HOME | DD

Description
It had gotten wet—they had gotten wet—but they didn’t care.

Arthur smiled at ___ as they stood, drenched in the rain, and asked, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

___ giggled, her voice sounding like tinkling bells. “Why, I would love to, sir!”

The two swayed back and forth in place, his arms around her waist and her hands on his shoulder. After a short comfortable silence, the beautiful woman rested her head on his shoulder, content.

Arthur took her chin in his hand and lifted her gaze to meet his. Closing their eyes, the two drew closer until—

“England, are you ready to go?”

~

England slammed the journal shut. With a sigh, he pushed away from his desk and rose from his chair, turning to greet the woman standing in the doorway with a small, slightly forced smile. “Ah, just about, love. How did you get in here?”

___ waved the question off with a simple, “The back door was open,” then turned her attention to the small book on his desk. “What’s that you were writing in?”

To her surprise, England’s face seemed to turn a light shade of pink at the question. She couldn’t imagine why; she had only seen that reaction from him a couple of times, and that was when Spain was in particularly insulting mood or when France unleashed one of his more creative innuendos. In any case, it was true that she had technically broken into his house, but she found it doubtful that he was angry with her. So she couldn’t begin to guess what would be causing that (cute, she had to admit) flush across his cheeks. Unless he was angry at the book. She found that unlikely.

After a short period of awkward silence, with ___ looking expectantly at the Brit and England looking anywhere but at her, he finally snapped, “It’s nothing! Absolutely nothing!” a little too quickly.

___ frowned, which caused the blonde to wince, bracing himself for a scolding or a smack on the back of the head, some kind of the scolding he had grown accustomed to from the hotheaded girl. He hadn’t meant to use that tone of voice with her, but the thought of her becoming aware of his journal was too frightening to him. If she were to see the stories he wrote, the poems he composed, the absentminded doodles as he worked on official papers, he didn’t know when he would be able to face her again. A hundred years, perhaps? No, even that didn’t seem like enough time.

However, no slap came. ___ had been waiting for quite some time to go out with England again, and she wasn’t about to run the risk of him brooding over it the entire night. Instead, she folded her arms, both to create her own defensive stance and to prevent them from moving on their own accord. “I only asked what it is. It’s not like I was going to look in it.”

England felt his shoulders relax a bit at those words. He supposed it wasn’t the end of the world if she was only aware of the journal. “Well, it’s a… it’s a journal, I suppose. There isn’t really a specific theme to it, and it’s not really a… a diary or anything. It’s mostly just whatever comes to mind if I feel like it’s worth writing about.”

Seeming satisfied with this response, the _(nationality)_ nodded. “Alright, now hurry up; our reservation isn’t going to last past its time!”

~

___ knocked on England’s door a third time, tapping her foot impatiently. She had realized some time the night before that she had left her phone on his bed before they went out to dinner. She would have given him a call to let him know she was coming, but the hotel phone was a pain to use and, well, she didn’t have her cellphone. The car he usually drove wasn’t in the driveway, and it was the middle of the day, but she had held onto a sliver of hope that he was home and Scotland or one of his other brothers had borrowed his car.

The first drops of rain hit the patio, and she let out a sigh. Now she faced a decision. She could drive all the way back to her hotel tired and emptyhanded. Then she would have to come back later, running the risk of him not being home again.

Or she could enter through the back door.

It was a tactic she reserved for emergencies or when they were pressed for time, but she was getting wet, her phone was in there, and if he really was at work, the Englishman wouldn’t be back for a few hours at the earliest. At the moment, it was as much of an emergency as anything. So she went out to the back and checked the screen door, and to her luck (although it wasn’t a surprise), it was unlocked. Actually, the hinges were a bit loose; she’d have to tell him about that.

She could swear she heard some sort of animal making some noise at her, but there was none in sight. Just in case there was a dog she was unaware of, she made a beeline for his room and quietly opened the door. Upon entering the room, the _(nationality)_ discovered that the phone was no longer on the bed. For a moment she panicked, thinking that he had slept on it, or decided to take it to work with him, but just before the decision was made to tear his room apart, the phone was spotted at his desk, next to a small, leather-bound book.

The book was open, the current pages half full with the Brit’s slanted cursive. As she went to pick up her device, ___ may have “accidentally” glanced at the journal. Skimming it absentmindedly, she took note that it was a—rather cheesy—love story.

It’s rude to be looking at his diary… (“it’s not a diary!” she imagined him complaining) but with someone who nurtured some of the biggest names in literature, I would’ve thought this date between Arthur and ___ would have been more creative—wait. Oh. Wait.

That was… her name? No, that couldn’t be right. Why was England writing a love story about her? Was Arthur… him?

“Accidentally” picking the book up, she “accidentally” turned to where the story began, and may have “accidentally” read it the entire way through. Her face heated up slightly; this was definitely a love story between the two of them, if Arthur’s behavior in the piece was any indication. He even punched a Frenchman at one point.

The story, though cliché, was very elaborate as well—it described an entire day spent as a date between the two of them, with him being a perfect gentleman (yes, Arthur was definitely England) and her generally being a sweet little angel. ___ clicked her tongue; didn’t the man know her well enough to write her in character by now? She would have to fix that at some point.

The snoop didn’t venture any further into the book, just in case any of the other stories weren’t so innocent (there were no entries like that, but one never knows with a former pirate), though just as she was about to leave England’s house with new knowledge and a successful phone retrieval mission, an idea began to form in her head.

Now, she certainly wasn’t against the idea of a relationship with the proper, often prudish man, but she had never given it much thought. He was incredibly charming, and to call him polite would be an understatement. He was dependable, always early to gatherings and offering to help her prepare, and there were times when he would give her a call simply to check up on her if it had been a while since they last met. All in all, those seemed like good qualities in a boyfriend, didn’t it?

___ smiled wide, a goofy butterfly feeling forming in her stomach. She quickly took a picture of each page of the story, documenting it in her phone for future resource. Oh, this was going to be fun. This was going to be very fun indeed.

She was going to make this story come true, word for word. She couldn’t wait to see his face.

~

“So all I have to do is wait for the cue and turn it on?”

___ nodded to the American next to her. “Not too early, though, or it’ll mess everything up.”

America chortled. “Dude, I’m not incompetent! Maybe you really have been spending too much time around that prick!”

“Be nice,” she chastised with a light smack on the hand. The insult that she had carefully crafted was interrupted by her phone vibrating in her pocket before she could unleash it. Frowning, she removed the comeback destroyer from its place in her jacket and checked to see who the offender was.

It was a text from England.

-___, I hope you get this. Please reply back; I’m afraid that someone may have broken into my house and stolen your phone of all things.

“Oh, right, I never let him know…”

America looked up from his milkshake. “Hm?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Another text came.

-If this isn’t ___, I am going to find you and teach you not to break into people’s houses, you bloody bastard.

___ forced herself to contain her laughter so as to prevent her companion from choking in surprise from the sudden noise. Deciding now was as good a time as ever to begin Operation: Make England a Mess of Emotions (America had insisted on the name), she quickly typed out a reply.

-Yeah, it’s ___. I broke into your house and stole my own phone, sry for not letting you know.

-By the way, I know it’s short notice but do you wanna do something tomorrow??

Almost immediately, the reply came.

-Sure

With a small hum of satisfaction, and certainly not missing the fact that the Brit had said nothing on her repeated breaking and entering as of recent, ___ sent one more text.

-There’s a café next to the general store we bought milk at. I’ll see you there around 3.

“So, was that the dude in question?” America questioned.

___ nodded. “On a scale from one to ten, how completely out of line is this?”

“Probably like an eight, but it’s not like it’s a secret that he likes you.”

“I guess so… wait, what?”

“Dude, literally everyone but you and probably Spain knows!” The blond laughed. “I guess that myth about the object of affection being the last to realize is true after all!”

Maybe it would be easier to get the cooperation of others than she thought. Now if only she could remember that insult.

~

England huffed, running his hand through his shaggy blond hair for the fourth time in three minutes. Yes, he was early, but that didn’t prevent his pessimistic nature from creating worst-case scenarios in his head. What if she had decided against their little outing and stood him up? What if some idiot like France or America held her up so long that by the time she got there he would have already left? What if she died on the way here?!

He shook his head to rid himself of the impending doom he felt. That was ridiculous.

The more pressing matter was, why had the girl suddenly asked him to go out? It was a Tuesday, and while he couldn’t exactly say he regretted skipping out on work, their dates (no, no, they weren’t dates. “Outings” would be a better description) were usually reserved for Saturdays. Not to mention, he was usually the one who suggested any activities. The fact that she had initiated this one, could this be a gesture of affection? No, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. ___ was a generally outgoing person. It didn’t necessarily mean anything that she had invited him of all people to have lunch with her, and he could only hope that he looked presentable and that he had chosen the right mix of formal and casual to match her appearance and oh, god, was this a date?!

“You done casting spells?”

The Englishman jumped out of his thoughts and swung around, finding himself face to face with the woman in question. Rubbing his neck awkwardly, he let out a small chuckle. He hadn’t realized he was mumbling to himself, but he supposed he was lucky that his words hadn’t been more audible.

___ gave him an incredulous look, before smiling and offering him a proper greeting. “This place looks really good; I hear the coffee is to die for!”

“That’s all good and nice,” the Brit commented, forcing his voice to remain steady and his face to share blood with the rest of his body, “but I think I’ll stick with tea anyway. Here, I’ll order for us.”

___ nodded. “Alright, could you get me…” she glanced down at her phone. “…just a croissant is fine, actually. And some coffee.”

England did his best to not make a face at the mention of the traditionally French pastry, but his failure to do so elicited a laugh from his date (“outing buddy,” he reminded himself), so he assumed it wasn’t all too bad that he lost face. Either way, the line was fairly short, so he expected to be back in no time.

While he was looking away, ___ quickly waved at a figure sitting at the outdoor tables. The man stood up and sauntered over to England’s currently vacant seat.

With the hot beverages and warm pastries in hand, England turned around, only to almost drop the tray as he witnessed the spectacle before him. Fuming, he stormed over to the table and, setting the tray down, glared at the intruder. “What, may I ask, the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

The offender smiled up at the stiff man. “Oh, Angliterre, don’t be such a stick in the mud! I was simply keeping this lovely lady company.”

“Which I was doing just fine before you showed up, thank you very much.”

France snorted, but much to the chagrin of the younger male, it was still graceful and composed. England gritted his teeth.

“If you would be on your way, ___’s coffee is getting cold.”

___ remained silent.

The Frenchman hummed. “I suppose I could get out of your way, but I think there are plenty of other ways Miss ___ could warm up-“

England punched France square in the nose.

“Quoi, tu—what?! Ow!!”

England felt satisfaction settling in his stomach. That would teach France to meddle in his personal affairs. “If you would please be on your way,” he repeated, “___’s coffee is getting cold.”

France glared at his attacker, and put his hand to his nose. Pulling it back and observing the sticky blood staining his fingers, he stood and turned on his heels, leaving the premises, but not without whispering a harsh, “You owe me for this,” to the still silent girl.

Feeling like a hero now, and certainly riding the boost to his ego that the encounter had produced, England took his seat, grimacing a bit at the warmth that France’s body heat had left behind. “Now that that’s taken care of,” he said, trying to pass it off as no big deal. The tea had gotten a bit lukewarm (rather quickly, he noticed; it must be colder than he thought), but he took a sip of it anyway.

___ set down her mug and patted the man’s shoulder. “You didn’t really have to go out of your way, but thank you for that.”

“Right, see? I’m perfectly capable of protecting you from all sorts of danger!” was what he wanted to say, but instead he simply shrugged. “I suppose I should just be happy he didn’t complain and get us kicked out.”

The pair turned toward the counter, and it was true that the barista was giving them occasional sideline glances. Luckily for the poor girl, not everyone was a pompous asshole, and as there were no oblivious assholes or loud assholes in sight, there was no one else the Brit was particularly set on punching.

The rest of the time spent at the café was uneventful, and after leaving a fair tip in the jar on their way out, the two set off for a walk down the road.

“Is there anything in particular that you wanted to do now, love?”

___ pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Hold on, I think I’m getting a text.”

England looked at her quizzically. He was sure he hadn’t heard a vibration or a beep of any sort. Perhaps the girl was expecting a text? But she had said “getting,” didn’t she? A tinge of fear that she was only pretending so that she could claim to have an appointment elsewhere struck him. God, was he being boring? A stick in the mud? Perhaps she had actually enjoyed the Frenchman’s company and was only feigning gratitude. Perhaps this wasn’t going as smoothly as he had thought it was.

However, she merely put her phone back in its place snug between the fabric of her pants and said, “Do you want to, like, find a park or something? It’s a nice day.”

Never taking his eyes off of her, and then realizing she must have noticed him staring and looking away, he thought for a moment. Soon, though, he decided thinking was not important at this matter—he was basically on a date with ___, for god’s sake—and gave a curt nod. “That sounds good.”

~

The day went on as such, with the two spending most of their time at the park. After an eternity of convincing, England finally allowed ___ to buy them some soft pretzels, but to his dismay, she used most of hers to feed the birds that hopped around on the walking paths. England almost fell in one of the fountains at one point, and when it looked like it was going to rain soon, they began making their way back to England’s manor.

“Thanks for putting up with me all day, Iggy,” said ___, glancing at the man walking beside her. The rare use of the nickname set butterflies in his stomach—it was America that had come up with it, and in general, people only used it when they were being antagonistic, but still, hearing her say it gave him a giddy feeling of sorts. He was fairly certain of the reason, but as for the specific reaction, he couldn’t determine what it meant.

He coughed. “Right, well, I had a very nice time, ___. Thank you for inviting me out, even if it was very sudden.”

There was something else he should say, wasn’t there? Something to express some level of gratitude for thinking of him on a random Tuesday? Surely, if he chose his words carefully…

“Please try not to forget your phone again this time.”

…he could sound like a pompous asshole. Yes, good job, Mr. United Kingdom. Stellar. You are a killer with the ladies.

___ looked over her shoulder. “Sorry to rain on your parade, England, but we can’t use that excuse to hang out again for a while.”

“Why are you—?”

Before he could complete his inquiry, England felt a drop of water his his shoulder. And another on his head. And another; really it was impressive how quickly is had started pouring. One could even hear the water coming down as if it were being sprayed. He sputtered, instinctively lifting his arms to inspect his clothes that were quickly becoming drenched.

“Wh… that… well, this is just lovely!”

His companion only laughed, much to his disdain. However, when he turned to give her a good what-for, he saw that she had moved a fair distance away from him, and was now bent over in what he could only describe as a crude imitation of a curtsey. “We may as well enjoy this, since we’re already soaked to the bone, right? You’ve seen Singin’ in the Rain?”

The man scoffed. “I hope you don’t expect me to be capable of those sorts of tricks, especially when the ground is slippery.”

“And I am? You know you want to~!”

“Alright, alright, fine,” he conceded. Striding up to ___—that’s strange; did the rain change direction for a moment? —he took her outstretched hand in his own and placed the other tentatively on her waist. “Forgive me, but I’m a bit rusty on my dancing skills.”

“It’s fine, I’ll even sing the music for you. Waltz, right?”

England nodded, and his outing buddy stepped forward, humming the beginning notes of The Blue Danube. After fumbling a bit due to her starting on the anacrusis rather than the downbeat, the two settled into a pleasant slow rhythm, neither one really leading. ___ kept their movements to a minimum, preferring the small radius around their starting position. The Brit was impressed by her ability to continue the song past the famous theme for quite some time before reverting back to it. The whole scene seemed familiar to him for some reason, but for now he was content to enjoy the moment with her; he could worry about things like that later.

___ periodically glanced at his face, particularly his lips, but he didn’t seem to notice. Unfortunately, their heights were arranged in such a way that resting her head on his shoulder would be incredibly awkward, so that was out of the question. The last sentence that was written in his notebook was for him to lean in and kiss her, but that didn’t seem to be happening any time soon. She supposed she could bat her eyes and giggle “like tinkling bells,” but that really wasn’t her style.

Actually, thinking about it, waiting wasn’t really her style either. Who was she to stand around and wait for things to be done for her?

Certainly not someone who breaks into her friend’s home to retrieve a missing phone.

With that mindset, she moved her hand from his shoulder to the back of his head and pulled him in for the long-anticipated kiss. His eyes snapped open from the movement, but before he could process what was going on, her lips were against his.

It was a soft and innocent kiss, and by the time he could react it was already over. Their dance had come to a halt. He touched his lips with his fingers, as if not believing what had happened.

“You…” he tried to begin.

“Yes.”

“And—“

“Yes.”

“But—“

“Yes.”

“Poppet, you are a complete mystery,” he finally managed to say with a laugh, pulling her in for another, proper kiss.

In the distance, America felt a raindrop on his own shoulder. He looked up, and seeing the storm clouds overhead, released the handle of the hose in his hand. “Guess I won’t be needing this anymore,” he said to no one in particular. After debating whether or not to stay and watch the new lovebirds, he decided to give them some privacy and ran off, scanning for the nearest cover he could find. “Operation: Make England a Mess of Emotions was a success!”

Left in what was now the true rain, the couple stood in silence, merely enjoying each other’s touch and company.

It had gotten wet—they had gotten wet—but they didn’t care.