Work Text:
Some unfortunate delegate had not seated himself with the rest of the advisors behind them, but in the row the nations were supposed to sit.
Worst of all, he was sitting in America's chair.
He was an American. England had heard him speak, seen the pin on his lapel confirming as much. He had not thought much of it. Even as he had looked up from the papers, some foolish hope it would be him, that he would finally be seeing America after some time, only to end up disappointed all over again at the sight of a brown-haired man in his late forties.
England had been quite reticent to correct the person seated beside him. Perhaps America would not be attending. The man had enough trouble in Asia to be flying over and back for what was, at best, a ceremonial council meeting where nothing important was to be voted on. Some anniversary of dull diplomatic fluff. The sort of meeting that, some years back, might have mattered.
Before he could hear him, he smelled him. The musk, almost imperceptible to the humans around them but not to England, caught in the back of his throat, almost a taste.
The smell that bamboo emanates when it gets wet after torrential rain in torrid latitudes, and burned propellant, and simply rot. The sort of stench that cannot be washed out. No matter how much you want to get it off.
"Hey, that ain't your seat."
England looked up, already certain it was America, the stench of his war was unmistakable, yet he was startled by the tone he had used.
The room had been almost empty. Most nations had not yet entered or been seated. So perhaps the words echoed louder in the vacant place, or maybe England was making excuses. England could have sworn the voice was low, unusual for America.
Muted and tenuous. With a hint of nastiness barely hidden. But England knew.
"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. America... my mistake, I must have been distracted."
Though he heard the scrape of the chair against the floor and the shuffle of papers accompanied by a nervous laugh, England could see from the corner of his eye how America had not moved one inch to make space for the poor fellow to escape the embarrassment. Some deprived, sick part of England considered whether to America the greater offense was not the chair, but the proximity to him.
America was not in the mood to let it go so easily, it seemed.
America glared at the man with nonchalance. "You know, you should be more careful if you're gonna represent our country." More derisive than berating. The man's eyes widened.
It was not a nice sight for England to see. Though it was nice to see America again. The nation was all but towering above the worker, who looked pallid beyond his means. Even under the warm lights, the rims of their United States flag pins on their suits glinted. An even worse spectacle for such a square-up over nothing.
Being on the edge of losing never suited America. It turned him like this: bitter, lashing out at whoever was in his way. England knew the feeling well enough.
The man uttered another apology as he moved toward the back chairs. This time, the immovable object that America's body was let him pass through.
America moved back the chair with a strident screech that made England frown in displeasure. But he sat down quietly and, even in a lower voice, as he leaned close, murmured to England, words barely heard, "Hey baby..."
England looked him over. America's eyes looked tired, and maybe he thought the same of England's, but he still beamed at him with a smile as if nothing had happened and much louder, asked him, "You alright?" America turned from looking at him to glance at the fast-retreating figure.
Then, after England nodded at him, asked, "He bothering you?" As if England required guarding.
As if Arthur and Alfred's old arrangements still held. Maybe they did. It had been quite a while since anyone had called him baby.
The taste of the stench, rotting, seemed to grow bitter. Rot recognized rot, after all.
"He was not," England said dryly, trying to contain any indignation at America's petty, nonsense jealousy. He knew his ally was struggling, and any silly thing seemed to set him off like fuel to a fire.
"He wasn't about to abduct me, if that is your concern."
America huffed as he crossed his arms. "Wasn't worried about that."