America was not particularly excited about the first world meeting of 2014. He was still a little hungover from Australia’s crazy New Year’s party in Sydney, and had the not-so-slight feeling England would still be pissed at him for sneaking that countdown kiss… He had grabbed England just as the clock struck midnight, and it was literally one of the most magical moments in his entire life. The sparkling lights reflecting off the glassy surface of Sydney’s Harbor, the light alcoholic haze making everything seem so much louder and lighter, the joyous shouts and cheers of hundreds of thousands of happy people, and England’s soft mouth on his, actually kissing back for a minute… until, of course, England realized what was happening, and pushed him away. The backlash had been surprisingly short, as England had only yelled at him for a few minutes before disappearing for the night, so America wouldn’t doubt it if England were to be especially angry with him for, say, the rest of the year. It was worth it though.
“He’s going to come in here, and you’re going to tell him once and for all how you really feel,” America muttered to himself, taking his assigned seat, which would of course be next to England.
“Talking to yourself, are you?”
Shit. Speak of the devil.
“Oh, hey England! I was just, um,” America laughed nervously, pulling out his secret-agent briefcase. “Getting ready for the meeting, ya know? Making sure my notebooks are ready for some really awesome notes and stuff…”
England sat there, blinking at him, not looking angry in the slightest. “Oh. I thought maybe… never mind, it was silly.” His voice was low, speaking in almost a whisper and god, it was hot. Until England started hacking up a lung, that is.
“Jiminy crickets, dude, are you alright?” America patted him softly on the back. “You sound like you’re dying!”
“You’re not so lucky as that, I’m afraid. It’s just a bit of laryngitis, I’ll be right as rain in a few days,” England murmured as the coughing subsided.
Germany chose that moment to bring the meeting to order, slamming his hand on the desk hard enough to startle Greece awake for a minute. America returned to his seat, and proceeded to alternate between watching England out of the corner of his eye and doodling pictures of England in his notebook using the reformed innovative American pop art style he learned in New York City. At least, until it was time for England himself to present.
“Ahem,” England whispered lightly into the mic. “My topic for the day is—“
“Could you speak up, mon cher? It’s hard to hear you from back here.”
“Right, ahem,“ he continued at a normal speaking level. “My topic for today is Ocean Producti*squeak*vity in Coastal Re*squeak*gions.” He coughed, flushing as several nations began giggling and snickering into their hands. “Ocean Productivity is a large pro*squeak*blem because the am*squeak*ount of— For Pete’s sake, would you shut your bloody mouths?!?” He shouted, his voice becoming higher and shriller with every word. “It’s not funny, I’ve got bleeding laryngitis and I shouldn’t have to listen to you—“
England was still yelling, but the words has ceased coming out of his mouth and he was left opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish. France started crying from how much he was laughing, and England ran off into the hallway, looking torn between punching someone and crying himself. America followed, not even bothering to put down his notebook, barely glimpsing the blonde disappearing into a room at the far end of the left hall.
“England? It’s me, America. Don’t worry, I didn’t follow you here to laugh.” He slowly opened the door. England was sitting on the floor against the wall, head in his hands. America sat down about a foot away from him. “Don’t mind them, you know they’re stupid. Even more stupid than me sometimes! It wasn’t that bad… it was actually kind of cute, you know.”
England looked up at him, eyes widened, surprise and confusion temporarily replacing the embarrassment painting his features. America blushed, realizing what he’d said. “W-what, I can’t think you’re c-cute?”
England shook his head ‘no’.
“Why not? And w-what if I did? England, I- well, I know this isn’t the right time for this, but about New Year’s…”
Anger and pain flashed across England’s face like a strobe light at a rave. He scowled, and opening his mouth to start yelling— before realising he couldn’t, of course, as his voice came out as a harsh sizzle of air.
“England, please, don’t get angry- I just” don’t know what to say. He didn’t want to accept my kiss then, why would he accept my love now? America covered his face with his hands, making a smacking sound as he knocked his notebook against his glasses. …The notebook.
America quickly flipped open his notebook, turning to his notes from the meeting forcing it into England’s hands. He hadn’t taken notes on anything- except for England. Six pages, filled with drawings, thoughts, and memories, all of England.
“The reason I followed you here- the reason I kissed you yesterday- well, isn’t it obvious? I kind of… love you…” He covered his head with his hands, not wanting to see England’s expression of disgust.
He looked up when he heard a pencil scratching on paper. The notebook was shoved back into his face.
“I thought you were only kissing me because you were drunk and I felt so awful. I suppose I’m the idiot in this case, because I’m undeniably, unbelievably in love with you, too, America.”
The next thing America knew, he was under back under the stars in Sydney- the haze not from any drink, but from the bright green eyes fluttering closed, the perfect lips touching his, the soft hand grasping his hip— London’s fog settling in his heart and somehow making everything brighter.
