Hey everyone! Got a good one today which I grinned at like a maniac when I saw it so anyway enjoy!

Thirty-Seven: Childhood memories.

Little America always hated bedtime. Bedtime always meant being apart from England and it also meant going to sleep. He liked sleeping alright; it was what happened when he slept. He often had nightmares. And they usually involved England dying or something awful like that.

So when he would wake up, sweat covering his back, he would shiver and jump out of his bed and run into England, crying. England would comfort him and let him sleep in his bed. And then everything would be fine. Perfect even. He wished he could sleep in England's bed every night. England was the best big brother ever.

"England, England!"

The Briton opened one eye lazily to see his little brother hovering beside his bed, tears streaming down his face. He sighed.

"Come on, in you get."

England didn't even have to ask what was wrong anymore. If America was beside his bed in the middle of the night it meant he had a nightmare and England always felt bad if he told him that everything would be alright and to just go back to his own bed. So he just relented and let him sleep in his bed. It was quite adorable. He felt like a dad or something to poor, defenceless America.

"Thanks England." America would have said, crawling in beside him, "You're the best."

And with that, he would drift off to sleep, never noticing the small smile that would adorn England's face.

"America!"

America glanced up from his absurdly huge pile of letters from different countries to look at his companion.

"Were you even listening to anything I said?"

"No."

England sighed heavily.

'See this; this is why I don't like you.'

America chuckled and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sure you don't old man. I know I wouldn't let just anyone sleep in my bed. It would have to be someone I don't like."

England titled his head in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"Remember when I was younger? And I would always climb into your bed when I had nightmares?"

England glared at the American.

"Hm, yes. Back when you were sweet and innocent and not hell-bent on independence." He smirked slightly, "If I had known back then I would have kicked you out and watch you cry. And I would have laughed."

America frowned at the blonde sitting opposite him.

"Now, that's not very nice, is it? But yes, sweet and innocent I was. Still, think about it, you should be thanking me for wanting to be independent."

England raised his eyebrows. "Oh yes?" He asked challenging.

America suddenly stood up and walked around the table, pushed England back against his chair and leaned down close to him.

"Yeah," he replied dryly, "because it would be pretty sick for you to be dating your little brother."

England flushed and pushed America away from him.

"See, that's where you're wrong. Because you and I aren't dating."

America laughed at him.

"Sure, sure. What do the British call going out all the time with someone, never going a day without a phone call, kissing someone senseless- among others things," America winked at England and laughed when England scowled at him, "and being insanely jealous when that person decides, for a laugh, to chat up his little sister?"

England glared at him.

"That's called harassment. And shut up about Northern Ireland. She's a saint."

America laughed loudly then, shaking his head back and forth.

"Yeah, I'm sure France would tell you the same thing." He nudged England and the Englishman frowned.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He cried.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. But you still haven't really answered my question. If it's not dating then what?"

England's frown disappeared as he stood up and brushed his lips against America's.

'It's called being in love with someone…idiot."

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