AUTHOR: snowyfoxpaws

8th of November, 2014 - Spark

"America, do you think I'm unattractive?"

The question took the nation by surprise, mostly because it had come out of seemingly nowhere. America gaped before he had the mind to close his mouth, his teeth pinching the edge of his lip as he was flooded with feelings. England looked small and strange and distressed, brows quirked, the two of them the only ones currently occupying the break room. They weren't really friends, just sort of allies, so he had no idea what he was supposed to say. But England looked worried and the question hinged so much so on the other nation's self-esteem that he couldn't help but feel a very real twist in his chest.

America exhaled a breath.

"Um, I guess so. You know, in an... English sort of way..." He said, trailing off vaguely, his reassurance built on nothing more than the distant notion that he was supposed to be evaluating the man's appearance right now and that was short-circuiting his brain.

England's expression shifted from fleeting insecurity to one of resignation. "Oh..." He said, interpreting what most probably would have from that statement-a discrete 'yeah, you kind of are unattractive, but I don't want to say it directly'.

And then the man just walked away, tea in hand, looking like he'd lost some kind of internal battle.

America didn't know what to think.

It had started as just an innocent little question and one he really should have forgotten about. England quickly went back to normal, arguing with France and picking at China and making snide remarks towards Spain. America should have let the whole thing go.

But he just couldn't because it made him realize that England had come along way since they'd last been close.

Before, he had been so arrogant that a question like that would have been scoffed away. Who cared about attraction if you had an iron grip on the world? Power was sexy, right? So even if there were doubts, he could compensate.

Yet now there was none of that. Yeah, sure, England liked to occasionally remind the world that, at one point or another, he'd ruled over a good lot of them, although as more and more time passed by he only really resorted to that if goaded. But it didn't seem like there was any real pride behind it anymore. He just said it because everyone expected him to.

And when America noticed this it began to bother him.

England wasn't the same.

England wanted to be liked.

The more America thought about it, the more it made sense. He'd changed, but his history would always be what it was. He wanted friends, but he had few redeeming qualities personality-wise. He was stubborn and ill-tempered and quick to anger and belligerent and defensive and as prickly as a porcupine and-

-and he was unhappy.

So America decided to sit by him at the next meeting.

There were no assigned seats for this conference so he'd just surveyed the table before plopping down into the chair next to everyone's favourite sourpuss, settling in as scrutinizing eyes studied him, clearly wondering why he would chose that seat when so many others were available.

America just looked up at him, grinned, and said, "Hey, you don't mind if I sit here, right?"

To his surprise, England flushed red at the question. "I... suppose not." He mumbled, appearing determined to ignore him now, as though this anomaly was too complicated for him to want to try to understand.

It was such a little thing.

A year later he asked the man out to lunch during another meeting. England had leveled him with suspicion, saying, "You're just going to that god awful fast food restaurant, aren't you?"

America had laughed, "You can pick where we eat if you want."

The man's eyes widened at that, green flecked with a glimmering sheen that he often didn't see when it was always hidden beneath a scowl. Then they narrowed again as England countered with, "What is this about?"

He rolled his eyes. "Food? Now, c'mon, let's go! I'm starved."

It was really a tiny thing. Not much effort at all.

"America, I'm afraid my hotel has overbooked. Do you have any recommendations for an alternate location?"

"Dude, just come stay at my house! It'd be no problem!"

Such small, effortless acts.

"What is this?"

"It's a Christmas present. You don't want it?"

"Well, I don't know..."

"Hey, don't be a scrooge! Just take it!"

And yet, bit by bit, it all added up, like quarters filling up a jar for a rainy day.

"Is this really necessary, America?"

"Hey, you sounded like you were dying on the phone. It's just chicken soup! I figured if you made it yourself you'd get food poisoning too and I wouldn't wish that on anyone!"

"Hey!"

How had it all come to this? When had it happened? America wasn't even sure himself. Before he knew it, his heart would skip in his chest at the sound of that cutely accented voice, his palms would sweat when they walked too close to one another, and his emotions would swell whenever he managed to fish up a little smile or a kind word.

On that first day, he hadn't found England unattractive.

In fact, quite the opposite.

And he'd had no idea how to cope with the fact that he never wanted to see such a sad, crushed look on the other man's face ever again. It had ignited something inside of him. He wanted to see him smile and laugh. He wanted nothing more than to make him happy.

Now, chests flush, lips heated, limbs tangled, there was no going back.

Like a moth to a flame, he was caught.

America was irrevocably in love with England.