I apologize in advance for the French. D;

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Though England had spent most of the week avoiding him, the house felt emptier with America gone. For a few moments the next morning as he moped over his tea, he considered just not attending that day's conference. But then he decided no, he had to. After all, he had to show the bastard that England could care less about him. Like he cared a whit for America. America certainly hadn't broken his heart twice now. No, he'd go and show him exactly how much he didn't care about stupid games. He couldn't be played like that. No sir.

He knew America would expect him to come looking all disheveled, like he'd cried all night or something silly (he certainly hadn't – only half the night,) so he dressed up nice and even combed his hair until it looked half proper. In fact, he looked rather dashing, if he did say so himself. Not at all like someone who'd had his heart broken. Not. At. All.

America, on the other hand – England almost stopped dead when he got to the conference. First off, America was there on time, which was unprecedented. Second, America didn't look at all like his normal well-put-together, "heroic" self. He was wearing jeans, for Christ's sake, and England swore that was the same shirt he'd been wearing yesterday. Even his beloved bomber jacket was somehow looking worn. In fact, his entire listless appearance suggested that he was the one with the broken heart.

Aha. That was it. England didn't know what nefarious ends he could be plotting toward now, but America was obviously still up to something. Don't let your guard down yet. Don't be fooled again.

America didn't take charge with his usual vigor. Everyone was well settled before he stood up.

"Okay, so I know what's on the schedule for today is nuclear policy," he said. "But I thought we could talk about something a little different."

What? What on earth? England started to get an extremely bad feeling about this when America looked straight at him.

"I think today we should discuss something more along the lines of…international relations," America said, honestly quite icily. Oh no.

"I disagree." England couldn't fathom what America was trying to do. If he just wanted to make England out as a real git, England did a fine enough job of that on his own half the time. He didn't need any help.

"Oh yeah?" said America. "Whadda you do that for?"

"Because there are no international relations to discuss." England knew it wouldn't make any sense to anyone else, but he didn't really care.

"I gotta say, I think there are plenty of things to talk about." America was definitely talking only to him now, as if there weren't two hundred other nations listening in and pretending not to. "At least, that's what it looks like from over here."

"Not from over here it doesn't," England snapped.

"I guess you should know!" America laughed, but not in a funny way. "After all, you're the one that broke off relations."

Furious, England sprang to his feet. "You're trying to pin this on me? You're the one who – "

"Me! It was all going fine until you – "

"It was not going fine, as you should very well know – "

"I don't know what the hell you think I was doing, because as far as I know I was doing exactly what I said I was – "

"What you said is the problem, you moron!"

"Sacre bleu!" France's exclamation shut them both up, though they continued to glare at each other.

"Mon Dieu," France continued, rubbing his temples. "But the sexual tension is unbearable. Will you two just fuck and get it over with already?"

"Shut up!" England hissed at France, only to realize America had said it at the exact same time. A moment after that, he realized absolutely everyone in the room was staring at them. Well, no wonder. He sat down quickly, his cheeks burning.

"As entertaining as this is, I think in this case nuclear weaponry might be the safer topic," France said, rolling his eyes. "Unless, of course, you two do decide to resolve some of that sexual tension right now?"

England gave him such a furious look that he threw up his hands. "Fine! Atom bombs it is!"

What a complete and utter cunt. (America, not France, although…) Where did he get off, trying to blame England for this? England hadn't done anything expect, like a fool, fall for America's evil plot. Alright, it was possible throwing America out had been a bit harsh – except no, it hadn't, seeing as America hadn't been invited anyway. America was probably just angry at having to find a hotel room this close to Christmas. Speaking of which –

"Well, if we are not going to be treated to the sight of England and America finally submitting to their lust for one another," France said, standing up ("Shut up!" England snapped again.) "I may as well take this opportunity to invite you all to a small Christmas party I am holding tonight at my hotel."

Oh, good. Something for England to not attend. This way he could have a proper sulk tonight when he was home alone, knowing he was avoiding something that could possibly be fun just because America would surely be there.

Things settled down from there, mostly because the rest of England's day was spent pointedly ignoring America. This was easy, because America was also pointedly ignoring him. What an awful loser. England was the one who'd gotten hurt in all this.

At home, though, he started feeling even worse than he thought he would. The house just felt so damn empty. Would it really hurt to go to the party? He could always leave right away. It wasn't like he had to get dressed up or anything. Who did he have to impress? And anything was better than getting drunk alone on Christmas Eve, even if it was getting drunk with people he disliked.

No, no, it would be better not to go. He'd only end up getting hurt even more. He wasn't going. Final decision.

Alright. Fine. He ended up at the party.

But it wasn't like he got dressed up for it (except maybe put on a nice shirt…and comb his hair again. He couldn't look like a complete slob in front of everyone. And it had nothing to do with the fact that America would probably be there. Nothing at all. He hated America.)

It was just that he had to go for the same reason he had to go to the conference (not because he was lonely and depressed.) America would probably be there, and he would expect England to stay home and sulk, so England had to prove, once again, that he didn't give a damn about America. That was why he had to go. He certainly didn't expect to have any fun. Not at a party hosted by France.

Except, when he got there, America appeared to be absent. England wandered around for a bit (he just needed to prove to America that he was there, that was all), but it really seemed that America was not at the party.

What an arsehole! He'd probably done it just to play with England's head again. (A bit of him said timidly that that didn't make much sense, he it was more satisfying to be angry.) He considered leaving right then, but the drinks were closer than the door, and it was snowing again. What was the point of driving home just to get drunk when he could do it here? Good God, America was such a bloody git.

Several drinks later, he was in the same corner, thinking much the same thing, although more blurrily. He only looked up when he heard, "Angleterre, mon cher!" shouted at him, annoyingly loudly.

"I am not your cher," England growled as France draped an arm around him. Did he always have to do that?

"No? Well, then…" France was holding a glass of champagne, which probably accounted for the way he was using England mostly as a support. "Where is your cher, then?"

"What? – Oh, no, don't you start that again." England downed the rest of his own glass. "America is not anything like that. We are nothing. There is, in fact, no we."

"I had deduced that, since you are at my party and he is not," France said, and was he quite as drunk as he was pretending to be? "What happened between you two, to cause this estrangement?"

"Nothing," said England, snagging another glass from a passing waiter. "Except he showed his true colors in the end."

"Ah ha!" France waved his glass in the air. "We come to the heart of the matter. What were your estranged almost-cher's true colors?"

"Not pretty ones." He must be pissed if he was telling this to France. "He kissed me, right, but then…" For some reason he was finding it hard to remember exactly what America had done to make him so angry. Must be the alcohol. "Then he said he didn't want me after all. That's what he did."

"Did he?" France raised his eyebrows. "I understand why he would such a thing –"

"Piss off," England snapped.

"But it seems to me unlikely that he would do such a thing," France continued, refusing to piss off in the slightest. "Did he really say so in so many words?"

England frowned. A haze of champagne and tears and anger was blurring the memory, but it seemed to him - "Er, what I think happened was I asked him why he kissed me, and then he got a bit defensive. So then I asked why would want someone like me – "

"A very reasonable question," France interjected.

"I said piss off. And when I asked that, he said – he said, 'Jesus H. Christ, you don't get it at all!'" England drawled the last bit in a mockery of America's accent, and then threw back his new glass of champagne. "Which is a real arsehole thing to say, if you ask me. Which you are. Asking."

"Do not waste the champagne so, it is quite good!" France objected. "But you see, I see two problems with your assessment of America's motives."

"And what's that?" England knew he wasn't going to get an answer he liked, but –

"First." France raised one finger. "What could he be gaining from such an enterprise? He does not obtain anything, not even you, nor does he publically humiliate you in any way."

"He bloody broke my heart, that's what he obtained." England felt like another drink, but no glasses were in sight.

"Ah, but we have both known America for a long time, since he was nearly an infant," France pointed out. "When have you ever known him to be scheming, or vindictive, or even openly cruel? Foolish, yes. Unintentionally cruel, of course, yes. But never intentionally so. He is still, at heart, an innocent."

"Guess we both figured him wrong, then." There was a waiter with a drink tray halfway across the room, but France's arm was still around his shoulders.

"Mmm, I do not think so." France shook his head. "He is not a man of words and thought, what you might call a schemer, but a man of action. That brings me to my second point. Words are quick, are they not? They appear and blow away in the same breath. You could hardly even remember words from last night, and they were very important words. Action, though, actions. I would wager much that you remember last night's actions very well."

"So?" France was looking at something over England's shoulder, but his arm was stopping England from turning to look too.

"Trust actions, mon cher, not words," France said. "That is all."

"I am not your bloody cher," England snapped, deciding he had been under France's arm long enough and trying to wriggle out. "And that advice is complete bollocks."

"Is it?" France shrugged. "Either way – look up."

"Look up?" England did so. "Oh, bugger – "

Of course they were standing under bloody mistletoe. Because his night wouldn't be complete without attempted molestation from France.

Before he could prevent it, he was being kissed by France, very vigorously. And maybe it was because of all the champagne, and maybe it was because he was feeling awful and terribly lonely, but he didn't immediately leap away.

This proved to be a very bad decision, because a moment later he was violently yanked away. If he had any questions about who this second assailant was, they were answered when someone shouted by his ear, "You fucker!"

France, who appeared to be the one this epithet was directed at, simply shrugged and smirked. "Remember, actions!" he shouted as England was dragged off. "Trust them!"

"Where'd you come from?" England said as he was shoved out the door by America, then slightly belatedly, "And let go of me!"

"Your house," America said, and England found himself sighing, because America's voice had not gotten one degree warmer from this morning (not that England cared anymore.) "Which is where we're going back to. Now."

"Why were you there?" said England, but America avoided answering by demanding, "Keys. To your car."

"I can drive my own damn car!" England said, drawing himself up in a very dignified manner.

"Yeah, and I'll let you, once you've sobered up." America continued to hold out his hand. "Do I have to search you?"

Please do, England's brain remarked. Out loud, England grumbled and handed America the keys. "I've driven home like this before."

"I'm sure you have." America unlocked the car and manhandled England into the passenger seat. "You're just lucky you can't really die in a car crash. You might always kill somebody else though."

"I'm not really that drunk," said England, and realized he wasn't. Whether it was the shocks or not being as drunk as he was to be, he wasn't nearly as pissed at he'd been acting.

"Whatever," said America, starting up the car. "I need to do something so I don't feel like a complete fucking idiot right now. Tell me how to get to your house from here."

"Take a left up ahead. Why do you feel like a complete fucking idiot?"

America shook his head. "To find that out, you've gotta ask why I was at your house tonight."

"Why were you at my house tonight? Turn up here – no, the other way, you've got to drive on the left."

America barked a laugh. "I was at your house because I'm a complete fucking idiot. Because I hoped you'd be there for some reason. Because – because I thought maybe you weren't really as cold-hearted as you'd been acting. Guess I was wrong."

"Excuse. Me." England turned to America in utter disbelief. "I'm cold hearted? Me?"

"Oh, you don't like cold-hearted?" America's fingers were white around the wheel, white knuckled. "How about a total bastard who plays with other people's feelings like they don't even matter?"

Wait wait wait.

"Wait just one moment!" England cried. "That's not me, that's you! You're the one who was playing with people's emotions!"

"How was I playing with anyone's emotions?" America demanded. "All week you were practically begging for it, and you'd better fucking believe I only waited until yesterday to make totally sure, because I didn't want to fuck anything up, but then as soon as I kiss you, you turn into this ice machine and throw me out of your house! And then today, today I'm hoping maybe it was all a misunderstanding or something, but no, no, you show up looking all fucking happy and great. Well, thanks a fucking lot! And Christ, then I come to this party and you're kissing France! So if anyone kissed you would you kiss them back? Is that how it is? How is that not playing with my emotions? How is that not cold hearted?"

"Me, cold hearted?" England jabbed his finger accusingly at America as he spoke. "You're the one who showed up at my house and manipulated me to let you stay! You're the one who had to be all 'oh, I'm going to be so out of character and nice and make you some bloody tea,' and you know it isn't like I could resist that! You're the one – "They stopped in front of England's house and America got out so England did too, following him up to the door. "You're the one who went and quoted Shakespeare! You're the one who played with my feelings all week! I could've gone along fine, normally, but you had to come here and make me – you had to come and mess it all up! And then you kissed me and – why are you laughing?!"

Because America was laughing, laughing his head off as he unlocked England's door.

"Don't you realize what you just said?" America chuckled as he opened the door. "I accused you of plotting to break my heart and you accused me of plotting to break your heart! Looks like neither of us was plotting anything – it was all just misunderstanding!"

"Oh no." England stepped inside and prodded his finger at America again. "You're not fooling me again! Just yesterday you said you didn't want me, so – "

America suddenly sobered up. He grabbed England's hand, moving it away. "When exactly did I say that?"

"Er, well – " As usual, dammit, it was hard to think with America holding his hand and staring into his eyes. "You said I didn't get it. When I asked why you would want me."

"You don't get it." America raised England's hand to his face. "If you have to ask, you don't get it."

"No, of course I don't, that's circular logic," England said, but it didn't come out as annoyed as he would have liked. "So explain it to me. What don't I get, exactly?"

"You don't get that I do want you." America turned England's hand over and began uncurling the fingers. England felt his knees start to go wobbly again. "You don't get that you're completely, totally, one hundred percent wantable."

"I don't think wantable's a word," England managed to say, which was a feat as America was now tracing the lines on his palm with the tip of one finger.

"It is if I say it is," America said, then pressed his lips to the palm of England's hand.

Then he did the same thing to the crook of his elbow, then his shoulder, then his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, by which time was inside the doorway. He shut the door with the hand that wasn't holding England's.

"That was just a trick to get inside my house again," England accused, rather weakly.

"Maybe." America's face was somewhere in the vicinity of England's ear, and England had the strangest urge to run his hands through America's snowy hair. "I know another one that'll get me into your bed."

"Oh, of course you do." Not the snappiest line, but the best he could come up with when he could feel America's mouth moving against his neck when he spoke.

"Mmhm. Stop talking and I'll do it." And then America kissed him full on the mouth, and for once England's brain had nothing to say, nothing at all.

America's trick turned out to be quite, er, tricky. England never saw it coming, although his mind was quite preoccupied with other things, like America's tongue in his mouth. They were already near the door to begin with, so America just spun England around using the hand he was still holding as leverage, pressed him against the wall and sort of lifted him up so they were on a level. England was obviously amenable to this for quite a few reasons, not the least of which was he was now free to wrap his arms around America's neck (and bury his hands in America's hair) and in a fit of inspiration, do the same thing with his legs around America's hips.

America took a momentary break from kissing him to murmur in his ear, "Gotcha." England's mind had hardly caught up to wonder what on earth that meant before America had whisked him away from the wall and was marching down the hall (England had to admit this was quite impressive.) Before he knew it, he was being dropped unceremoniously onto the guest bed.

"This isn't my bed," he pointed out, propping himself up on his elbows. "My bed's upstairs."

"You're in it, that makes it your bed." America was pulling off his shirt and oh yes; England remembered that chest from earlier this week. It was having a similar effect now. "Anyway, I thought I might drop you if I tried to go up the stairs."

"I'm glad you're so concerned with my welfare," England said drily, although he imagined the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he was ogling America. He couldn't help it – it wasn't fair for someone to look that good.

"I'm very concerned with your welfare." America was suddenly kneeling over him on the bed, using one hand to unbutton England's own shirt. As if England couldn't do that for himself. On the other hand, this way was much more interesting.

"Oh, you are, are you?" England murmured. That was all well and good for America to say, but he wasn't the one who'd spent all week miserable. He'd been oblivious to England's welfare until tonight. Which was really something they should discuss before this went any farther. He tried to point this out: "You haven't given a thought to my welfare all – "

His sentence broke off into a gasp when America, apparently not paying attention at all, reached the bottom of England's shirt and promptly started in on his trousers. Which did not have many buttons. They did, however, have a zipper. Which America decided to undo with his teeth. Er. Ahem. So much for discussion.

He looked up at England and grinned. "I have so thought about your welfare all week, because I've definitely been thinking about doing this all week."

"I was not using 'welfare' as a euphemism for sex!" Well, maybe just a bit.

"Oh yeah? I was." America seemed far more interested in what was going on in England's trousers than in talking. Which was fair enough, because that was what England was interested in as well.

Except he knew he shouldn't be, because didn't they still have some things to sort out? He knew he had a whole list of questions in his head right up until America kissed him. Those questions hadn't been answered. He just couldn't remember what they were anymore.

But they were there. So he valiantly ignored the shirtless America kneeling between his thighs (this took the vast majority of his mind power) and said, "But look, I still don't – "

"England," America said crossly. "For once I'm gonna tell you to shut up already."

"But – "

"Shut up and let's have sex."

"But really – "

America sort of growled and then, as England continued to protest, stood up once more and kissed him again.

Oh.

Maybe that was what France meant.

Because when you were being kissed this sweetly and softly and in a way he never would have expected America to kiss anyone, let alone him, you just knew some things. Because nobody was sly enough to fake this. Especially not America, who, England did have to admit, had never really shown a penchant for slyness.

So before he knew it, before he'd even really realized this, he was kissing America back, he was pulling America against him and of course, when he did that sort of thing the kiss became less sweet and more, as America so elegantly (breathlessly) put it when he pulled away, "Can we get naked now then?"

England grabbed hold of America's belt and started undoing it as fast as he could.

"I'm guessing that would be a yes," America drawled, grinning.

"Shut it," England growled.

"Oh, I'm glad things as back to normal."

"I said shut it, you'll get plenty of time for cute lines later."

"I'm always cute," America couldn't resist saying, but then England yanked his belt out of its loops and he decided it was worth it to shut up and concentrate on England's welfare and it was heat and hands and sweat and skin.

When it was over and they were lying next to each other still panting for breath, America grinned at him quite obnoxiously and said, "Don't tell me that didn't make up for your crappy week."

"Well," England said, just to be difficult, "To be honest, the ending was alright, but there were bits in the middle that could have definitely used improvement."

"Oh yeah?" America looked mildly offended. "I bet you wouldn't have said that when you were – "

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," England insisted.

"Or when I was – "

"I really don't know what you mean."

"Fine then." America frowned at him. "I'll just have to show you."

"Good," England said haughtily. "You need the practice."

This was not a problem at all.

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Apologies for such a late update! The Christmas thing seems rather pointless now…ahaha.

In theory, there will be one more chapter to wrap everything up.