Author's Note: Total fluff and stuff USUK oneshot I thought of while I was supposed to be thinking of my FrUK story. Enjoy~! :3

Edit: Did some little changes here and there. Thanks to those who've pointed stuff out to me.

America had finally recovered from sleep around ten thirty, and was somewhat disappointed whenever he rolled over in the bed and didn't feel England still lying in bed. Not that it wasn't uncommon for the man to be up around either seven thirty or eight, but normally he would make the American get up with him. Perhaps he'd attempted to wake up the stubborn country and he had simply grunted in annoyance and fell back into dreamland. But still, America felt a little upset that he was left with a cold bed this morning, as late as the morning was. Couldn't England just sleep with him for a while? Couldn't he let the younger nation have some pride and let him wake up before him, even if he had to fake sleep? Lovers did that sort of thing, right?

Nevertheless, he was eager to go say a "good morning" to him, even if it meant that he'd have to eat some horrendously burnt food that England had made. He complained about the food often, but he would still eat it for him. He did feel bad about it, though. Despite the fact that England should have realized before he was even born that he sucked at making food, he shouldn't really criticize him so much...he was trying to get better - even if the younger country was certain that he was just born without the ability to make food, and he'd never gain the skill. He just would never grasp it. Either way, he felt a little guilty of constantly putting down his lack of skills in the kitchen.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and searched around for the mouthwash. England must have used the last of it. Kneeling down to look in the cabinets under the sink, he smiled at seeing a new, unopened bottle and grasped it. When he removed it, he caught sight of a small box that was sitting at the back. Pulling it out, knowing immediately what it was, he suddenly thought of an idea, and closed the cabinet. Setting the box on the counter, he quickly gargled a decent amount of mouthwash, ran out to get dressed and find a sharpie.

England was washing a pan out in the sink when he saw America burst, wide awake, out of their bedroom and ran into his office and ran back into the bedroom after less than thirty seconds of standing in the office. After a couple minutes of staring at the door in confusion, he went back to scrubbing the pan. He had fried himself some breakfast this morning, and didn't bother making something for his roommate and lover. If he made him something, he'd just complain about the taste and eat it with disdain. England wasn't sure if him eating it was better than him just throwing it out if he didn't like it, but it made him a little happy that at least the American cared enough to eat it...but it also made him feel more like his mother rather than his boyfriend. Clutching the skillet, he sighed with a small smile, he was so difficult, but he still loved the man - foolish as he was.

He looked up whenever the taller man came into the kitchen with a grin in greeting. After giving America a peck on the lips, he went back to working on the pan. He asked curiously, "So, what dire thing did you need that caused you to tear through our house like that?"

America grinned, "Oh it was nothing." He started rubbing England's leg with one hand, and wrapped his other arm around his boyfriend's waist.

England raised one of his eyebrows, scrubbing more vigorously to get the remnants of the food off the supposedly non-stick (what bull) pan and replied, "It certainly didn't seem like nothing."

Removing his hands from their current spots to rub his shoulders, America mused, "I had been thinking about something I left in the office, and I had to go see it. Nothing to worry about."

England chuckled, "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

America released his hands off his love, and started heading into the living room. He called back to him, "Do you have anything you need to do today?"

The older man nodded, "I've got to call my boss...other than that I don't think so. But that call may last an hour or two." He could already see the younger country pulling out some video game consoles, and knew that today would probably be largely unproductive and pretty lazy. Oh well, it was nice to have a few days like that. He was tired of all the running around he normally had to do, and after his recent trip to the library, he'd have an easy time entertaining himself for the day - unless America started demanding his attention or forcing him to watch a movie or something like that.

America stuck his tongue out and gave a sour look, "Can't those old men run your little island without you there?"

England shrugged, "Apparently not."

"That's why I love my boss. He can do what he needs to do and take care of a whole country without me there all the time and it's like thirty times your country!"

"Well, that's your boss, not mine."

Giving a cute little pout towards the country who had finished drying the skillet and was placing it in its proper place, he extended both of his arms in a hug and said, "Relax with me today. Blow off your boss. Pleeeease?"

England laughed, "Sorry America, but I'll get in trouble if I do that." With a warm smile, "But I can always call him later on today. He never specified what time." He ambled over to America and walked into his hug, allowing the pair of large arms to wrap around him. He blushed slightly whenever he felt him rubbing a soothing circle at his back and hugged him tighter.

The two were sitting together on the sofa, America clutching a Playstation controller and England reading a book. With the noise of the video game, England would often look up to see what America was doing in the game. His choices were a little weird today. The English country would often see America playing Call of Duty, Halo, Bioshock, or Assassin's Creed. Today he had a stack of Spyro the Dragon games set by him on the floor, and he was playing through the first one. England wasn't a games expert, but he had lived with America long enough to watch him play more hours than he should of video games and the country tended to ramble about a game often if he was frustrated with it.

England eventually asked, "Did you get bored of all the action games or something? This seems very mild for you."

America shrugged, "I'm stuck on my other games, and the Spyros really good stress relievers. Simple controls, simple game." England shrugged and went back to reading, until America wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in close. He smirked, "Are you so bored that you're going to actually asked me about my video games?"

England snorted, "No. I was curious, git. Am I not allowed to know anything about the stuff you like?"

The younger nation smiled and kissed England on the temple, "Well, when you put it like that..."

The rest of the day carried on, and over the course of the day, England had noticed how "touchy-feely" America had been all day. Not anywhere particularly intimate, but he was rubbing him a lot, as if he was giving him a lot of little massages. There were even times that England swore that he had made him always jolt on purpose whenever he was rubbing him skin to skin. Was something up with America or did he just wake up wanting to stroke him from head to toe?

America was looking around in their kitchen for ingredients for dinner, the meal he was in charge of. England either made breakfast or lunch, and whichever one he did make, America would have a large portion for the other so that England wouldn't make him too much of whatever it was he was making. America had always been in charge of dinner, though. The older nation had quickly learned after they moved in together that America was not all grease and fast food. His country was vast, and the different portions had their own ways of making things - so he knew how to make a lot, surprisingly. He was planning on making some kind of stew, but he unfortunately didn't have enough potatoes to make it.

Pulling on his bomber jacket and grabbing his wallet, he strode up to England and gave him a hug, "I'm gonna head to the store really quick to get some potatoes. I'm also going to look to see if they have a key lime pie." In actuality, England preferred it whenever America made apple pies from scratch than eating a store-bought pie, but one would take a while to make; maybe he could ask him after dinner to make another sometime. The American suddenly reached up the Brit's shirt and started stroking his pectoral and he wrapped an arm around his neck.

England frowned, but didn't pull out of the hug, "What's with you today? Why do you keep rubbing me?"

America smiled coyly, "No reason." He leaned down to press a kiss to England's lips and the country just melted. He craved America's kisses, they were some of the best he'd ever received in his long life.

After a minute, he felt something get pressed to his chest, as if it was being stuck on him. England broke off the kiss and hissed, "What in the hell are you doing?!" America laughed and suddenly stuck something else to the side of England's cheek, kissed it, and headed out the door of their apartment.

Reaching up to his cheek, he peeled off what it was and noticed that it was a square band-aid. Geez louise, had America been sticking those on him the whole day? How did he even fail to notice something like that? He was about to fold it up, throw it away, and examine his body for other ones, until he noticed something written in black sharpie on the front of it.

"Sorry for saying that your food sucks every day."

Hm? An apology? Well, he did complain about his food often, but it was just so rude to say that to someone who's trying to get better at the skill. He could make food good, if he just put enough time and effort into it, he supposed. He reached up and felt one on his shoulder and decided to just pull off his shirt, and looked at the back of it. There were four band-aids stuck to it. Peeling off each one, he read them aloud to himself.

"Sorry for complaining whenever you watch the soccer tournaments on TV."

The only sport that England really had an interest in was soccer. He used to be big on croquet, but only whenever he was playing it with others. Soccer was the only sport he would watch on TV, and he didn't really care to watch the Olympics whenever it came on. He and America shared the same opinion on the Winter Olympics (were they really that important?) and the Summer Olympics were just annoying because days were filled with hearing China, America, and Russia bicker on the phone about which country was going to get the most medals. He loved the World Cup, because it was all one sport and it made comparing the teams of the countries easier than having to judge that America is the best country at the Olympics just because he won all the swimming and gymnastics medals, even if he sucked at ping-pong or handball or whatever.

"Sorry for continually asking you to throw away all your old clothes."

Okay, that one was just being a little rude. Sure, maybe America didn't care enough to save the stockings and britches from his early days as a nation, and only kept several articles from several time periods - why should he have any right to tell England to throw away all his Victorian Era clothes, or his pirate clothes, or his squire clothes? They were all parts of his history for crying out loud! And he thought he liked his punk clothes!

"Sorry for calling you crazy every time you talk to your 'imaginary friends'."

If he'd open his eyes every once in a while, he wouldn't have a problem seeing them! They existed just as much as he and himself did!

"Sorry for taking photos of you whenever you get wasted."

So what if he couldn't hold his liquor as well as he thought? That didn't mean he needed to document everything he did while he was under the influence. He respected America if he was in some kind of embarrassing situation, rather than taking a photo and showing it to the first country he saw. Running his hands down the back of his pants, he caught a few more.

"Sorry for getting irritated whenever you tell me that I need to stop eating so many hamburgers - I know you're looking out for me and not trying to nag me."

This one made him smile. He found it nice that America was beginning to understand why he told him that so often. He knew that he hated being told off by him, like he was used to during his colonial era, but old habits died hard. And he didn't want to see the lovable fool get killed by something involving those horrid burgers.

"Sorry for being so freakin' stupid sometimes."

That one really didn't need a big explanation. America's occasional extreme dimness was something that really got on his nerves from time to time. Seriously, he wondered sometimes how he lived this long with some of the stupidity he had within him. Then again, that stupidity was also something he just couldn't help but love in him. It made him such a sweetheart.

"Sorry for kissing you out in public, but you look so cute when you're embarrassed."

People weren't exactly blind and two men kissing wasn't exactly common yet. And until it was widely accepted in America, he frankly didn't want to be the center of attention while he was walking down the street with him. He blushed at the last part, that dumb git. He felt around on his skin, and caught one on the back of his arm.

"Sorry for being such a jealous jerk during the second World War."

Oh, that one pricked at him. England was a little glad that America wanted to apologize for that, but it brought up some negative memories. England had thought that him holding a war rifle once again was far too soon, even if this war could help pull his country out of debt. He had told Canada to stay home until he was needed - as the lad was loyal to help his master, but he wasn't big on fighting in wars. Until he had called for Canada's help, he had been on the front lines with France. He was glad that they weren't fighting in those horrible trenches anymore, but war was war - and he held the same resentment. But, especially during and after the first World War, he had grown very close to France. They had fought side by side together for the longest time, and they had bonded over the long time they had been together. It had been budding into something more for both parties, but both had secretly decided to just hold off until the war was over. Then they could have plenty of time to just be with each other. Germany and Prussia had been promising bad intentions, but France and himself had been able to hold them off just fine...until the fall of Paris.

The two nations had agreed to hold out until the last minute, because France was going to fight to keep himself from being taken over. If the two of them could do it in the first war, he had no doubts that this war wouldn't be any different. However, the Italy brothers had joined in the attack - and it became too much. France and England both agreed to begin retreating, and the two were taking off, trying to avoid the gunfire aimed at them. Germany was charging after the two of them ferociously, and in an act of sacrifice, France had shoved England further ahead of him to accompany both armies into Normandy, and he was tackled to the ground by the larger nation. England had stopped, wanting to go back and save France - but the defeated country told him to run before Prussia caught up to them. He could still remembered the harsh orders being screamed at him as Germany tried to shut him up, and he eventually had to turn and run to the border. He had taken the remnants of his and the French army back to London, and called upon both Canada and America to help.

His current charge was upset to hear that France had been captured, but not his former one. America only criticized that he was captured because he was weak. A lot of it was because America was pissed off to see that England was so deeply motivated to taking down Germany because of what he had done to France, and he was blind or simply didn't care that he was hurting England's feelings. He had loved France, but America frankly didn't understand that until the older country blew up at him. He screamed at him to never talk about France that way again, and all the pain and anger being yelled at America made him break down in tears after he had finished shouting at him. The younger country still remained cold whenever England spent so much time with France after the war, making sure that he was recovering okay, both physically and mentally. Even after the romance with him died away, it still hurt that America had been so heartless during that time. The next band-aid he found was above his ankle.

"Sorry for being so obsessed with him during the Cold War."

That one didn't need much of an apology as the one from the second world war, but that one was a little sensitive to him too. It was as if America had just turned right around and left England in the dust. He knew it was because he was still jealous about England caring so much for France, but his devotion towards Russia and the rest of the Soviet Union was more than a tad excessive. England swore that the two of them was constantly back and forth between being passionate sex and horrific threats. The spying and claims against being either communist or capitalist was just plain ugly and the Space Race was amazing and awful at the same time. It was a difficult time. He was just glad that it all had begun fading away before the end finally came. He found the next on hip.

"Sorry for giving away my virginity to France."

That whole fiasco was hell for him. After fighting against France for so many years, his former charge just turns right around and lets the frog sleep with him. Takes what could have and should have been his. And just after everything that had happened...he then remembered that America had stuck one on his chest, and pulled it off. It was actually on the spot where his heart was supposed to be.

"I'm so sorry for leaving you out in the rain, England."

Oh god. He could feel himself trembling a little bit. That day had shattered his happiness. After all those years of raising America, he grew up and began challenging his caretaker for the things that he wanted. He hadn't truly meant to oppress him, but there were just things that he had to do...things that America wanted no part in. He had always wondered as to why America had done it. Was it because of the taxes? Was it because of the King? Was it because that England had to leave so often to take care of things happening in his own land and couldn't be with him all the time? Whatever things had caused him to grow so bitter, it made him regret so much. It made him want to go back and change everything. Back then, he didn't know what to do whenever America said that he wanted nothing more to do with him.

He had been outraged and hurt. To think that he would simply abandon everything they had built together and just toss England aside because he wanted to do things alone. He didn't know what else to do but fight back and force himself to hate America. It awful not having anyone on his side this time. During the Seven Years War, he even let America fight with him against the French. Why did he want to throw it all away? Why? His mind drifted back to that dreary day.

He was standing out in a muddy field with America facing him head on, his aim locked on his former master. Their armies were both behind them, understanding that this was their fight and they needed to stay out of it for the moment. This confrontation belonged to the personifications.

"Hey England! All I want is my freedom! I'm not a child any longer and I don't need you anymore! Consider me independent!" he had shouted, looking enraged.

England just couldn't take it. He wouldn't let this happen! America knew nothing except for what he was taught from himself about fighting, while England had done it for centuries. He charged forward, and tore the gun out of America's hands, sending it airborne. Once it clattered to the ground behind him and lay to rest in the mud, England pointed his musket at America and yelled back, "I won't allow this! You idiot! Why can't you follow any of this through to the end?!"

For a moment, everything was still. And then America's group of rebels aimed their muskets in England's direction. But even so, it was as if the two countries were frozen together in time. When England came to the realization of what he was doing, he couldn't take it anymore and simply lowered the gun and said sadly, "I...I can't shoot you. There's no way I can..." Feeling defeat wash over the nation, England couldn't hold his own anymore and collapsed to his knees in the mud, beginning to cry. "Why? Damn it all, why?! It's not fair!" After all he had done for the nation - raised him, taught him, cared for him - why could he just simply turn his back on him and feel nothing...at least from what it had seemed like.

And America only uttered sadly, "You know why..."

Reliving the memories had brought tears to England's eyes, and he quickly wiped them away. He was finally getting an apology for the misery and heartbreak he had suffered after so long. He continued to cry, but he didn't know if it was because he was still living in the sad memories or if it was because he was happy that America had felt the sorrow and regret that he had felt himself, and he wanted to let him know that.

After his eyes had dried and England became calm once again, he had an idea of his own.

America came back through the door, carrying a somewhat heavy sack of potatoes and holding onto a key lime pie he ordered at the bakery. The trip had taken him a little longer than he expected, so he'd have to hurry up and start dinner. Stew took a little while to make...but he could always ask England if he didn't mind home-fried chicken or pork chops or something like that instead. He could make stew tomorrow.

Setting the groceries down on the counter, he looked around for the man on his mind, and didn't see him. Maybe he was in the bedroom? Oh well, fried chicken was sounding really good right now. It was just a food that made you feel better about life. At once he started skinning and cutting up the potatoes so he could boil them, and he was dumping them into the pot whenever he was grabbed from around the neck by a pair of arms.

America turned around to kiss England, but something else made contact with his mouth by his hand, something that quickly got stuck, and England stood on his tiptoes to kiss America's lips sealed behind the thing. The taller nation pulled it off quickly, easily recognizing it as a band-aid, and whined, "Putting band-aids on people's mouths isn't nice, Iggy. At least I was nice enough to..." He had been turning over the band-aid as he was scolding his older boyfriend, and he trailed off as he read it.

He spoke aloud: "I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass, and I'm sorry I took so long to fall in love with you."

England gave a sheepish smile, and his cheeks turned slightly pink. America then beamed and gave him a far better kiss than the one he received. Once they broke off the kiss, England whispered into America's chest, "I forgive you, America."

Whispering back into England's hair, he replied, "I forgive you too, England." With a peck to his forehead, he added, "And I love you so much."

England smiled, "I love you too, you git." Looking back at the band-aid in his hand, he asked, "But why band-aids?"

"Well...band-aids can heal every little thing, right?"

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