smile and your fleeting flashes of kindness – it's you, you stupid, charming, obnoxious, endearing, confusing –

"Just…don't trouble yourself over me."

America stopped at a red light and raised an eyebrow at the Nation sitting next to him. "Dude, stop putting yourself down so much. It can't be good for you. Plus, how'm I supposed to help if I dunno what's wrong?" England shifted in his seat and looked out the window at the shops, not yet opened. "…There have just…been too many surprises as of late. They have succeeded in leaving me in a state of confusion. An emotion I don't particularly enjoy feeling."

America was silent as he pulled into the private parking lot, showing his I.D. to the man in the booth. He parked and turned off the engine with a neat flick of his wrist. "Listen…"

England cut him off. "Don't worry about me America. I'm…used to it. And we are here now. It's time to work." And with that, England opened his door, collected his paperwork, and set off towards the building. He didn't look back to check if America was following. Soon enough, though, America's car beeped and the Nation himself jogged up behind England to walk beside him.

Thankfully, the boy remained silent.

I I I

The first section of the meeting passed without many major insults, thrown objects (or people) or shouting. Which was a nice change. When asked (mocked) about the Incident with the Decorative Sword, England opted to either ignore the insolent Nation or punch them in the face. Apparently…that Nation…Canada had already arrived because America had bulldozed over to him and slapped him heartily on the back, jabbering away. England silently applauded the poor lad. It must have taken years of self-training not to make a painful exclamation at such an impact.

Eventually, after everyone had filed in (China arrived late), the meeting started.

England hated to admit it, but he zoned out for many of the presentations, only becoming alert and professional for his part of the meeting. He hoped no one noticed.

Finally, unfortunately, it was time for lunch. Unfortunately, because America was disentangling himself from France (not literally disentangling, but why France?) and looking around. He caught sight of England and jogged over, smiling as he went. England nodded curtly in his direction and his smile faltered, fading fast by the time he reached the moody Nation.

"Um…hey. So – I get it. You don't wanna talk. That's cool. And, uh. I guess what I did last night was a little…well. I thought it was nice, but I guess you didn't, so… I'll leave you alone now since that's totally the message you're sending me, 'kay?"

Without giving England a chance to answer, America turned and walked out the door. Flustered, England gaped after him and angrily grabbed his wallet off of the table (why was he so angry, anyway?) and stomped resignedly out the door.

"Am – Alfred! Alfred, wait!" But the lad was not to be found. "Damn it all."

After one last look around, England drew his coat tightly around his shoulders, turned to the left and walked down the sidewalk to an English pub he knew existed somewhere down the street. He had walked for about five minutes when he spotted the Union Jack sticking out on a pole over the walk. Thirty seconds later he was pushing open the door of Manchester Arms and out of the cold. He sat at a table and ordered ale and a Yorkshire pudding from a plump waitress and promptly put his head in his hands.

Was America being serious or did he actually think…no – England himself didn't even know what to think anymore. All he knew was that, no matter how much he denied it, his relationship with America was changing and changing rapidly.

"Sir?"

England looked up quickly to see the waitress carrying his order. He smiled charmingly and said his thanks, accepting the plate and glass mug. She hovered, smiling bemusedly. "Everthin' okay, sir?" She spoke with a Bronx accent – a little part of America. England exhaled and looked up at her, his eyes softly uncertain. "I'm not too sure at the moment, luv. But I hope it will be." She seemed genuinely concerned. "Aww, that sucks… Good luck, I guess. And enjoy yer food."

"Thank you kindly."

She nodded and resumed her post behind the bar, chatting aimlessly with the other customers.

England moodily tucked into his pudding. Alone. Which certainly did not bother him whatsoever. He had finished about half of his meal (rather half-heartedly) when the door to the pub opened. England heard a distinctly human-sounding squeak and looked up just in time to see the back of Nantucket and America's shoes disappear back out the door. Hardly a second had passed and England was on his feet and out the door after him.

"Alfred! Bloody hell – I know you're out here!"

And soon enough - in the next alleyway he passed - England saw America plastered against the wall, grinning sheepishly. He also wore no coat. England saw this and practically dragged him by his freezing cold wrist back into the pub where he sat him down at the table, unbuttoning his own coat and throwing it over the boy's shivering shoulders. He pushed his plate out of the way and sat down across from him – the look was given.

"What the hell was that?" England tried to glower, but was hopelessly distracted by the way America clutched at the coat. "And why the hell don't you have your coat with you?"

America grinned weakly, his lips a faint shade of blue. "W-well – I kinda left in a hurry, so I forgot it…"

England frowned. "Which brings me back to my first question: What was that?" He gestured to the doorway.

"Oh, uh – yeah. Haha – I don't usually say shit like…like I did in the meeting place, so I just wanted to make sure you'ere okay…" America trailed off and one hand appeared from the depths of England's jacket to scratch his nose. "But I didn't really, um, plan in advance if I were to see you. So, haha, I did and I kinda freaked 'cause I really don't know what you're thinking most of the time, Arthur."

He sniffed and England assumed it was because of the cold. He huffed. "…Indeed. At least you're warm now." He even allowed a small half-smile.

"Wow, I guess you can actually be compassionate sometimes."

England immediately went on the defensive – one, because compassionate was exactly what he wanted to avoid seeming and two, America had said it with such a discarding nature –

"Oh, yes – quite a surprise would you not agree," England muttered scathingly, his smile long gone. He all but ripped out the American money to pay for his (half-eaten) food (stupid bills all looking the same.)

"No, wait – wait! I didn't mean it like that," America protested and laid a hand on England's wrist.

England stopped and stared coldly into America's eyes. "You see – that's the thing – I can never tell what you are thinking either, Alfred and it positively drives me up the wall. Keep the coat, I have my vest on." And with that, England wrenched his arm out of America's grasp and stalked out, raising a hand of farewell to the waitress, her confused expression a contrast to his of hopelessness.

"Damn it…"

America hit the back of his head against the booth, wishing he could be in a western movie with all those cowboys and trains because everything always worked out in western movies. He eyed England's some-sort-of-pudding (he could never remember the different puddings) and considered eating it. No – it was English – gross. America pouted for a couple of seconds before properly pulling on England's coat. It smelled like him. Well, duh, it was his.

"Sir?" It was the waitress. "Um. Yer friend. 'E seemed kinda sad. I sure hope you kin finda way to cheer 'im up!" America smiled despite the situation. "I'll definitely try my best." He gave her a two fingered salute and walked out the door. England wasn't there.

You didn't honestly expect him to be here, did you? Was what America told himself. But in reality…he had kinda then his stomach growled. Right. Lunch. England? But no, the Brit was totally not wanting to see him. Not after what he did… What exactly did he do, again? America sighed. Maybe he could think better with a full stomach. Yeah, that aaaaalways helped. Food was da bomb. So he walked in the direction of the nearest McDonald's, kicking at patches of snow and thinking about England the entire way.

AN - Yeah...I hate American money, too, Arthur. :)

One day I'm going to write about the Incident with the Decorative Sword...

And - I know that there would probably be the 'normal' English flag (with the red cross [Saint George's Cross, as I've been recently told]) on English pubs, but the Union Jack is so much more badass. Speaking of pubs. The one in this story is based off... okay - is an exact replica of an English pub in my town. Sans the Union Jack.

...These boys are so annoying. :D

Het = Hidekaz Himaruya.