Chapter Text
England could agree that, in theory, the meetings between nations could be good for many number of reasons. It could help reestablish and reaffirm global unity and enforce individual relations between nations by forcing contact between them. Even if the nations themselves weren’t granted legislative or military power, and had to answer to their bosses, there could be a lot said for being able to come together and discuss issues as an international, mutual effort.
Of course, that was all well and good provided people actually got along.
It was the third meeting that week that’d lasted only about fifteen minutes before descending into political chaos and mudslinging. And England hated the headaches these meetings caused him more than anything else in the world. Everyone shouting at one another, sometimes physical violence (no matter how good the security, Switzerland seemed to always find a way to sneak in a gun or two).
Tapping his pen absently against the papers in front of him, England cushioned his chin in his hand and sighed. Normally, he’d be right up there with the rest of them, arguing and bickering—especially with America, who, as always, was off spouting stupid, foolish things—but he was just too tired. Exhausted and worn-thin, England had little patience for this kind of ridiculousness.
Most, if not all, of the nations present looked ill—battling colds or wounds or just looking as exhausted as England felt. They were in a recession and it seemed that things were only getting worse over time, if the cynical aspect won out England’s mindset. Perhaps that’s what lead to the fighting and the general feeling of crabbiness among all the nations.
Well, England was tired of it.
He rubbed the base of his hand against his forehead, letting out a loud, insufferable sigh as the bickering and political posturing continued.
---
By the fifth meeting, everyone was ready to start a new war, it seemed. No one could say anything civil. Not that that was too different from most of their meetings, but in particular the last week had been rather vicious, even for someone like England, who was far too used to fighting with his siblings to usually notice or even care about bickering in meetings.
Perhaps that was why England found himself wanting to stay in his hotel room and not leave at all. Hidden beneath the cover of his large comforter, he squished his face against his pillow and let out another sigh and the softest of curses. His phone kept ringing, probably his boss or civil servants or possibly Scotland calling (because he always seemed to have a sixth sense to call whenever England was unhappy and make it so, so much worse). His boss had actually suggested that perhaps England should take a few days off, to relax. It seemed that it was evident to everyone he worked for that he was exhausted, more so than usual.
On his bedside table, his cell phone flashed at him, beeping every so often to let him know he had voicemails waiting.
He turned off his phone.
---
“And where the heck do you think you’re going?” a voice called out behind him.
England paused, rental car key in hand and his customary frown on his lips. He hesitated, debating whether or not to keep walking and pretend that he hadn’t heard anyone calling out to him. But, he knew that was a foolish thing to do, considering the voice belonged to America and if England dared to ignore America then he’d have an even louder, more obnoxiously whining America to deal with, and England’s throbbing head just couldn’t handle that. He turned around to face the younger nation.
“What?” he asked, because this seemed like the reasonable thing to ask, and a good way to avoid America’s question. He spoke with a more accusatory tone than he’d intended, but made no sign on his face that it was, “What are you, my nanny all of a sudden?”
“You just whipped out of there,” America shrugged, hands in his pockets—the very picture of nonchalance, despite the smallest vein of curiosity in his tone that America could never truly be rid of, no matter how hard he tried. “I thought if you were going to McDonald’s I’d just hitch a ride with you. I want a milkshake.”
“I’m so sure,” England muttered, rubbing his temple and trying to banish away the reworkings of a throbbing headache, compounding the one he’d gotten three days ago and still had yet to leave him. He sighed. “I wasn’t going to get fast food,” he relented. “I was just going to… drive.”
“Drive,” America repeated, as if England had suggested something absurd. “Look, I always liked just driving around and stuff but you know that gas is kinda expensive right now and—”
“I don’t care,” England balked, arms crossed. He turned away, trying to get away from America and hoping that the blatant dismissal wouldn’t be lost on the boy. But, predictably, America kept on his tail, much to England’s chagrin.
“Why do you want to drive?” America asked, following after him. “Where will you go? There are some nice parks on the other side of the river, but… if you’re going to go to a bar, it’d probably be better to just take the subway, knowing you.”
England shook his head. “I just need to clear my head.”
America let out a soft sigh that caused England to pause. America, too, looked just as haggard as everyone else in the building, in some ways more so. When England turned back to look at him, the other nation was rubbing the back of his neck, his lips quirked downwards as he thought.
“I guess you’re pretty sick of everything going on in there, too, huh?” America asked.
“I’ve blocked most of it out at this point,” England said with grit teeth as he recalled the last few days. He began walking again and America trotted to his side to walk along beside him. They walked in a thoughtful silence for a moment before England said, “I just need a break. That was the last meeting for a while and I don’t particularly want to get on a plane right away and fly back home. So I figured I’d just drive.”
They were reaching England’s car now and America stopped abruptly. Taken off guard, England stopped suddenly as well, swiveling to look at the nation and see what’d caused him pause.
“You mean that kinda drive?” America asked, looking surprised. “Like, a really long drive?”
“Yes,” England said. He scratched his chin, feeling self-conscious under America’s scrutiny and feeling even more self-conscious for feeling self-conscious (why should he care what the daft fool thought?). “I figured I’d just drive around—get out of the city.”
“So like a road trip?” America asked, perking up a little.
England eyed him, not sure if he much liked the boy’s expression. He cleared his throat. “Yes. I suppose. I’d be nice to drive on my own.”
He hoped the stress would not be lost on America. But he should have known better.
America perked up even more, grinning his bright smile that never seemed to leave America’s face, even when he was trying to be serious (which was a rare enough occurrence). That perpetually earnest expression never truly left his eyes, always sunshine and optimism shining except only in the worst of times, and even then, only temporarily.
“Cool! I’ll go with you!” he said, enthusiastic to a fault.
England let out a soft sigh. “If it’s all the same, America… I don’t think I want company right now.”
“No way. You are not allowed to go on a spontaneous road trip through my country without me, England.” America looked slightly put out by the mere suggestion, and there was a flash of hurt in his eyes at being rejected.
“I’d very much like to be alone,” England said, hoping that perhaps the gentle route would work better than the dismissive approach.
“No way, dude,” America repeated and seemed unaware of the full-body twitch England issued upon being called ‘dude’. America shook his head, adamant and eyes only on England. “Without me, you’ll totally miss out on the awesome stuff in my country. And you can’t be alone in someone else’s country. That’s just depressing.”
England’s eyebrow twitched. “I really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere in particular. I don’t need to go to your tourist traps…”
“Come oooooon,” America whined, and behaved in a way that made England feel as if he’d kicked him while he was down. America worried his lower lip a moment and said, “It’s my country. I can help you relax if I go along! No tourist traps! We can just do whatever you want to do, even if it’s stupid and boring like sitting around in a yarn shop—”
“—I do not—” England began, interrupting and bristling.
But America continued, undeterred, “—or drinking a lot! I’ll make your trip totally awesome!”
“I very much doubt that,” England muttered, then said louder, “Why do you want to go so badly?”
America shrugged, but the way he averted his gaze made England know for sure that America knew exactly why he wanted to, but he also didn’t want to say so.
England sighed. “I want to be alone.”
America almost pouted, and it annoyed England how easily that expression seemed to work with America’s boyish face, still young and hopeful despite all the hardships, despite the heavy bags under his eyes and the slight pallor to his skin.
“I could show you all the cool places to go and—”
“I’d really rather not,” England said, feeling even more annoyed.
America stared at England a moment, his face scrunching up before it seemed to sag. England so rarely got to see America as anything but an overly enthusiastic, overly optimistic, and overly idealistic fool, that seeing him deflate now over something as trivial as going on a spontaneous road trip was almost upsetting for England. He tried to still the way something quivered in his chest upon seeing something that could only be an expression of a kicked puppy, crestfallen and discouraged.
“Well,” America said, still smiling though the shrug and the averted gaze made England believe that America was going for forced nonchalance and quiet pessimistic acceptance. “I guess you wouldn’t like the stuff I’d show you anyway, right?” He spoke in a way that demonstrated that he was one hundred percent sure that what he was saying was the truth, “I mean, I guess you could bring me along so I can suggest things and you’d know what to not do. Cause I guess most things would be tacky and dumb to you… or whatever.”
England’s mouth twitched and he swallowed the apology trying to weasel past his throat. He wasn’t even sure what he was meant to be apologizing for.
“Well, uh,” America said, taking a step back. “I know my opinion doesn’t mean much, but you should go north for a little while before you go anywhere else. It’s, uh… it’s nice up there.”
It took a moment of silence after that from America for England to lift his gaze again and meet America’s eyes. They looked at one another, in silence, England frowning and America worrying his lower lip in thought.
Finally, England scoffed and looked away. “Oh, very well. You can come. It is your country, after all.”
“Yay!” America cheered, and even threw his arms up in the air in his enthusiasm. The transformation from saddened to happy was a bit disconcerting and England twitched for the third time. He would have supposed that America had just played him, but he didn’t think that America had a disingenuous bone in his body, not truly, and after centuries of living England could tell an act from genuine emotion any day. Instantly, the downtrodden, unhappy boy was gone and replaced, once again, and somewhat obnoxiously so, with his typical over-the-top manner. “You won’t be sorry, England!”
---
They’d only been driving for two hours and already England was sorry.
On America’s insistence, England had left his rental car behind and taken America’s truck instead. America’d claimed it would save them money anyway, and his car was “better than that sissy thing”. So now England was stuck being navigator (a name America cheerfully gave to him) and rolling through a land he didn’t quite recognize beyond the vague shadows of the days centuries past. And he was stuck wanting to kill America, who was, as always, oblivious. He sang along to the radio, some obnoxious, crackling pop song that England had never heard before and wished he didn’t have to hear now. America sang off-key.
In the two hours, they’d gotten stuck in traffic, nearly run over a rabbit, had to pull over to console a distraught America over said almost death, and listened to dozens of songs that all sounded exactly the same. England had also had to sit through a frantic call between America and one of his higher-ups wondering where the heck he’d disappeared to (“I’m strengthening foreign relations and reconnecting with my roots at the same time! Oh, and getting my economy stimulated—no that wasn’t a euphemism, ew!” had been America’s fabulous excuse).
“Can’t you turn that down?” England demanded, glaring down at the radio.
America stopped mid-chorus, swiveling his head to peer at England in open shock before he tucked the volume back down a few notches. Still ear-splittingly loud, but better. England would have to make do.
England tilted his face away, resting against the side of the car, looking out the window absently. He didn’t care about the traveling, just the fact that he was doing something that didn’t involve politics. The fact that he had the obnoxious nation along with him was inconvenient and a wrench in his original plans, but it could be worse. At the very least, he reasoned, America wouldn’t willingly bring up anything political or upsetting, as the dense boy was more interested in being silly and perfectly lovely—
England derailed his thoughts and closed his eyes.
“Wake me up when we get somewhere, okay?” England asked.
“Awww, you aren’t going to look at the scenery?” America asked, pausing in his loud rendition of another pop song.
England shook his head. “No.”
“Suit yourself! It’s pretty and awesome if I do say so myself.”
“Of course you would, you fool.”
England was silent after that and didn’t say anything, though it was impossible to sleep with the loud racket coming from the radio and from America. He listened to him and listened to the hum of the highway.
---
He was starting to fall not to sleep but to something akin to a quiet contemplation when America suddenly interrupted him, as was his secret talent (and, England suspected, a pastime he delighted in). America shook his shoulder, muttering out his name a few times as he did so. Many times America forgot his own strength, so the slight jostling was actually rather jarring and discombobulating.
“I’m awake, damn it,” England muttered, opening his eyes to direct a glare towards the driver.
America retracted his hand, grinning that damned earnest smile of his. And then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder before turning his attention back towards the road in front of him. “Look.”
England’s eyes narrowed but he obeyed, turning his attention past America, leaning slightly forward to look past America’s bulk.
There was a pause.
America, sensing the silence not as admiration but as confusion said, “I wanted you to see the sunset. It’s pretty out here, yeah?”
“Yes, I see it,” England said but said no more, his lips pursed as he looked out towards the sunset. It was brightly colored and beautiful, kissing the hills and dipping behind tree lines. He saw America turn to look at him and shifted his eyes away from the window to look at America. He cracked half of a smile. “Pay attention to the road, you.”
America grinned, blue eyes wide, before he did was he was told, looking straight ahead again.
---
“Do you think that’s a good motel to stay in?” America asked, hunched over his steering wheel to peer up at the sign of the motel they were fast approaching.
England squinted too before just letting out a sigh. So far, he wasn’t feeling quite as relaxed as he’d hoped, and he blamed it on the American’s presence for ruining that. It was late, a few hours after sunset, and the headlights ahead of the truck illuminated the road ahead and the night sky. England was tired, had been tired for a long time, and at this rate just wished to sleep.
“I can’t be arsed to think of a better place. This will do.”
“… ‘Kay,” America agreed, and seemed relieved with the idea of not having to drive anymore. He veered off the road and pulled abruptly into the parking lot.
Once parked, America shifted the truck into park and cut the engine. They sat in silence a moment before England unbuckled the seatbelt and slipped from the truck, grasping the small bag he’d brought with him to the meeting for the sake of slipping away unnoticed after it was over (his original plan to slink away and be alone was completely blasted to bits now, but it couldn’t be helped now).
America followed after him, hoisting up a bag he’d hastily packed after convincing England to use his truck instead of his wussy rental car. The duffle was bigger than England’s, but, naturally, America carried it without problems.
They entered the motel, the light bulb above them flickering almost threateningly as they walked. England eyed it with thinly veiled revulsion before striding up to the counter to get two rooms.
“Hey, might as well get one, right?” America called out from the other side of the room, where he was observing the rack of brochures advertising tourist attractions and restaurants. He waved a few at England, grinning. “It’d save money!”
England found it laughable that suddenly America was so concerned with saving money—especially after arguing with his employers that he was having his economy stimulated this way—but other than rolling his eyes, did not protest America’s demands. Honestly, he spoiled the boy far too much.
“One room, please,” he told the bored-looking teller and tapped his fingers along the counter, slanting an angry look towards America when he laughed a bit too loudly over a brochure. “With two beds.”
A few minutes later found England and America opening the door to their room. America wasted no time in chucking his bag clear across the room and taking a running start towards the beds. With a loud, completely unnecessary grunt, he flew through the air and landed belly-first onto one of the beds, testing its springs or, England cynically suspected, trying to crash the bed through the ceiling to see if he could.
“This is great,” America cheered, rolling about on his bed with such glee that England had to remind himself that America was not five years old, no matter how much he acted that way. No, he mentally corrected, at five America had actually been rather sweet—now he was just an overgrown man-child and a moron on top of that.
“Hm,” England grunted, snapping the door shut with a kick of his foot and moving towards the other bed, dropping his bag onto the floral printed blanket, crisply tucked along with the starched white sheets over the bed. The mattress was a bit too soft, England thought, as he sat down, slipping off his shoes so he could wiggle his toes against the scratchy carpet, but it would have to do.
America, meanwhile, kicked off his shoes with such force that they crashed rather loudly against the wall. England gave him a withering, deadpan look that he wished would strike some chord of common decency in America’s heart, but the foolish boy was immune to England’s prickliness and merely responded with one of his wide grins.
England almost wished America had kept his shoes on, however, as in the next moment he leapt from his bed and onto England’s, all laughter and wiggly, smelly toes that struck against England’s side and knocked him over. He gasped, surprised, and then his nose wrinkled as America’s large feet pressed against England’s belly, as America rolled about on England’s bed, making himself comfortable.
“I beg your pardon!” England shouted.
“You’re pardoned!” America declared, triumphant.
England shoved his feet off him and America flipped over a bit, laughing heartily. His toes wiggled about and made themselves comfortable in England’s sheets and England gave him a half-hearted glare.
“So, what do you want to do?” America asked, beaming.
“I was under the impression we’d stopped for the night to sleep,” England muttered, eyebrows furrowed.
America rolled around on the bed before finding a comfortable position on his stomach, tucking his hands under his chin and cushioning them so he could look up at the seated England. He watched England adjust his tie before thinking better of it and slowly unknotting it. America’s eyes stayed on his throat for a long moment, before shifting to watch England’s fingers pull the red tie from under his collar.
“That’s boring,” he said, seeming to remember himself. He forced his eyes upwards to meet England’s eyes as the British man folded up his tie and tucked it snuggly into his bag. “Come oooooon, England.”
“Shush, you noisy brat,” England muttered but his words came out more exhausted than venomous.
“Hey,” America said after a moments of blessed silence. England turned to give the stupid lad some attention, and watched as America fiddled around with the remote. “Want to watch a movie?”
“That costs money,” England pointed out. “I thought you wanted to save money.”
“Well we can waste the money we saved by getting one room!” America said pleasantly. “Come oooon.”
“Stop that,” England instructed, one eye twitching.
America grinned, and repeated: “Come ooooooon.”
“Fine, give me that,” England barked, snatching the remote from America’s hand and grumbling obscenities and curses under his breath. America, still grinning, wiggled over to England’s side.
“Yay!” America said, loudly.
“Ugh,” England grunted, still regretting being stuck with such an obnoxious American. He turned on the television and navigated through the motel’s screen, browsing through the movie selections.
America watched for a moment before swiveling his head to look up at England. “I want popcorn.”
“Well that’s just wonderful for you, isn’t it?” England muttered. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there isn’t any popcorn here.”
“But there’s a store across the street!” America countered, perking up. “I can go buy some. And there was a coffee shop, too.”
England closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well.”
“I’ll get you something, too,” the other said, rolling off England’s bed and landing on all fours on the floor before straightening. He stretched his arms above his head and his shirt lifted, exposing a small spot of sun-kissed stomach, golden skin and the smallest trail of hair leading down from his belly button and to his waistline.
England’s eyes flickered and he averted his gaze back to the television. “Yes, of course.”
“Pick out a good movie, England! I’ll be back soon!” America said with a jaunty little wave before he was dashing from the room. He was just out the door before he did a sudden U-turn, and with a sheepish grin, grabbed up the shoes he’d forgotten. And his wallet.
England watched him go, frowning, before turning his attention back towards the movie selection. As per usual, the movies were all American and looked like utter tripe. Moody, England muttered more curses to himself.
“Damn brat,” he said, and wasn’t exactly sure why he was cursing America—probably simply for existing and causing him so much grief. All he knew was that he was tired of it already and it was only day one.
He chose a horror movie, if only to extract some kind of revenge.
---
“The tea smelled gross and was more expensive than the coffee so I got you coffee instead,” America announced, loudly, as he burst back into the room. The door slammed against the wall before rebounding and snapping back into its lock as America walked purposefully towards England.
England rolled his eyes but accepted the proffered coffee. “I see.”
And then America kicked off his shoes once again and made himself comfortable in England’s bed, snuggling into the covers and grinning. “So, what movie is it?”
England opened his mouth but America distracted himself with opening the bag of pre-popped popcorn and crunching into it loudly. England watched with mourning as a steady stream of crumbs fell onto his sheets.
With a sigh, he sat on the other side of America, and told him the name of the movie.
America froze with a handful of popcorn close to his mouth. His eyes widened a little and England had to smother the superior smirk he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth. Instead, he sipped his coffee and wished it was tea.
“It was the cheapest movie,” England lied, keeping his voice intentionally gentle. “It’s already ordered, but if you’d rather…”
“Great!” America said, interrupting England and grinning as if he was not already terrified. “Unpause this sucker!”
“Hm,” England said and did as was commanded.
---
Twenty minutes in and America had already shrieked three times, loud and ear-splitting. England watched America out of the corner of his eye as the boy twitched and smothered his face into a pillow whenever the tempo of the music sped up, only to peek scared blue eyes out again. When something frightening or surprising (or stupid, England couldn’t help but think) happened on screen, America would shout again, jumping so suddenly that the entire bed frame shook and slammed against the wall. England couldn’t help but hope that no one was in the room next door, to hear the bed rattling and America continually shouting.
England had serious doubts about his decision for revenge. He’d forgotten how much it was torture to deal with a frightened America. He hoped that the stupid boy didn’t wet the bed in his carrying on.
Something jumped out onscreen and America, predictably, screamed and then flung his arms around England, as the pillow was no longer satisfactory. England let out a soft sound of surprise as the bulk pressed up against him.
England unfortunately had been finishing the last few gulps of coffee and instead found it falling from his hand and pooling across the blankets over his lap.
“Jesus—America!”
America wailed, tears in the corners of his eyes as he buried his face into England’s neck, clinging to him for all he was worth. If England hadn’t been strong himself, he was certain that the stupid American would have snapped a few of his bones or at the very least dislocated them.
“E-England,” America whimpered, his breath hot against England’s skin.
The older nation sighed as he felt the younger’s hands wrap into the fabric of his shirt. With a long suffering sigh, he set his empty coffee cup on the bedside table, and then lifted a hand to pat America on the back. It quivered under his touch and America’s hold on him tightened, tethering him to the bed with him. England smoothed his hand along America’s back, comforting him as best he could. Aside from the occasional whimper against his neck, which was all too distracting, America stayed silent.
“Shall I turn it off?” England asked, after a few long minutes in the movie passed without any of America’s attention on it.
America shook his head. “Heroes never quit!”
England was torn between coddling and throttling the boy, and settled with threading his fingers through his golden hair, petting him a little. America made a small noise that wasn’t a whimper and clung to him, seeming to appreciate the silent comfort.
“I don’t suppose you’re enjoying the telly from this position are you?” England asked, and for the first time that day he didn’t sound annoyed, more slightly amused. “I can’t imagine you can see much when you’re just pressed into my shoulder.”
America stayed still a moment before he drew back, eyes the very epitome of fearful, bright and wide and little tears collected in the corners of his eyes. England restrained himself from lifting a thumb and brushing them away for him. Despite the obvious discomfort on his face, he flashed one of his smiles, the ones that were so uniquely America, and even looked a bit sheepish.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, and then hesitantly, but with great force, turned his attention back towards the television. He still clung to England and England, because he was such a good man and possibly because he had a martyr complex, allowed him to do so.