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Four: Insanity

"What the hell is wrong with me?" America groaned in a heavy sigh, raking fidgety fingers through his blonde locks. Twin orbs of light blue flickered to and fro, searching out the familiar streak of blonde and green as one Arthur Kirkland raced to his sister's house.

Every morning, England would get up, get dressed and then without realising it, was late like clockwork to meet with his sister and their two brothers. Not that she minded exactly because she was usually sleeping or doing something or er, someone else. What got America's mind reeling was the speed that England would fly at down the streets at, to get to Northern Ireland's house. It was incredible.

America shook his head at the thought. "How on earth does he do it? If all the demons of hell were on his tail, I bet he'd still be able to outrun them... Crap, and now I'm talking aloud. First sign of madness..."

Madness indeed.

Why else would he be staked out on this corner? Why else would he have memorized the exact trajectory England's body took, and placed himself directly in the line of fire; the path of collision?

There was no other plausible explanation other than a very premature onset of insanity.

Soon, the men in white coats will be coming to my door, for God's sake!

But of course, psychiatrists might beg to differ...they like to do that. To any individual but Alfred Jones himself, the intention was obvious; the motive, clear. Diagnosis would've been swift, had the fellow decided his affliction necessitated medical insight: America was suffering from a textbook case of love-sickness. You all know the symptoms: dizzy, weak knees. Heart palpitations. Obsession.

And a certain annoying habit of insulting your crush the second his handsome and perfect visage popped into view. Or maybe that's just America.

Damn, damn, damn! I am mad!

Well... we'll have to concede on that point. Really, it was almost pathetic the lengths to which America went just to be in contact with the Brit, and he knew it. Acutely, achingly aware of it, more like.

And so... here he was, infatuated fool lurking in the shadows of a building, in Belfast City Centre trying to be inconspicuous so as to lay the blame on England. Because what the heck else would spurt from his mouth if not a gibe about his lack of awareness to things around him? "I'm not a stalker, old man... really, I'm not! If... if you ignore the fact that I seem to position myself so you'll crash into me, just so I can feel your warm body against mine for one perfect, infinitesimal second... then no, I'm not a stalker. I'm not obsessed about you. I don't have trouble falling asleep because I'm so anxious to hear your voice, even if it's in anger! Yep, I'm just as s-a-n-e as can be!"

Again. I'm talking aloud again! England, you really are going to be the death of me.

It was actually pretty humorous if America stopped and thought about it. This was the sixth time in a week and a half and England had 'by mistake' crashed into America while America insulted him and told him he was such an idiot for not looking where he was going. Of course an argument had ensued after every one of these 'accidental meetings' and America had cherished each one of them.

Giving a groan of annoyance, America peeked out onto Donegal Street for any sign of England. This is later than usual! Where was he?

"What are you doing?"

America whirled around and squinted into the darkness of the alleyway. But he knew who it was, even when they revealed themselves. It was accent he was hearing all morning from passers-by.

Northern Ireland walked slowly into the light of dreary morning fog and raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement on her features. Still dressed in her pyjamas with just a union-jack hoodie over the top, the young nation eyed up her friend sceptically.

"Northern Ireland! Fancy meeting you here!" America squeaked, cursing his voice for going so high.

"Yes. Fancy meeting me in my own capital." She drawled sarcastically, "Strange though, why you would be so far away from home this early in the morning, hm?"

America chuckled nervously but he froze as his ears suddenly perked up and he knew immediately that he was approaching.

"I'm really sorry Northern Ireland but I don't have time to-"

"Instead of being a creepy stalker and crashing into my brother every morning, how about asking him out like a normal person?"

America gaped at his obsession's sister.

"You know-?"

Northern Ireland rolled her eyes, "Yes. And so does he."

And without warning, she jumped forward and pushed him onto on the street, colliding with someone in the process.

"Dear Lord, I'm sorry, I didn't see you th-Oh. It's you."

America glared into the alleyway but Northern Ireland was gone. He didn't really care though. It was these few blissful seconds each morning that he cherished. To hold England close to his body because of course no matter how fast England was running, he could never actually mow America down; the hero was way too strong. So here he was, holding him in his arms, heart beating faster than-

"Do you mind letting go of me, you fool?"

America shot away from the Brit like he'd been burnt. England pursed his lips at the American and America had to restrain himself for not jumping on him there and then.

"You know, this is getting a bit ridiculous but it's not like I have the time to stand here and ask you why the hell you're in Belfast and have been for the past week and a half." England snapped, swatting at his dark, blue suit, trying to get some creases out.

"Um, I'm sightseeing." America chirped, throwing a hand through his hair.

"Yes, because it's not like you haven't seen all this a hundred times before. And strange that you seem to be sightseeing the same place every morning." England muttered, raising his eyebrows at blonde-haired nation.

America tried and failed to form a coherent sentence.

"Goodness America and I thought maybe today you might have had to courage to ask me out, with Emily telling you so and everything." He made a slight tsking sound and America's jaw dropped, "Well, I must be off, places to go, people to see." He smiled smugly at the gaping American and said, "Maybe tomorrow, hm?"

And with that, he was gone, flying down the high-street before turning left and out of sight.

America stood in the middle of the street, flabbergasted. Then suddenly remembering what England had said, smiled awkwardly before turning in the direction of his hotel.

Ok then. Tomorrow it is.

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