Since 1945, it had been a tradition for the nations to get together at Christmas for what most of them fondly referred to as a 'bloodbath.'
That first year had actually started out as a light-hearted party at America's house, a celebration of their first merry Christmas after the terrible years of being a world at war. Of course, with the past behind them and freedom at last, it was almost inevitable that the event spiralled into a wild release of all that tension that had been building up over the past few terrible years.
Everyone agreed that it had been exactly what they needed, and the newly named "bloodbath" became an annual event – the one time of year they could all get together without worrying about politics and wars and how they were supposed to be acting around each other.
Although it was always fantastic chaos, there was a semi-method to the madness. The nations headed over to the designated host's house with no more plans than to get drunk and crazy, and it was an unspoken agreement that whatever happened on Christmas stayed with Christmas. No rules, no consequences – for one day out of every year in their restricted, immortal lives, they would be free to do whatever they wanted.
England and America had taken that first opportunity back in 1945 to fall into bed together without having to worry about what it would mean the next day. And that, too, had become an annual tradition. Not a Christmas had gone by without the two men finding each other at some point during the night, and slinking away together to be alone from the crowd. And not a soul would mention it afterwards, least of all America or England.
That was why England was so surprised when America showed up on his doorstep early on Christmas Day that year.
"The party is at France's house this year," he said automatically, forcing himself to assume that the younger nation had gotten lost along the way. He was clearly a little tipsy already, judging by the red cheeks and sparkling blue eyes shuttered behind heavy blinks.
"I know," America declared carelessly, sauntering past England into the house. "I decided to come here first 'cause I wanted to check something."
"Oh?" England enquired, raising an impressive, black eyebrow.
He couldn't help but let his hopes jump buoyantly as he followed the younger nation into the house. He'd thought about this, too – showing up to America's house on Christmas morning and ignoring the party so they would have all day in bed together. They both knew they'd end up there anyway, so why not get a head start?
But he'd never let himself do it because they needed the party as their excuse. Meeting there with the other drunken nations around was the only reason they could come together every year the way they did, without having to talk about it afterwards.
Because talking about it was the last thing England wanted to do.
Even America and England weren't too oblivious to realise what it meant to sleep with someone, unfailingly, for seventy years straight. But if they talked about it then it was real, and if it was real it could be taken away.
Best to leave it for Christmas Day and be happy with what they could have.
"Yeah, it was about later," said America, now sprawled easily across England's sofa as if he owned the room, legs spread apart confidently and one arm slung over the back of the seat. "You're not planning on getting with anyone else tonight, are you?"
England actually winced in disgust. "No, why would you even ask?" he grimaced, on reflex. Then quickly, remembering he was supposed to be completely clueless about the possibility of sex they would definitely be having later, he added, "I mean, I never go to these things with plans in my head. I think you're missing the point of the Christmas bloodbath."
America eyed him critically, and England flushed at the transparent lie.
"Yeah, yeah," said America. "Anyway, that's good. 'Cause I was just..I dunno, I was worried you might wander off early and then I wouldn't get to see you all evening. I didn't see you much this year so I was hoping we could hang out."
He looked away to the wall as he spoke, casually ignoring England even as the older nation finally moved to sit on the sofa beside him.
"I don't know why you've got your knickers in such a twist," England sighed. "Of course I'd be able to make time for you – you're always in my face pestering me and it's very hard to ignore."
He was just about to ask why America had come all the way here for such a silly thing when America glanced sideways at him, briefly, then back at the wall. His eyes were shining, and England realised it's because they were wet.
"Are you drunk?" he exclaimed, his most diplomatic way of asking 'Why are you crying?!'
America sniffed and withdrew his arm from the back of the couch, shrinking into himself. "Little. Just…tipsy? I can drink in the U.K., 'member?"
England turned towards him properly, and America twisted even more to avoid the other's eye as England peered at him.
"America…" said England gently, worried now. He reached out and took America's hand, and the younger nation leapt at the brief touch of skin before snatching his and away.
"America, what's wrong? Please tell me," England urged, scooting closer only for America to inch away. "If it's something I've done, please let me know. Tonight of all nights I want us to get along." He realised what he'd said too late, and then realised he didn't care. The laws of secrecy that governed the annual bloodbath may not apply in his own living room, but he wanted to be honest right now, if that would make America feel better.
"America, of course I'll spend the whole party with you. I wait for this night all year long. I just want us to be...together."
And for some reason, America burst into tears.
"You idiot, England!" he bawled, clenching his fist and hitting the arm of the sofa in frustration.
England stared, completely bewildered and horrified.
"A-America! Please! Come here, it's okay."
He had no idea what he was saying, nor what he was trying to achieve by reaching out to pull America closer. But surprisingly, America fell into his arms, resting his nose against England's collar and fisting his hands into the nation's shirt.
"What do you think it means when I ask you to spend Halloween with me?" he said against England's skin, his sudden outburst dying down into sniffles and a few wet teardrops. "When you stay at my house to make popcorn and watch movies? Or I spend every meeting finding ways to make it all about you? And that's just this year! What about 2011 when I asked you to dress up with me for Halloween? Or a couple of years ago when I let you share the bed because of a ghost?"
England found himself patting Alfred's back absent-mindedly as he listened to the angry tirade. "I'm sorry, darling, I don't understand," he said, a little lost.
"You do! You do!" America wailed, banging England half-heartedly on the chest. "Every Christmas it's the same, and it's perfect, and I feel like you finally might answer me – and then the next day it's like you don't even care. I've shown you a thousand times how I feel and you never want to understand. Won't you just…just give me a break, England? I've told you what I want. Just tell me if you feel the same, too, so I don't have to go through this anymore."
England's hand slid up and down America's back rhythmically, now more to soothe himself than the young nation leaning, warm and heavy, into his body.
His thoughts tore around his head in chaotic loops and twists, his heart pumping painfully as decade's worth of hope and elation threatened to burst out of it at once.
"America…I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to. But if you could just tell me in words…what you've been trying to say all these years…"
He held his breath, his mind and heart and whole life slowing down to hear what America would say next.
"I want to be with you like this every day, not just at Christmas," came the muffled reply, breathed into England's neck. "You can't tell me you didn't know?"
England's arms lifted to wrap around America's shoulders and hold him tight, and America pressed closer, a hitch in his breath that he gasped against England's cheek as he sat up straighter to look the older nation in the eye.
"I'm sorry, America," said England, though he was smiling. "It seems I really am that stupid. I knew…how we both felt," he admitted with a blush, "but I didn't realise you wanted to risk giving it a chance."
America's blue eyes pierced him, so sincere and determined that England couldn't help but feel naked under his gaze.
"I've known this is what I want since the day I met you, England. It's not really a risk anymore," he smiled.
England stared back, stunned into silence for a moment. Then America laughed at the expression on his face, and England leaned in, drawn instinctively to that warmth and joy only America could bring. And both their eyes closed as they pressed their lips together in a kiss, and another, and longer, deeper.
They probably should have felt scared, or at least a bit naïve. But both men knew they would live their whole immortal lives and never regret this decision that had been waiting for them all these years.
Not now that they'd finally made the right choice.
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