it's the music that we choose;

[wingborne]

America had a pack of condoms in his pocket, a lump that hit his side every time he moved.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans as he watched England peruse his DVD selection, intently studying each cheap Hollywood cover. America was going to do everything right and then he’d get England in bed and then they would get it on. For weeks, he’d been planning their date with excruciating detail. First, they would watch a movie. Secondly, they would sleep together.

It was a good plan.

“Your choice of movies is atrocious,” England was saying, popping up the case neatly and sliding in the disc. He sat mournfully in front of the television, kneeling with great profundity. When the FBI warning popped on the screen, he inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging the powers of electricity, before climbing back onto the sofa.

“It’s good,” America insisted. “It’ll be good. Popcorn?”

“You always make it too buttery,” England complained, but he always complained and didn’t mean it. That’s why America liked him. Or maybe America liked him in spite of that.

But they’d been dating for some months and even if England was a pervy old man, he didn’t act like a pervy old man around him. There were porn magazines in his house, but he casually swept them aside every time America came over, and they would just do stuff like play video games or go out to eat, and even if that was nice, it was a little frustrating that they didn’t even fool around. England looked almost affronted when America tried to rub his thigh seductively during a boring opera, and afterward said that if he wanted the opera pamphlet so much that he could have asked.

America hadn’t wanted the pamphlet.

“You smell different today,” England commented, leaning in closer until the tip of his nose was brushing America’s collar.

“… Uh, good?” America looked at the top of England’s head with his messy hair, stuck out at odd angles, and he wanted to touch it. But he didn’t, and England leaned back, picking out a popcorn and crunching down on it, his jaw muscles working up and down.

“You stink,” England clarified.

“What? No I don’t. I smell like freedom!” And Old Spice. America had decided that if he was getting some that night, he would douse himself finely with deodorant.

England wrinkled his nose and looked back to the movie.

“Does it smell bad?” After another moment’s thought, he lifted up his collar and sniffed it.

“I already told you that you stank,” England murmured. “Now shut up, I’m trying to watch the film.” It was barely even past the trailers.

America fidgeted for a bit, pushing down his urge to run to his bathroom and try to find something else to smell like. England liked roses, right? Maybe he should have smelled like roses. But it wasn’t like England smelled nice, either. He usually smelled like oldness, and today he just smelled like something faintly artificial.

“Do you want something to drink?” he blurted out, trying to think of something to say.

England tapped his fingers on the tub of popcorn in thought. “I suppose,” he said finally, “but you don’t have any tea, do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Mm.” Mm? What did that mean? Was England disappointed? America shoved his hands into his jacket pocket, feeling the sharp edges of the condom box. But it was all right. The night would still go as planned.

“I’ll take what you have, then.” England began to get up from the sofa.

“Where are you going?”

England peered down at him with half-lidded eyes. “To get something to drink.”

“I’ll get it for you.” America scrambled up. “I mean, it’s my house.”

“You’ve never been so generous before.” England glanced at him with suspicion, but he fell back into his seat and reached for more popcorn.

The bright light of the kitchen hurt America’s eyes, but he managed to stumble towards the refrigerator and find some soda. He entered back into the dark room, fumbling by the flickering bluish light of the television. He could make out England sitting in the darkness, hands folded across his chest with his strange half-lidded look, head inclined slightly to show the nape of his neck. America checked himself again, and took another step forward.

Except this step was a misstep and the next thing he knew, the drink had splashed onto England, and he was saying something and England was saying something and he grabbed a handful of napkins to try and wipe it off the sweater vest, but even by the dinky light of the movie, he could tell that he was just making it worse, and England finally shoved his hand away and said something else and America was saying something and England shook his head.

“Bloody hell,” he said, when America finally quieted down, “Be more careful! I’m sopping wet, you nitwit.” With one hand, he pried the vest stickily away from himself, the scowl becoming a permanent feature on his face. When America didn’t say anything more, England sighed and walked into the hallway.

Even over the guns of the movie, America could hear the hum of the bathroom and the sound of the faucet running.

With a quiet groan, he leaned back into the sofa and pushed his hands into his face, running them through his hair, and watching Morgan Freeman roll across a highway. All he wanted was to tap England’s ass. How could it be so hard?

When England returned, he was no longer wearing his sweater vest, murmuring that he had left it to dry in America’s bathtub. But other than a sharp tweak of America’s ear, England said nothing more about the incident, merely crossing his legs and folding his arms against his chest again, watching the show in a bored fashion.

America liked England without his sweater vest, a little bit. It was a clunky thing, green and probably itchy, though England never said it was. But underneath, he had been wearing a sharp dress shirt with nice collars and a thinness to it that was strangely attractive, especially with his sleeves partially rolled up to show the thinness of his forearms. Or maybe he just liked everything about England.

He casually flung his arm across the back of the couch. England glanced at him slightly for the sudden motion, but seeing nothing wrong with it, he returned his attention back to the movie. America hesitated, and then inched his arm forward. England still didn’t notice, and America hesitantly lifted his arm so that his fingers were brushing against the cloth of his shoulder when he realized that England was crying.

After a second to register, he immediately flinched back and watched as England took out his handkerchief and mopped around his eyes. He liked the way the shadows played across his skin, but it wasn’t nearly as seductive now that his eyes were turning red and he pressed his handkerchief tightly against his nose.

“The little girl died,” England said in a muffled voice.

“Uh…”

“Bloody hell.” Torn between anger and sorrow, England just settled for glaring at the television spitefully.

It probably wasn’t a good time to initiate foreplay, but America was still tempted. Maybe he could tuck his hand inside England’s pants and then England would stop crying and decide to have sex with him.

But even he couldn’t be fooled by that plan, so he sighed and resigned himself to leaning on the other end of the couch. The movie trailed to the end, England scolded him for making a mess of the popcorn, and then he started to clean up. America dully watched as England bustled back and forth from the kitchen.

The night couldn’t be over so quickly. He had dressed up in a nice jacket and everything, and all he could do was watch England check the clock on the mantle and remark that it was getting late and he should go. But he walked England to the door and after a customary quick brush of a kiss, England nodded to him, and shut the door, leaving him alone in the empty house.

America nudged his welcome mat back and forth with his toe, and wondered if he had a box of tissues that he could use somewhere that night. It was his fault, probably. He had tried too hard with the movie night and the smell and the drinks. Still, he felt devastated that he wasn’t getting any that night. He was in the middle of going over if he had any porn in his house when there was a knock on the door.

When he opened the door a crack, he saw a familiar shape hulking in front of the door.

“England?”

“Yes,” England said smartly, standing on his porch with his hands jammed into his neat trouser pockets. He scowled at him, eyebrows pushed together, nose almost wrinkled in disdain.

“Did you forget something?” England did that a lot. “Your sweater vest?”

“Oh,” England said, looking surprised, losing some of his determination. “Oh, I forgot. Yes.”

“Uh.” America stepped back. “You can get it.”

England didn’t move.

“… Hey, are you—”

“I came over here tonight,” England said rapidly, staring at his clean shoes, “with my best clothes and using some stupid stinking deodorant and watching some stupid fucking movie if I didn’t think I would get laid.”

“… What?”

“Fucking,” England clarified. His eyes were sharp when he looked at America. “I want to fuck you tonight. Is that all right?”

“Uh.” America swallowed slightly. “I guess.”

“Good.” England rubbed his hands together, almost shyly. “But I think I forgot to bring condoms. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

“I might,” America said, letting him in. “Yeah. I think I have some condoms somewhere.”

And that was how America got some.