3rd August, 2010; London, England
(A date of no particular significance; A Michelin starred restaurant not far from England's house)

-
England thinks he may have his menu memorised.

Indeed, when he briefly closes his eyes, he can still see the exact layout of the page, detailed enough that he can count the number of loops which make up the curlicues that separate the choices for one course from another.

He switches out the menu for the wine list, because he'd only skimmed it earlier when they ordered their drinks, skipping over the detailed descriptions of the wines and heading straight for the one he knew had the highest alcohol content. Apparently, his perfectly nice but seemingly unremarkable red is: Full-bodied and intense garnet in colour. Its fruity bouquet presents hints of cherries and blackberries. Smooth on the palate with a velvety structure.

Fascinating.

England enjoys wine, but has never been able to pick out the subtleties in taste and texture that enthusiasts claim are there (a deficiency that France, of course, blames on the irreparable damage England has done to his palate with years of atrocious food). America, on the other hand, does occasionally take himself off for weekends at Californian vineyards to sniff, swill, spit and pontificate on 'woody notes' and 'floral bouquets'.

A quick glance towards the other side of the table, however, indicates that America still hasn't taken one sip from his own glass of wine, and will be unable to confirm whether it does hint of cherries, blackberries or anything else.

(Ten minutes. Ten whole minutes they've sat here without a single word being spoken save for the two times they've had to send their poor waiter on his way when he came to take their food order.)

He seems thoroughly absorbed in his own menu; too absorbed to remember to drink, perhaps. With his eyebrows drawn close together, eyes narrowed to slits, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth, it looks as though he's attempting to decode some fiendishly difficult cipher rather than trying to decide between scallops and soup for his starter.

Seeing his continued indecision as a perfect opportunity to break their silence, England offers, "I hear the venison here is excellent."

All that sally earns him, though, is a disinterested-sounding, "Hmm," which doesn't inspire him towards venturing a similar opinion regarding the wood pigeon.

Modern English, it seems, may not be to America's taste, after all. England had been a little unsure of his choice from the second he made it, but as his decision to forgo the official dinner arranged to follow his and America's meeting in preference of something more intimate was a spur of the moment one, his options had been somewhat limited from the start. He'd set his staff to pulling strings and calling in favours – a slight abuse of his position, admittedly, but a rare enough occurrence that England considers it a forgivable one – but that had still only resulted in two restaurants to decide between.

Classic French probably would have been a safer bet.

Although, going to that official dinner would have been the safest bet of all, because then he could easily have avoided talking to America all night, just as he'd avoided talking to him all day, and, indeed, for quite some time now. Three weeks and two days, to be precise.

Through his many years of detached observation, England had become vaguely aware that there were certain rules he should observe following… the sort of night he and America had shared. One of those rules was that, apparently, a degree of studied detachment was expected and one should wait a little while before re-establishing contact so as not too appear too eager. Interest was acceptable, but eagerness was too close to desperate, it seemed, and as the sixty-plus years of prior waiting had rendered eager somewhat of a gross understatement for England, he thought it best to err on the side of caution.

The couple of days he had meant to defer his phone call for, however, became a week, became three weeks and two days, during which time he realised he wasn't even trying to avoid appearing desperate, he was trying to avoid having to hear that they'd had 'fun' but America had no desire for anything more. Not even a repeat performance.

At least, England thought they'd had 'fun'. They'd both been more than a little worse for wear the night of America's party, and England's memories of it are a muddled mess of sensation that he can't form into a coherent narrative. A pleasant blur, but a blur, nevertheless. Perhaps America remembers more and that's why he never rang, and…

And England is second guessing himself, just as he has for the last twenty-three days, and asking is no easier with the two of them together alone again than it had been through the relatively impersonal medium of a phone line. Harder even, when they're surrounded by other people, whose laughter and conversation seems to make the enclosure of silence surrounding their table even more palpable.

He tries to return his attention to the wine menu, but all of the 'note's and 'aromatic's and 'character's jumble themselves together into configurations that don't even begin to resemble logical sentences, and he probably should have gone home tonight, fuck official dinners and their frankly ridiculous alternatives, and he could be watching his soaps, drinking tea, and putting it all off for yet another day, then –

America's knife rattles against his wine glass as he puts his menu down on the table in front of him. When England looks up, startled by the noise and sudden movement both, he asks, "Arthur, is this a date?"

"What?" England asks, even more surprised by the question. "Why wou–"

England cuts himself of mid-word, because it suddenly occurs to him that, yes, America probably does have to ask. Looking back, England can see that hadn't exactly made his intentions clear, simply suggesting that perhaps America might like to dine somewhere quieter, away from the pressures of work that would no doubt follow them otherwise were they to spend their evening surrounded by politicians. It's nothing they haven't done before, although, admittedly, they usually make their escape to a pub or bar, rather than a restaurant.

Still, it does offer England an easy escape in another sense. He doesn't have to say yes, after all. "Do you want it to be?" he asks, hedging his bets.

"Do you?" America counters, hitting the conversational ball squarely back into England's court.

Bastard.

This could no doubt go on all night – "Well, that depends on what you want." – if they let it, and the thought is a tempting one, but what then? If they don't make themselves clear, here and now, then England will just worry and wonder until the next time they speak, and curse himself for not being brave enough to say one fucking word.

"Yes," he says, and his voice cracks a little, squeaking embarrassingly, but at least it's out there. At least he'll know.

And America smiles, so broadly that his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Awesome."

"Awesome," England echoes without really thinking about what he's saying, feeling light and relieved, and returning America's grin to him double-fold, he's sure. It certainly feels that way, given how much his cheeks are aching. He no doubt looks bloody ridiculous, as it isn't an expression that he gets much practice with, but he finds he doesn't really care.

America laughs a little breathlessly. "I was starting to get a bit worried," he admits.

"Worried?"

"Well, it doesn't do a guy's ego much good to have someone running off crying the morning after, you know. Wales did say it wasn't anything to do with me, but then you didn't call or anything, so…"

England hadn't even thought to consider that America might have actually have been awaiting the phone call he hadn't been brave enough to make. That he might be experiencing some of the very same concerns England had felt, but: "You could have rung me."

"Wales also said I should give you some space," America says, shrugging.

"Jesus Christ," England says irritably, "and you actually listened to him? Since when have my brothers ever given decent advice about, well, anything at all."

America's laughter this time is loud and hearty, and his expression is so open and openly happy, in a way that England hasn't seen directed towards him in years. It reminds him vividly of when he first realised that his feelings towards America might have changed, back during the Second World War when they were all worn and tired, becoming desperate, and even Scotland's stubborn will had bowed under the weight of a grief he wouldn't acknowledge and no-one else dared touch. But America was all golden hope and promise, and England had finally seen him as a man and not simply as the little boy he'd once been, playing at being an adult.

It had been the birth of the damnable itch that had plagued England for decades, that still plagues him, but it suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't have to ignore it anymore. He can, for example, suggest to America that they sod the whole idea of a meal and go straight back to England's house, instead.

America agrees with extremely satisfying alacrity.