you're the only one who knows what's it like to be me;

[wingborne]

The original plan had been to find a movie from the store in fifteen minutes.

Though the thought was very good, it lacked significant understanding of the Situation. And the Situation was that even though America’s weak suggestion of a “movie night” had somehow clawed its way above the weaker suggestions of board games and boardwalks, it wasn’t a good suggestion by any means. But England’s short but dismal visits were always Awkward and they honestly had nothing better to do. America didn’t know how to entertain guests, and England didn’t know how to be entertained. The last, rather disastrous, visit had resulted in them sitting in the same room in awkward silence for three hours.

But even if movie night wasn’t the worst option, it still was quite horrible. The original plan for fifteen minutes diverged into hours when they both came to a horrific realization that they couldn’t agree on the same movie to watch.

At first, America chose the action films with the explosions on the cover and hard-boiled archaeologists with chiseled jaws staring expectantly at the viewer behind a dynamic title. But England had a small but determined Helicopter Explosion meter, in which he refused to watch anything with more than three explosions, so that excluded all the good ones.

Then England found a small bin of foreign films, and while he tossed out the French ones nearly immediately, he had been pleased to find one or two of his own, with dramatic ladies with white throats throwing back their heads with their arms artfully placed over their forehead. But America began to complain loudly because they were boring films where nothing happened and he couldn’t understand the funny words, to which even England seemed at a loss to refute.

America found the horror section, and while he seemed to get chills from the leering covers, England browsed through the B-rated films with barely a blink of an eye. His only objection was that he didn’t want America to cling onto him the entire night, and he was not going to stand outside the bathroom door in case anything happened and the whole thing was more trouble than it was worth, and though America promised him no clinginess would happen, a particular cover seemed to leave him scarred for life and he was noticeably quieter for the rest of the store visit.

They squabbled up and down the romantic aisle, through the mystery genre, resurfacing briefly at the teen flicks, before finally deciding on a film that both of them seemed to dislike, chosen only because it didn’t give the other any happiness. The cover was ambiguous, the title was mysterious, and the back was covered with a dynamic picture so the summary was too obscured to read. The ride back to America’s apartment was ridden in stony silence, as both blamed each other for the decision, and neither could remember what film it was in the first place.

America got the popcorn while England deftly navigated the newfangled technology, and it was England who had the presence of mind to dim the lights, to which both would be thankful for later. With everything prepared, the movie began, and they spent the first few minutes sniping at each other bitterly for the choice.

“Oh,” England said, biting viciously into the popcorn, “Look, it’s a children’s movie where boy becomes hero. Honestly, you and your big hero complex have no creativity.”

“Oh,” America said, hugging his pillow vindictively, “Look, it’s… your eyebrows are fat.”

It was going well.

The next ten minutes were spent in relative peace, with America shoving popcorn into his mouth by the handful and England dozing on and off, and they sat a respective distance from each other.

“The plot is painfully obvious,” England pointed out after a while.

“You’re the one who chose the movie!”

“No, you’re the one who chose the movie.”

“You’re the one who took it down from the shelf!”

“That was you, idiot.”

It was going extremely well.

America was the one who noticed it first. He got a gut feeling, a bad stirring in his stomach that he had also gotten when he started to think Mufasa wasn’t asleep, that maybe Bambi’s mother wasn’t going to make it, the secret fear that the hero wouldn’t be there on time (for the movie, anyway). He shoved more popcorn into his mouth than it could take, but still, he stared in horror at the screen in anticipation.

England was the one who noticed it second, which was fairly obvious in itself, but it hit him hard because he wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t often moved by pixels on the screen, but one moment, he was half-asleep and wondering if he remembered to turn off the faucet at home, and then the next moment, someone had gone and disappeared off the screen forever and he was gaping at the television.

All talk had stopped by then, but the silence had stopped being peaceful and gone to being painful.

America wasn’t crying. He wasn’t crying. He absolutely wasn’t crying, it was just that his eyes were watering from the popcorn and the popcorn tasted salty and he shoved more into his mouth and managed to stifle his nose sounds into his pillow, which he needed to wash later. He tried to cover his sounds by shifting on the couch, but he didn’t dare look at England.

England didn’t dare look at America. Fuck. Fuck everything, fuck, how could they? It was a damned children’s movie, where were the unicorns and flowers? Maybe he was going to come back. Maybe he was just asleep. That was it, the little animated figure was just asleep, everything would be fine. But as the seconds ticked by on the mantle clock, England realized with growing horror that he wasn’t asleep and fuck.

But the movie raced onward too quickly, and England shoved his handkerchief into his face in a poor attempt to stem the tears and tried to turn his head away from America subtly. In the meanwhile, America buried his face into the pillow and pretended to be interested in the popcorn, but the tears wouldn’t stop and the movie was sad and he needed to sniff but he couldn’t sniff because then England would know he was crying and England must never know.

It was America who broke the silence first, a little before the movie ended.

“What’d,” he said in a voice slightly stuffy and too casual, “What’d you think?”

England started, and managed to clear his throat. “Ah,” he said, “Well, it’s all right. Bit sad.”

“Yeah.” America hesitated. “Enough to make some people cry, I heard.” He didn’t know why he said it, but once he said it he had said it, so he waited tensely for England’s answer.

“Hah,” England said, thinking wildly if he suspected or not, “I can’t see how. Honestly, this movie wasn’t… wasn’t that sad.” He said this as he judiciously mopped around his eyes.

Fuck. America buried his head into the pillow. There was no way he could let him know that he cried if England hadn’t cried.

But then the movie ended.

That was a predicament.

They sat in silence in the dark after the credits ran off, after the theme tune had finished, and the movie had ended completely. Neither moved or said anything, and only the sound of shifting filled the room, because the shifting hid the sound of sniffling. Unable to look at each other, they just sat. And sat. And sat.

Fuck if he turns on the lights he’ll see that I cried and then he’ll laugh heartless stupid old man and he’ll call me a kid but he doesn’t understand, America thought.

Fuck if turns on the lights then he’ll see that I’ve cried a bit and then he’ll take it completely the wrong way and he’s too childish to understand, England thought.

Fuck, Tony thought several million miles away in another galaxy.

It was England who made the first move, stretching elaborately and coughing into his fist, managing to make the croak of his voice sound less like tears and more like dryness of the throat. “Well, that was an entertaining film, but I think I’ll head to bed.”

“Oh,” America said in relief, “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“See you.”

Then it might have gone well except for the fact that America left his video games everywhere and England tripped over them in the dark and hit the light switch accidentally, and then they turned to look at each other instinctively, accusatory, and they both froze.

“You cried.”

It was hard to tell who said it first, but England held up a judging finger, and America glared at him while clutching on his pillow defensively.

“It was a sad movie! Of course I—” America began.

“I didn’t cry,” England said promptly at the same time.

America gaped. “Of course you cried.” It was obvious from the way the red rimmed his eyes, his nose was pinkish, and the handkerchief in his hand looked faintly damp.

“No,” England said stiffly. “I have allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“Developed them.” England blew into his handkerchief. “Last season.”

“Liar!”

“You’re the one that cried!”

“If you didn’t cry, I didn’t cry.”

“Of course you cried.”

They both stared at each other in accusation for a little while before embarrassment tore their glances away, and they both managed to find an interesting spot on the wall or the floor that required further studying.

“Let’s not talk about this again,” England said.

“Yeah,” America said awkwardly, “Never.”

And they never did, though when there was a brief showing of a movie at a world conference, that movie so happened to be drawn, and it was hard to tell who beat the hastier retreat out of the room, leaving the other countries with the sad movie to watch.