Fifty Times

A/N: I'm glad everyone is enjoying Fifty Times so far!

Minnesota is my childhood home, so I, of course, have extremely fond memories of this particular state. I have a feeling that I will be receiving questions about this, but YES, Veigel's Kaiserhoff IS a real restaurant, and is definitely one of the best authentic German places I've ever been to. When I was a kid, we always went to Kaiserhoff whenever we went to New Ulm (about an hour and a half drive from my hometown) to visit my great-grandfather. (Fun fact: New Ulm was the filming location for the comedy film Grumpy Old Men!) However, I also find the stereotypes for my home state hilarious and will, of course, make fun of them. I've already chosen the next state to be made (North Daota), but please let me know what other states you would like to see soon. Please enjoy the next chapter on Minnesota!

States to vote for: California, Vermont, Washington, Nevada, Alaska, Louisiana, Florida, Massachusetts, or Virginia (I have Virginia, Louisiana, Nevada and Alaska more or less planned out, so they could be put up a bit faster). Again, suggestions for states are more than welcome!

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

Three: Land of Ten Thousand Lakes and Ten Billion Mosquitoes (Minnesota)

England stared at America in pure bewilderment. "America, where on Earth are we going that I am going to be in need of that?" he questioned dully, staring at the unbelievably thick coat that America was holding out to him. It had extra length, as well, stopping just above the knees, and the padding on the inside of it was sure to make England look as if he had instantaneously gained fifty pounds just by putting the damn thing on. "Please say we aren't going to Alaska."

America laughed. "No, don't be silly! We're not heading to Alaska yet!" he declared. "That isn't for a few more weeks."

"Joy," England replied, his voice monotonous, staring at the jacket with obvious dismay.

"Come on. It's going to be cold when we get off the plane in Minneapolis, and then we have to get to New Ulm," America insisted, pushing the jacket into England's eyes. The island reluctantly took it at last.

"New Ulm?"

"It's in Minnesota," America explained quickly, his tone chipper. He looked out of the plane's window. "We should be landing in a few minutes. I totally can't wait to show you around!"

England had really never heard of Minnesota. He knew that it was located somewhere in America's vast Midwest, but other than that, he had no idea what America would have in store for him in the named state. "What are you planning on torturing me with in this one?" Arthur chose to ask blntly.

"Hey, at least I didn't take you here during mosquito season," America defended with one of his trademark pouts, the ones that always made England almost want to drop his bad moods—almost. "Those things are big enough here to carry you off, and there are billions of 'em."

"You're kidding," England replied flatly. "Why on Earth would anyone settle where the insects were so horrid?"

America shrugged. "Well, for starters, the land here is gorgeous—lots of trees, awesome fishing, lots of water… It isn't called the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes for nothing. Besides, there's always something wrong with a place; nowhere is perfect."

"Land of Ten Thousand Lakes…" England repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. That had to be an exaggeration. "That can't be possible."

"Actually, Minnesota has eleven thousand, eight hundred and forty-two lakes," America recited, smiling widely and nodding proudly. "So there's plenty of room to go out on the water and not run into anyone—especially if you're up in the Northern part!"

"If you haven't noticed, America, it's winter," England pointed out patiently.

"Exactly!" America laughed. "Don't worry, Artie! I totally got this set up! One of my senators had a few friends of his pull some strings and do us a favor. They lent us some stuff."

England, confused, simply allowed America to prattle on about how excited he was about whatever nonsense he had planned. England, meanwhile, looked out the window at the winter scene beneath them America hadn't lied—there really was a large amount of trees here. The whole view looked like something out of a Christmas card. England remembered briefly when his own country had looked like this; he had still been so small then. It had been ages since he had seen this amount of untamed wilderness.

A short amount of time later, their small plane bumped onto the runway before coming to a rolling stop. The stewardess, a chipper woman in her late thirties, twittered animatedly in a pleasant voice as the passengers prepared to exit the plane about the current time and temperature, and the expected weather for the night—snowy and a little windy. America forced the jacket over England's shoulders, and he finally slipped his arms into the sleeves and zipped up the front.

He stepped out of the plane, walking into a relatively quiet airport. "There aren't many people here, are there?" he questioned. They had landed in a city called Minneapolis, which was supposedly one of the biggest cities in the state. However, the airport didn't seem very crowded at the moment—in fact, it looked rather empty.

Ouch. Every time he took a step, his bum hurt from their latest "escapade". If he had to walk very far, he was going to throttle America. He made a silent vow to himself to abstain so long as they were within Texan borders from this day on.

"Not really. Right now, at least," America admitted. "But then, it's snowy out. But I think that's half the charm of it. Minnesota isn't as crowded as New York is. But there are still enough people here to make the cities worth visiting."

"Hm…" England looked out the nearest window. Outside, a light wind was whipping up snow like powder, blowing it across the pavement. It was a rather pretty picture, actually. The two waited for a few minutes as their luggage was unloaded from the plane, and they each retrieved their respect suitcases from the carousel. America had rented another car for them—or borrowed one from a friend, England couldn't really remember. The American had been babbling during most of the plane ride, and to be frank, England wasn't really one to enjoy flying as America did. He much preferred having his feet on the deck of a ship, being able to feel the sea breeze and the shift of the floor beneath his feet, rather than be a couple thousand feet up in the air, protected by little more than an inch or two of sheet metal and a pilot that, most of the time, was only awake because of the copious amounts of coffee the airline attendants had forced upon him.

America left him with their bags to go and fetch the car. England watched as the American half-jogged across the parking lot, his head bowed against the wind and his hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets. He took out a set of keys, fumbling with them slightly, and unlocked the door to a maroon-red pickup trick. He lifted himself into the cab, brushing snow off of his back and shoulders. England was a little surprised at how fast the snow was coming down, and how quickly it had piled up on him. America started up the truck, and began to fiddle around with some of the controls of the dashboard. He gave it a few minutes to warm up before he pulled it around to the front door, where he allowed it to idle. He opened the door and slammed it behind him, returning to the door that England was currently taking shelter behind. "Come on, let's get the stuff in the back and get going," America said, smiling brightly. "It's only two, and everything's already set up for us!" America led the reluctant island nation back to the pickup, practically dragging him.

"America, where on Earth are we head—OH GOOD LORD!" England's eyes widened to the size of saucers as the cold hit him. Even under the thick jacket and his leather gloves, the icy temperature struck right through to the center of his body, hitting his unprotected legs first.

America laughed. "A bit cold, huh, Artie?" he teased. He opened the tailgate, and helped England heft the two suitcases into the back, underneath the snow cover. As soon as the handles were away from his grip, England was racing towards the cab of the truck, skidding slightly on the thin layer of ice beneath his feet. What the hell was wrong with America's people? Who in their right mind lived in a place like this?

England threw himself into the passenger's seat. His hair was practically plastered to his head with half-melted snowflakes. A few of them had somehow managed to attach themselves to his eyelashes. He wiped a hand across his face, brushing water and snow alike from his person, and ruffled it out of his hair. It was a little warmer in the car, but it was mainly because the wind was blocked. The cab hadn't quite warmed up from the heater as of yet.

America climbed into the driver's side, smiling widely, his cheeks slightly red from the cold outside. "Don't worry, babe. You'll get used to it," he assured him with a loving smile.

England grumbled darkly. "I'd better bloody not well have to," he hissed darkly.

America laughed, putting the car into drive. "Well, at least we didn't do this last year," he chirruped. "Forty below every day for two weeks solid… Sixty below with wind chill," he added as an afterthought.

England shook his head, once again wondering what the hell was wrong with the people who had first settled here?

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

As the cab of the truck heated up, the two nations removed their jackets. They had been on the road for going on an hour, and Arthur found that, after a certain amount of time, even looking at the large amount of beautiful greenery in the middle of winter grew dull after a while. America had turned on the radio some time ago, though neither of them had really been paying much attention to it.

England yawned, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the truck's window. America glanced over at him. "Don't worry, Iggy, it isn't far," he smiled. "About another half an hour."

England nodded once, numbly, and closed his eyes, wondering just how long he had stuck in this nation before he could return home to his beautiful, rainy little island.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

America pulled into New Ulm a little later than he had estimated, though not by much. It was dinnertime, and both of the nations had admitted to being rather hungry, though England had forced America to promise to not take him to a hamburger restaurant. England gazed out of the half-frosted window as they drove through the small, quiet town. Here and there, a person would be darting out into the cold to take out the trash or another quick errand. A middle-aged woman was walking her dog, wrapped from head to toe in layers of coats and sweaters, and a large, fluffy pair of snow pants.

America pulled off the road, parking in a small lot, and undid his seatbelt as he killed the engine. "All right, then, Artie, let's get us some dinner!" America smiled, giving his lover a quick peck on the cheek as he prepared to leave the safety of the still-warm cab.

"Where are we going?" England asked curiously, undoing his own seatbelt and dreading the cold that was soon to hit him.

"Veigel's Kaiserhoff," America replied animatedly. "The food there is awesome!"

"Kaiser…. Have you been spending too much time with Germany lately?" England questioned, surprised to hear America praising anything that had to do with the German. Usually, America was complaining about how uptight the German was, or something that he had done years earlier.

America laughed. "New Ulm is known as one of the most German places in my country," he explained. "Besides, lots of the people in this part of my country are German… Or Scandinavian," he amended. "In any case, I promise, you'll find at least something you'll like here, okay? Everything's amazing, so you can't go wrong!"

England sighed, undoing his own seatbelt. As much as he hated to admit it, he did rather enjoy German cuisine. Something about the homey, heavy flavors was comforting. Though he may have admitted so much to Ludwig, he would never even think of doing such a thing to—or even admitting he tolerated it—within the general vicinity of Prussia.

America led him down a block, turning into a white building with darkly-stained wood trim, in a classical German architectural style. Instantly upon entering, England welcomed the warmth the restaurant provided. The walls were lined with signed photographs of the American celebrities that had paid the restaurant a visit, and England was actually surprised at the sheer number of them.

A hostess greeted them cheerfully, and led them through a small hallway. The walls here, too, were jammed full of even more photographs. England glanced at them in passing interest as the girl led them into a larger room and seated them down towards the back, where it was away from the door and even warmer. The place was relatively busy, for how inhospitable it was outside, and nearly ever table was packed full of families eating dinner together. "This place seems rather… lively," England stated, feeling slightly awkward. Everyone here was a family or couple. He was sure that the two of them stuck out like a sore thumb.

"I told you, the food here is awesome," America shrugged. "So it makes sense that lots of people would come here for dinner, right?"

"Er… Right."

A waitress came to their table and dropped off two menus. As she began walking away, she did a double-take towards Alfred, and smiled widely, stopping in her tracks. "Alfred! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in forever, don't you know?"

America laughed sheepishly. "Sorry, Abby!" he apologized. "I've just been real busy, you know?"

The girl laughed, waving it off. "Well, come up and visit us up here every once in a while, would you? I know you have that flashy Washington job and don't care much about the average Jane busting her butt as a waitress, but that doesn't mean you can up and disappear on me for so long! You're my best tipper!" she said in a falsely scolding manner.

America laughed openly. "I'll keep that in mind," he assured her. "You know I always come here when I'm in the area."

"True. So, then, Al: who's your friend here?" Abby turned her attention toward England, her bright blue eyes sparkling with good-natured amusement. It was almost odd, seeing someone with eyes so similar to Germany's smiling so widely. It was almost creepy, if England were to tell the truth.

"Arthur Kirkland," England offered politely as he bowed his head in greeting and smiled at her. "The pleasure is mine, I assure you."

The girl's eyes flashed in amusement and, if England dared to think so, excitement. "Oh, you brought a guy back from work? Overseas? It must have been a long flight!" She glanced at Alfred, her smile spreading wider. "Have you been showing him a good time?"

"You know it, Abby," America replied, smiling a crooked grin. "He doesn't know much about the States, so I've gotta fix that."

"I know plenty about your bloody states, thank you very much," England grumbled darkly, opening the menu moodily. The way America said that, it was as if England didn't know him at all! Who had been the one to raise him from infancy? It sure as hell hadn't been France!

Abby laughed. "All righty, then! I'll just let your friend have a look at the menu, then, and I'll be back in a few. Anything to drink?"

"A Pepsi's good for me," America stated. "What about you, Artie? What's your pleasure?"

"Arthur," England responded automatically. "Do you happen to have any hot tea?"

Abby tsked. "You Brits and your tea," she murmured. "I see you live up to the stereotype, huh? Does he say 'love' and 'pet', too? 'Bloody hell'?" She addressed this towards Alfred, laughing quietly. Her comments were more playful than ill-natured, and even in his sour mood, England couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. "I'm afraid we only have iced. Could I interest you in some hot coffee instead?" she offered.

"Spare me," Arthur murmured, shuddering at the thought. "Water will be fine."

Abby left the two of them with their menus. She returned after a few moments with their drink orders, dropping them off before scurrying off to help another group. In spite of her laid-back attitude, she seemed to be busy, and her area of the restaurant was bustling.

England glanced through the menu, unsure of what exactly to get. It was actually rather extensive, serving both German fare as well as a few American favorites (England grimaced when he spied the word "Hamburger", mentally smacking himself and reminding himself to scold Alfred later).

Eventually, he decided on a favorite of his from time spent in Germany. Alfred called Abby over as she passed by, and smiled good-naturedly. "All righty, then, what can I get for you two?" she asked, looking at Arthur for his order first.

"I'll try the wiener schnitzel," Arthur replied, handing his menu to her primly. While it was horrible for you, Arthur decided that he had earned a bit of a treat. He usually ate very lightly. Then again, now that he thought about it, he had been eating more heavily (and more unhealthily) since his arrival in America. He decided then that he wouldn't allow his lover's eating habits to rub off on him any more than absolutely necessary, and perhaps take up a quick workout routine, as well.

"Good choice," she chirped. "And you, Al? The usual?" she commented.

"You know it!" America replied happily. "Gotta have my fix, after all."

"Of course." Abbey jotted down their orders, and sped off for the kitchen in that laid-back manner of hers, humming softly to herself. If England wasn't mistaken, it was a Disney song.

The two nations made small talk, for the most part, until their food came. America brushed England up briefly on Minnesota history and culture, though England had to admit, he wasn't sure he understood everything. He knew that there were a few things that America didn't know about the United Kingdom, as well, and that it went both ways. It would just be another small bump in their relationship—culture shock.

"Here you go, boys. Eat up." Abby set down their plates in front of their respective owners. England was pleasantly surprised when he didn't see a hamburger in front of his lover, but a rack of ribs (he truly hoped America didn't intend to eat the entire thing; he would get sick).

He looked down at his own plate, and felt a tad sick to his stomach himself. "Th-this…."

"Portion sizes are awesome, right?" America said, working on tearing apart his ribs. "The food up here is always big, Artie. The people up here eat hearty."

England was simply taken aback by the sheer size of his plate of food. There was absolutely no way he could be able to stomach this much food in an entire day, let alone a single meal.

Nevertheless, he dug in, and he was rather delighted to find that, despite the size of the food, it was delicious. All too often he found that, in American restaurants, size was favored over quality. This meal did not disappoint in either department.

They continued their aimless chatter for nearly an hour, and England found he was actually enjoying a conversation with America for once. He wasn't ruining it with childish jokes or stupid suggestions and questions, and it was actually rather pleasant.

England stopped eating perhaps halfway through his plate, effectively full. He wasn't sure if he could continue eating. The phrase "food coma", used by the American brothers to describe their feelings after their respective Thanksgiving holidays, came to mind. Unsurprisingly, America finished his entire meal, of course. England almost scoffed, but held back in the name of civility and politeness.

America paid (ignoring England's protested when he shrugged off the island nation's attempt to pay half), and then led the two of them back out to the car. "Where are you taking me now?" England questioned, feeling pleasantly full and slightly drowsy. German food always had that effect on him.

"We're heading out for some fun," America said cryptically, climbing into the cab. England climbed in next to him, giving him a grunt in reply rather than an actual response. He leaned heavily against the glass, barely even remembering to buckle himself in first. He drifted off into a light sleep quickly, aided by the gentle movement of the car and the copious amount of deep-fried veal and gravy in his stomach.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England woke with a start when America pulled the truck to a stop, slipping the shift to park. "We're here, Artie," he chirped, smiling widely.

England looked around himself, blinking slowly in confusion, still not entirely awake. All he could see was a large expanse of snow, flat and featureless, with trees off in the distance in any direction he went. How long had he been asleep? It didn't feel as if it had been very long. "Where are we, exactly?"

"This is where we're staying," America explained. "The Senator's friend ice fishes all the time here, but he's busy this weekend. So I got him to lend us his ice shack."

"…Ice fishing."

"Yeah!" America smiled widely, opening the cab door. Cold air rushed in, and England scrambled to throw his jacket on, glowering at his lover. "Let's get inside and turn the heater on before it gets too late." Forget that England had been perfectly comfortable with the heater inside the damn car.

"America, why the bloody hell are we ice fishing?" England questioned, his tone as icy as the air outside. He was making no movement to exit the cab himself.

America climbed out of the truck, laughing with good humor. "Because it's fun, Artie!" he replied, shaking his head. "Really, you're too funny. Trust me—you'll love it."

England sighed, knowing that there was no use reasoning with his idiot lover most of the time, and simply let it go. "Let's get this over with so we can go back to the hotel," he muttered.

"…What hotel?" England stared at America in shock. "We're staring here tonight, Artie. After all, the fishing is always best at night!" England could have throttled him.

Instead, he took a few deep breaths, and gently massaged his temples. This was going to be a long, cold night. He just knew it.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

After England began expertly tying the lines to hooks, Alfred took on the job of smashing up the ice that had accumulated in the hole so that they could actually get through to the water in order to put down their lines. Five minutes later, England finished tying the lures, and they both dropped their lines into the water—Alfred with excitement, and Arthur with a more restrained air, not truly interested in what America called "a completely awesome winter pass time". Arthur's idea of such a thing was sitting down in front of a fire (preferably against America's broad chest) with a good book.

Nearly two hours passed with nothing happening, other than England losing the feeling in his fingers and toes and having to warm them up next to the heater while America held his rod, and a few times when America had snagged himself on a log and excitedly reeled up to find that nothing was on his line (which always disappointed him greatly). Arthur repeatedly told him not to move the line so much if he wanted to catch something. He should now—he had practically fished for survival as a child. But the energetic American simply could not help himself.

England felt a slight tug on his line, and waited patiently until it became stronger, before the fish finally took a firm hold. England jerked it gently, knowing that he had set the hook, and began to reel it up calmly at a fast pace. "You get something, Artie?" America crowed, grabbing the fishing net from nearby excitedly.

"Mm." For now, England concentrated on reeling in the fish. A few moments later, he could see it just below the surface, wriggling against the hook caught in its mouth and trying to return to the depths of the water.

England waited until America had the net in position before he reeled it up the few extra inches that they needed to slip it into the net. "There," England said, feeling rather accomplished. "See where patience gets you, America?" he teased, smiling a tad. Throughout the rest of their fishing experience, England's mood brightened a tad—and he caught another four or five fish, simply stating that it was partly patience, and partly dumb luck. America, however, claimed that England was simply an excellent fisherman, and should pass some of his talent on to him.

Alfred never did catch a fish.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

"What on Earth is that?" England asked, covering his mouth and nose from a sudden stench. It had been about an hour since they had finished fishing, and England had been curled up on the air mattress, covered by three unzipped sleeping bags, reading a book. He'd left his boots on. It was damn cold in here, and he could simply pay to have he sleeping bags and air mattress cleaned later.

"Lutefisk…?"

"And you think my blood pudding is bad!" England accused, staring at the American in horror.

America blinked. "Hey, look, blood pudding is just wrong. First off, it's pretty much a scab. Second, pudding should be chocolate and in a small covered cup in your fridge door."

"I wouldn't force that abomination on my worst of enemies! Not even France!"

"It isn't that bad,"" America protested, eyebrows furrowing, as if he couldn't understand England's distaste for the food.

"That isn't food," England declared. "It's a weapon of mass destruction," he clarified, his eyes narrowing. "Those innocent Scandinavians—or so they would like us to think, until they force this… this thing down our throats—"

America laughed heartily, but took another bite of his lye-soaked fish. "It's an acquired taste!"

"So you eat something that tastes like Vaseline enough times, until it begins to taste good?" England asked sarcastically.

"Hey, your tea is an acquired taste," America replied with a shrug, spooning another mouthful of lutefisk into his mouth.

"There is nothing wrong with tea!" England retorted instantly. "To begin with, it tastes just fine—and it's very good for you! Just because it isn't eighty percent sugar like your damn cola doesn't mean it doesn't taste good."

America shrugged, licking his lips and fingers of a few small leftovers of the odd delicacy. "Still, I dunno if leaf water is the thing for me."

"You prefer bean water," England responded dryly, shuddering at the thought. "Ugh. I don't know how you can stomach that stuff." As if to mock him, America reached over for his thermos, and took a long swig of what England was rather positive was black coffee. "America, it has to be eleven 'o'clock by now. Why are you drinking all of that caffeine? I'm not going to be responsible when you're wide awake for the rest of the night," England warned.

America smiled brightly. "That's all right, Artie. Besides—it's New Year's Eve. I want to stay awake."

England froze. "It's… It's what?" In all the hectic traveling, hopping from one flight to the next, traveling across America's country, England had forgotten the date.

"New Year's," America repeated with a smile.

England fell silent, leaning back against the pillow that had been propping him up in bed. New Year's. He could hardly believe he had forgotten. This was the first New Year's Eve that he had spent away from London since World War II. He glanced at Alfred's watch, and saw the time—11:39. London had celebrated its own New Year's hours before. "O-Oh."

America watched him carefully for a moment before frowning. "Is something wrong, babe?"

England didn't say anything immediately, but finally spoke up: "I was just thinking about London, I suppose," he admitted.

"Are you homesick?" America asked, after a quiet pause stretched between them.

"I suppose I am, just a little," England allowed, shrugging in the most nonchalant way he could manage.

America pursed his lip. "Come on." He stood, pulling his line from the water, and took England by the hand. England let out a quiet yelp of surprise as the younger nation dragged him out of bed, out of the shelter of the ice shack, and back into the pickup. England didn't even have time to grab his coat, and was only guarded from the winter wind by America's oversized sweatshirt—warm, but not against the kind of winds they were experiencing out in the middle of the lake. America half-tossed him into the passenger's seat, and ran around to the other side of the vehicle. How he was able to run on the slick ice of the frozen lake, England wasn't really sure. America climbed into the cab, started the engine, and took off in the direction of the nearby town.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, America pulled into the town. There didn't seem to be anywhere to park, but America eventually found a place across the street from the restaurant they had eaten at earlier, pulling between two parked cars in a rather crooked manner. He made no move to straighten himself out.

America snapped the keys into the off position, ripped them out, and stepped out of the door, mindful again of the constant casing of ice surrounding the car. He slipped around the car, helped England down, and took off.

"America, slow down!" Arthur protested, nearly falling on the ice as he skidded after the other.

"I won't let you fall," America promised him. He kept up the quick pace, half dragging the island nation behind him as they passed a line of old brick buildings. Inside, England could occasionally spy families crouched around their TV sets, watching as the replayed image of the ball dropping in Times Square grew more exciting.

America stopped abruptly, turning into a small town square. There was ice here, too, and England would have fallen flat on his back if America had not caught him and held him securely against his chest. The younger nation held his former caretaker about the waist until he was satisfied that he could support himself. "It's no Big Ben, but…" America gestured to his left sheepishly.

England looked up to see a rather short clock tower. There was something vaguely similar about the clock faces, but all similarities to Big Ben died there; this smaller one would have been dwarfed by its larger cousin, and the bells were exposed rather than hidden away in the tower. England could barely make out a nativity scene on a ledge beneath the clock face, covered in ice and snow.

England felt a small smile tug at his lips. "It's nothing like Big Ben, you git."

America laughed nervously. "I know the Glockenspiel's not as impressive, but—"

"I appreciate the sentiment," England murmured. He smiled and wrapped his arms around America's neck. "Happy New Year," he murmured.

Above them, the tenants in the apartments began chanting the countdown: Ten… Nine… Eight… America leaned his forehead against England's, his grip on his partner's waist tightening ever so slightly. "Happy New Year, Artie."

Four… Three… Two…

America pressed his lips to England's, smiling against his lover's mouth as the clock above them began to chime. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The two nations pulled apart after a moment. England was frowning, making a face. "What's wrong?" America asked, blinking in apparent confusion.

"You taste like lutefisk."

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England was panting and whimpering. It was cold, but America was doing more than enough to keep him warm at the moment. America had been stupid enough to not book them a night at the nearest hotel, so now they were stuck camping out in the thrice-damned ice shack. Granted, it was more isolated than a hotel room, and the two nations didn't have to worry so much about being quiet, but it was still rather irritating to try to avoid ice while you were in such a delicate kind of situation.

"Al—!" England clutched his American lover desperately, feeling as if his heart was about to burst, both from its nervous pounding and pure elation.

America simply pressed butterfly kisses to England's eyelids, murmuring softly to him. "England… God, Arthur, I love you so much…"

The two nations lay together, England pleasantly exhausted and sated. America gently traced patterns into Arthur's side, smiling widely, nuzzling the spot between his neck and shoulder. "Arthur, I love you…" he whispered again—just one of the dozens of times he had said it that evening, and it still made England's heart skip a beat.

"I love you, too, you git," England murmured affectionately. "But you aren't getting a second round out of me tonight. It's too bloody cold," he complained.

America pouted, but nuzzled against his lover affectionately. "Fine." Moodily, he traced Arthur's newest tattoo—one he found absolutely adorable and hilarious at the same time. Apparently, Arthur had gotten drunk enough a year or so ago, right after the two of them had finally made things official, and had wandered into a tattoo parlor to get a permanent reminder that, in essence, marked him as America's.

The small American flag filled a neat one-by-two-inch rectangle on England's bum, right on the curve that America so adored fondling during their more "intimate" moments. "My Arthur," the American murmured gently, kissing England's temple after he was sure the other nation was fully asleep. He cuddled up to him again, slipped his arms around his most important person's waist, and held him against his chest as he drifted off to join him in a deep, contented sleep.