Author's Note: I know I did say that this would be up soon, but I sort of forgot about it after I went overseas for a bit of a trip. It's okay though, it's here now. And I'm terribly sorry but this fic isn't beta-ed either and with me being well, me, you'll be able to spot through many lapses in tense. That's my fault. But read on if you will.

Body Language: Part Two

England's fingers brushed over the crisp brown package, toying with the string wistfully. He loved packages like this, simple and yet their beauty is so understated. He had a long flight ahead and this time, England wasn't about to let his worries get the better of him, half a day trapped in a cabin, flying miles high in the air, there wasn't anything he could do even if he brooded about it.

The flight attendant came over and offered him tea with a lipstick-smeared smile. He accepted it graciously and winced when he recognised it to be Lipton. The brand seemed to be the default choice of tea on airlines these days. At least, England reckoned, he'd been through worse.

They were above the clouds and the sun was glaring in before England slid the shutter down. Finally giving in to his curiosity, he tugged at the string and gently peeled the paper apart.

France idled about in his chair, lazily sipping his wine, pausing sometimes to correct England's pronunciation. He was being surprisingly quiet for the entire evening and not his usual flamboyant self. England had even noticed that he had lost a bit of his self-satisfied strut.

"L'amore," England said again, tired of repeating the one word. His emotions already in a jumble and his nerves frayed ever since he left the sanctuary of Japan.

"Say it with feeling," France repeated, "It means love, England. Why won't you say it with feeling? Say it like it means something and maybe you'll get it right."

"L'amore," England said, this time managing to make it sound flatter than the last.

France closed his eyes and sighed, setting his wine glass on the table. England felt a twinge of guilt deep in his chest. This wasn't progressing very well for either of them and this bet is proving harder and harder to win. England didn't really know what he was trying to prove with this, but he continued on, reluctant to give up halfway.

"England," France said, breaking the depressing silence, "I think that it may be time for an intervention."

England stayed silent, he was far too tired to question. All he wanted right now was to take the Chunnel back home and collapse on his bed until his prime minister came knocking and find his dead body. Here's to hoping that somebody would mourn for him.

"America is in love."

England raised his gaze sluggishly up to meet France's, "I guessed as much."

"You're in love with him." Again, this wasn't a question either.

France continued, looking as if horrifyingly bored at the proceedings, "This would be so much easier to resolve if the both of you would take a bat and hit yourselves in the head with it." France paused and reached for his wine before carrying on, "I'm here to tell you that he loves you."

England scoffed.

England's eyes were already half-shut and he was wondering why the restaurant suddenly became so noisy. He could hear the clank of plates and tinkle of utensils, the chatter of people enveloping them. It was like the entire city of Paris was squeezing into this restaurant. They've been at it for an hour or so and all England wanted to do was to leave again, he didn't like where this conversation was headed and he wanted to run away.

"If he really loves me, he should tell me," England confessed, crossing his arms defensively.

"Angleterre… this is Amerique, you should understand that—"

"I should understand nothing," England retorted fiercely, eyes flashing indignantly.

France looked taken aback, surprised at being cut off so vehemently.

"It's his move now," England clarified, voice low and resigned, "I will not put myself out there again, it's his move to make and his alone. I will not… I cannot."

England caught France's sympathetic gaze before avoiding his eyes, his stomach was twisting violently and he feared that he would not be able to keep his food down. He was right though, England reasoned, it was America's decision and if he was being genuine about him then there was no plausible excuse why England should be the one (again) to make the first move. England was sick and tired of the hot and cold relationship that America's government was giving off and it definitely wasn't doing wonders for England's sense of security.

"You always look at him as if he hung the moon," France whispered, lips pursing sadly, "And he looks at you like you spun the stars."

England grabbed his coat and patted France's back, "Now if only he would tell me that."

France pressed a tape into America's hand as he left the restaurant. The stalking blonde's eyes widened as his fingers closed around the foreign object. France had enough on his plate to worry about without his allies' relationship being piled on beside it.

"Listen to it, and do what you have to do," France said threateningly, frowning in contempt at the still confused nation dawdling in front of him.

"He has the entirety of Europe behind him," France hissed and America stepped back, "We may hate him but we will not stand for one of ours being bullied. Hurt him and you will find yourself cut off from the whole union," France breathed, "Hurt him… and I will— I will hunt you down and shoot your balls myself."

America nodded dumbly.

It was really quite beautiful, what America had given him. The leather was soft and firm below his hand and the cream pages crisp. England's fingers ran over the cover again. He had found himself doing that many times a day that it all seemed rather ridiculous.

The beauty of the notebook is the many pages you can fill with drawings and thoughts and poems and names. Some names didn't require words.

On every page, the flag of America was printed before the margin. It was like a little irritating reminder that America was there. But somehow, England couldn't bring himself to leave it behind at home when he was out in the streets.

The silly little git had also gone and ruined a perfectly good fountain pen by embossing his bloody name at the side. The thought had actually brought a smile to England's face. He just couldn't be rid of the bloody American, could he?

He wasn't as annoyed as he thought he would be.

"Stop walking around me, I'm not going to fucking sink any more of your ships."

Spain gave him a dirty look of distrust.

Romano was in the room with them, slouching on one armchair while muttering phrases in Spanish to Spain while the country ignored him in favour of glaring at his old enemy currently sitting primly on his sofa, drinking his tea.

"Sit down or I'll take all your tomatoes and go home, retard."

"Fine," Spain replied snootily and sat down, eyes never leaving England. Although, to give him credit, he did scoot to the far end of the sofa before resuming his glower.

England sat his cup down noisily on the glass table in front of him before looking up, "I don't want to be here either but I must because your best friend challenged me to it. That being said, get on and teach me your tomato language and then I can go."

Spain looked homicidal while Romano smirked and nodded in agreement. This may not be the ideal situation until England's invited guest arrived but at the very least, the Italian nation could hold the Spaniard back in the event that England succeeded in provoking Spain to a murder.

The tinkle of the doorbell rang pleasantly in the tense silence of the room and Romano got up to answer it, leaving England and Spain to their staring match.

"Oi, bastardo! You never told me you had a brother!"

Spain broke the stare and looked away, confused and surprised, "What do you mean? I don't have a bro—"

It was beautiful when the pieces slid together in Spain's head. It was like watching a pot of water boil. England got up, all smiles to hug the guest and thank him for taking the time to come. There may also be the hidden whisper of a battle plan in between ears. ("I'll take his legs. You get his eyes.")

Spain flushed up in fury, the red shooting up his neck and blooming on his cheeks. His fists tightened in incredulity and you could see this throbbing vein in his forehead that looked like it was going to burst.

"You invited him. Him." He exclaimed under his breath, breathing heavily. Everybody was looking at Spain. Portugal and England were staring in anticipation and Romano was shaking his head in irritated confusion and then…

"Fuck you and fuck your family!"

Ah, finally it begins, England thought while smiling brightly.

"Get out of my house! Out! Out!" He hollered, "I will not have him under my roof. Let me get my axe… Romano! My axe!"

Romano grumbled irritably, walking away to find this mysterious axe of Spain's while England and Portugal stood shoulder to shoulder, smirks on their faces while Spain stood up and started yelling hysterically in rapid Spanish.

"Yeah," England drawled, "I think I'm ready for my lessons, Spain."

"Cheri, you have to stop."

France was pleading exasperatedly over the phone and England sighed. He was usually the epitome of propriety and the one time he took a few liberties to have some fun and stir up a few old playful rivalries…

"I cannot be there to chaperone you for every lesson with Spain. Maybe if you stop ganging up on him with Portugal, he would be so much more cheerful towards you," France said while England stared at his watch sullenly, "Romano told me he nearly had a heart attack, mon dieu! He got out his axe, didn't he? Didn't he? England? Engla—

England hung up the phone. It was just his luck that the Frenchman just happened to be the Spaniard's closest friends and actually concerned about one another's welfare. He knew he wasn't getting any younger but surely it couldn't be that bad to have a laugh now and again?

Portugal had left him with a salute and a march down the porch and Spain was up in his bedroom while his Italian stomped down the stairs every few minutes to fetch another tomato.

England winced as Romano threw another hateful glance his way. He was pretty sure that there would be some nasty bruises blooming on his stomach later.

"I'll be going then," He announced to the empty hall and he heard a crash upstairs before England quickly and quietly let himself out.

The time for the bet has arrived and England adjusted his tie when Japan, Spain and France walked in. They were at 10 Downing Street for the simple reason that England did not want to pay for all the tea that he'd have to serve to nations that wouldn't even appreciate it anyway. Probably except for Japan, England thought pensively.

"Been working hard I hope, Angleterre?"

"Bring on your conversational French. I spent a month trying to get my tongue to twist that way," England replied, smirking lightly.

"Before we start," France interjected, going back to the door, "Amerique has come to me and requested for your time directly after the bet so he'll be sitting in."

"What? He made no such appointment with me!"

France raised his eyebrows and England fell silent. To be honest, he didn't know why he was making a fuss out of it. But after the lengthy dinner with a Frenchman where topics which are Not To Be Touched On were spoken about, he's been trying to avoid the American nation.

The door opened and America stepped in, a grin on his face. England loathed admitting it, but he had a theory that every room seemed to brighten up just a tad every time the American swaggered in. It was annoying but it was pure nature to smile back at whomever who was smiling at you.

"Now, try to keep up a conversation with me for at least five minutes. I'm sure you'll agree that I'm not asking for too much?"

England nodded, agreeing to the terms, eyes never leaving America's.

"Bonjour." (Good morning/Hello.)

"Salut." (Hello.)

"Comment vous appelez-vous?" (What is your name?)

"Je m'appelle Arthur."

England's eyes were smiling though his lips betrayed little to nothing. America felt a strange proud feeling bubbling up through his chest. The way England held himself, shoulders back and arms crossed spoke wonders about his confidence.

A hand landed on America's shoulder and he looked up. Japan had a knowing smile on his face and whispered, "I hope you know what you are doing." America hoped the same.

"Tu as un accent. Tu es Anglais?" (You've got an accent. Are you English?)

"Oui, je suis de Londres." (Yes, I'm from London.)

"Arthur, comment allez-vous?" (How are you, Arthur?)

"Très bien, merci." (Very good, thank you.)

And so it went on. France would ask the questions and England would reply in short utilitarian sentences. It was rather boring considering America had no experience with French whatsoever except for a few terms immersed in popular culture. To his knowledge, there seemed to be an argument between the two about baguettes towards the end, what with England snorting with derision every time France said the word.

France nodded and shook England's hand the moment he was done, before indicating for Spain to get his ass over here.

"It's truly beautiful to see you speak my language. It brings warmth to my heart," France said, standing from the chair.

"Let's hope the warmth won't last till winter," England replied, before looking at Spain, "Get on with it then, Spaniard."

Spain was still a little icy from their last encounter which went quite well compared to their first. Spain wouldn't allow England to take along Portugal so England had nothing else to demand but to forbid him to bring South Italy. Of course, the axe placed next to Spain's door did not escape his attention.

"Buen día." (Good day.)

"Hola." (Hello.)

"¿Cómo estás?" (How are you?)

"Muy bien." (Fine.)

"¿Qué has estado haciendo últimamente?" (What have you been up to lately?)

"Haciendo una apuesta." (Making a stupid bet)

Spain laughed, and England smiled a little.

"Esa es una apuesta estúpida. Usted nunca puede ganar con una apuesta de este tipo." (That's a stupid bet. You can never win a bet like that.)

This one ended rather shortly. Spain nodded at England when they finished, looking extremely pleased while England smiled at the Spaniard. Sometimes, America tended to forget that England had a whole other life before he came along, still had a whole other life in fact.

It was these times when England shared little inside secrets and jokes that America felt most distant from him. He didn't mind it much but it reminded him that no matter how close the two countries were, they'd never share the history that England shared with Europe.

They grew up in different times and that can never be changed. Even if they were to be in a relationship, America thought, they'd still have to give each other space. To be a nation in their own right without crowding the other and it was sure to be tricky.

"America? Are you quite all right? You look rather pale."

America's head jerked up and he nodded frantically at England who was peering at him curiously. There really was no reason to be thinking of the issues he had to work through when England hasn't even accepted his declaration yet.

"May we continue, England? Spain and I have made an arrangement for lunch," France said, tapping his watch.

"I'm taking a break," England replied and at the look on France's face, he added, "Oh it won't take awhile! The last test barely lasts for five minutes, it's enough time for the two of you to saunter to whatever place to stuff your mouths. Besides, I have to speak with America."

France conceded but not before flicking his eyes towards America who inclined his head just that bit. "Very well, then."

"Yes?" America asked, recapturing the Briton's attention.

"Let's take this outside."

"I'm afraid I was wondering as to why you are here," England said.

"I didn't think I needed to have a reason to spend some time with you," America replied, eyes carefully regarding England. England felt like he was being watched, like his reaction was going to be measured and analysed. He didn't like it.

England reached slowly into his jacket pocket. He'd taken to carrying around America's gift and as to why, England had no answer. The flash of recognition sparked in America's eyes the moment England held the item in his hands.

"Thank you for the gift, America. It was terribly thoughtful of you."

England continued, fingers skimming over the cover, "But what is it for?"

America wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. There was supposed to be a grand gesture planned with flowers and wine and chocolates and… things! He wasn't supposed to be cornered in some random corridor with those bottle-green eyes boring into his head and digging for answers.

"They're nothing," America blurted out, saying the first thing that came to his mind in a panic-stricken state, "We're releasing this into the market, for patriotism, y'know? I wanted to see how it would fare with you."

England's face fell.

"I'm not American and I'm not under your flag," England bit out harshly, his eyes firmly looking down.

America wasn't ready to put his heart out there yet. England might reject him… actually, he would reject him and America just haven't found a way to piece back broken smithereens of his heart. What if England mocked him? Or it could be worse. What if England pitied him and patted his back and tried to send him away like the child he still saw him as all those years ago.

"Yeah… But I'm just testing the product out. My boss said it would be a good idea. I'm thinking of giving it to the other nations to see how they fare."

All of a sudden, America's hands were jerked up and England pressed the notebook into America's fingers. England's eyes were glaring and he pushed America's hands away roughly before throwing the pen at his face. He was biting his lip so much so that he looked pained.

"Wh—"

"I'm so sick and tired of you blowing hot and cold on me!" England snarled, shoving America hard against the wall. There was a shimmer in his eyes before the Englishman turned to look away, his hands reaching up to rub at his face.

"You're not protecting me, America." There was that tone again. England said his name differently every time. This time, his voice was loud and desperate.

America didn't know what he did. He'd just implied England had taste and a moment later, his painstakingly chosen gifts were being hurled back at him.

"You are not protecting me."

France had chosen this opportune time to stalk out of the office and burst in on what was a very tense moment.

"Angleterre… I—

"I forfeit," England announced quietly, his gaze having returned to the carpeted floor. "I forfeit the bet, France. You win."

"What have you done?" France's voice was low and dangerous. His usual bright blue eyes were cold and they were currently regarding America with an icy glare.

"I do not want to repeat myself, Amerique. What have you done to Angleterre?"

The moment the Briton had turned past the corner, France had grabbed America and thrown him into the office. Spain and Japan were all but screamed at to get the fuck out of the room before he slammed the doors closed.

America wondered if anyone would find out about his murder.

"I don't know," America admitted, fingers holding the notebook and pen forlornly.

"Fix it," France said menacingly, a finger jabbing hard at America's chest before grabbing his jacket. "You fix it, Amerique. I did not hand the tape over just for you to wake the hell up then ruin everything. You either fix it right now or you stay the fuck away from him for the rest of your life."

America's lifespan was one long hell of a time. But there was just something in France's tone and the way he spoke. It nagged at something inside America and well, he just wasn't one to ignore his gut instinct.

"Why do you care so much?" America demanded, his brows pulling together suspiciously. "You two quarrel each and every meeting."

France let go of America's lapels.

"I have known him since he was a child," France answered, his voice suddenly unnervingly tender. "There is not another person I know better than Angleterre. He's unpleasantly direct with his opinions but when it comes to the things that really matter. His emotions, for example, he keeps them locked down within. He rarely ever lets anyone close to him, Amerique. But his heart… his heart is always open to you. Only you."

France was breathing rather hard right now before he snapped himself out of it with a shake of his head.

"He doesn't deserve to be hurt. Not twice by the same person. Not to the only one that he will always let in." This time, his words bore the sour tinge of accusation.

America understood.

(In fact, America usually understood more than he lets on.)

"America," England said evenly. "I don't have time for this. Tell your men to turn around and land immediately."

"Or what?"

England turned his head smoothly, green eyes carefully blank and mouth in a straight line. The sight was a trifle unnerving and America shuddered before turning to the front. For a moment, America wondered how far he would he go to coax a reaction out of the other nation.

"This is kidnap. You could have been committing political espionage," England said, "I could report you. Get me out of this plane now."

America rolled his eyes, "Would you prefer if it was a ship?"

England's lips curled back slightly before replying, "At least I can swim back to my shores or drown in the attempt."

"Jesus," America said, rubbing his arm nervously, "You're really fucked up, you know that?"

That put an end to England's creepy staring because he settled back into his seat, a satisfied smirk on his face. He hated planes, he hated the turbulence, he hated the pressure difference, he hated the altitude and he hated not being to rip open the emergency door and fly out.

If he could turn the lights off and maybe summon some harmless ghouls up here in a bit of fun then maybe this stupid flight won't be nearly as exhausting as it would be.

"You're angry," America stated simply, fiddling with a tape. He's been playing with that stupid thing since he dragged England onto the plane.

When England gave the impression that he never had planned to answer America, he continued. The butterflies that were in his stomach had just decided to bombard his heart because America was half sure that he was on the verge of having a stroke.

"Hey England," America said, voice suddenly soft.

He tugged a lock of choppy blonde hair behind England's ear before leaning in to whisper something close. Where only England and himself would ever know the exact words, of what he said.

And America kissed him.

It wasn't technically in the plan. America just wanted to say it and hope dearly that England wouldn't say something cruel or just punch him in the stomach.

But it felt like the right thing to do. Like he was being drawn to do it and so he did.

England's lips were soft and pliable and he tasted like tea. There weren't any earth-quaking jolts or fireworks filled with colour, instead, there was just a quiet feeling of belonging lingering beneath his tongue.

There were tiny little sparks of joy and wonder, igniting tiny bouts of breathlessness. It felt like America had finally found what he didn't even know he was looking for.

Slowly, America had to pull away for breath and he wanted to chance a look at England's response.

There was a wide blush spreading through his cheeks and his lips were always in a bright smile. His green eyes were looking in America like he could barely believe it. England wrapped his arms over America and pulled him closer. America suddenly realised England was shaking and it had actually taken a moment for him to realise it was because England was laughing.

America buried his face in the Briton's hair and tried to pull him closer. England was warm beneath him and it was worth it. It was worth it. America didn't know why he had ever thought it wasn't. Having England laughing and happy in his arms was worth anything in the world, least of all putting his heart out there.

England's heart was pumping rather dangerously at the moment but he didn't care a whit. There was pleasantly nothing in his head but white noise and happiness threatened to overtake him in crushing waves. He had almost forgotten how it feels to be so happy, England thought disbelievingly.

It was embarrassing how easily America could win him over. And here he was being gripped close and hugged to within an inch of his life. But England guessed it couldn't actually be counted considering he was just reclaiming what was his.

What had always been his from the very start.

America bit his lip to stop his ever-widening grin.

England tried determinedly not to meet America's gaze over the table, choosing instead to scribble furiously in the notebook that America had (re)given him. It was like a game, nowadays, seeing who cracked and gave up first. Least to say, America won most of the time.

America stared harder, absolutely convinced in the fact that the harder he looked, the more disturbed England would be. It was a theory that was still much disputed upon. But the strain in his eyes all came to fruition the moment England looked up and glared back at him.

America looked at the nation with whom he shared an exceedingly special relationship with. England's eyes were flashing and he looked as if he wanted to storm over and hiss at America to pay attention.

This could go on for hours really. America just smiled back, propping his head up with his hand.

End.

I would like to say that I don't speak French or Spanish and I did do research on that. But there might be mistakes so let me know if they're actually saying something quite ridiculous. Well, it was a bet on language so I thought it would be not very good if there weren't a bit of foreign language. I couldn't write the Japanese part because I haven't the faintest clue about the language. I know Chinese, but I don't think it's the same thing.

And yes, France is my love-hate enabler.

EDIT: An extremely kind reviewer has told me that some of my French was wrong and so I corrected the wrong ones and I just took out the ones that aren't suitable. If you spot any more mistakes, don't hesitate to let me know! (13/02/12)