At approximately half past noon, Arthur managed to convince Francis to shove off or be invited to lunch (which he had politely declined, making a break for the open window). One hour after France's departure, Arthur Kirkland sat on his lounge chair, a cup of tea raised to his lips as he overturned the stem of the rose in his opposite hand. The handwriting was obviously Alfred's (they were bubble letters penned in red and blue, for Heaven's sake; it probably came to the America as a shock that there was no white pen), and the single rose was just too corny that Arthur had to blush in embarrassment for the poor boy every time his thumb brushed a petal.

"I love you" was understandable. Far-fetched and too good to be true, but he could comprehend it. The "more" bit was what had him flummoxed. What did the blasted twat mean, "more"?

"There's no way your daft little love could surpass mine, you wanker," he muttered into his fine china, downing the rest of the liquid and setting the cup on the saucer in his lap.

More. Hah. He'd love to test that theory.

England settled his cheek upon his free fist, twirling the flower around between his thumb and forefinger. The grandfather clock tick-tocked England into another seven minutes, and before he could change his mind, the Englishman stood.

"Bollocks you love me more," he mumbled as he took the land-line in his hands, cradling the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he rang the florist. "My most will piss on your bloody more."

It was perfect. More than perfect. It was spectacular. Arthur had America down to a science. He knew the time it would take for the flowers to arrive, how long a flabbergasted America would take to re-hinge his jaw and hop on the nearest flight. He knew how long it would take for the idiot to arrive, to run over to his house, and to barge in technically uninvited. He knew how long it would take for them to exchange pleasant banter before some sort of lovey-dovey, blushing confession was made (one of the two would have to make it, and he could take the first shot if he needed to), and one thing would lead to another, and...

Well. Yes, that.

England made sure he was sitting at his kitchen table five minutes prior to America's arrival, legs crossed, sipping tea languidly with one hand, a newspaper in the other. The tea calmed his nerves just enough to keep his hands from trembling. However, his eyes had swept over the same headline twelve times three minutes before Alfred threw open the front door, and Arthur hadn't the foggiest what the article below it was about.

Two minutes to go, and Arthur locked his eyes on the headline once more. Blimey, this paper was thirteen weeks old! What the hell was it doing out of the trash bin?

One minute passed slowly, and with every sudden jerk of the second hand, Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat.

... Thirty seconds later than expected, but that was nothing, idiot might have stopped for a burger on the way.

Four minutes late. Well, those things take time to make, England supposed.

Ten minutes late. When had the teacup gone dry?

Seventeen minutes... well, the flight may have been delayed...

Arthur Kirkland waited for three hours. And then... that was it. It was too tiring to stay up anymore, reading old news without registering a word, the sound of the clock imprinting slight holes in his spirit.

America simply wasn't coming.

His old militaristic sensitivity had numbed, he realized in the back of his mind as he was awoken by a great beast pouncing on him in the middle of the night. It was the size of a very small giant and smelled delightfully of America. (Delightful... well, he was half-asleep; his judgment wasn't proper.)

"Arthur, are you awake?" it whispered, and oh, he wouldn't mind hearing that voice whisper to him every night.

"Not anymore," he muttered in reply, squinting up at the beast. Even if his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark of the room, he probably would have seen that enormous grin. America's hands held him up on both side's of England's head, and his legs straddled Arthur's hips. It wasn't a terribly unpleasant thing to wake up to, even in the wee hours of the morning.

"I got your flowers," America said. It was a wonder his lips could even move through that smile. England couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I can see that." Or rather, he could smell it. Sniffing inconspicuously, he wondered if Alfred had stuffed the bouquet down his jacket; he positively reeked of rose petals. "You're late."

"Huh?" A confused look replaced America's smile, but only for a second. "Ah... I guess it is pretty late, huh?" He laughed. "Sorry about that. Turns out I had to talk stuff out with France about diplomatic whatnot in the early afternoon earlier tod-- um, yesterday, and by the time I got home, it was dinner time. When I got to my house, I saw the flowers." His happy smile took a tender turn and England just didn't know what to do with all of this new-found hope in his heart. Put it away for future use? Pickle it? Turn it into jam? What delicious jam it would be. Mm, and perhaps it would taste like Alfred... whatever Alfred tasted like. Arthur's brows furrowed as he watched America's lips move. His sleepy mind tried to listen to the words, but those lips in the moonlight... he realized that he had never touched them before. That was bothersome.

And suddenly, a hand was waving about in his face.

"Hey, Arthur, are you listening to me?"

"No," England replied, snatching America's hand out of the air and leaning up, dusting his lips over America's. The chatty nation went silent and he stared, fascinated. Arthur's brain went to mush and he fell back, rolling onto his side with what little space he had between America's arms. "W-we'll continue this conversation in the morning once I've properly brushed my teeth," England mumbled into his pillow. America laughed again (what an irritatingly beautiful sound) and fell behind England's back, sitting and shucking his jacket before looping an arm around England's waist and holding him close.

"Oh yeah. We're definitely continuing this tomorrow."

It felt sinfully good in those arms.

I think I've found the place where I belong, Francis. And that hope jam is definitely going on my morning toast.

Fin

I... I've actually finished... a multi-chap... I'm fairly certain that this is a first. (Well, that's why I limited myself in the beginning to three chapters.) Thanks a million to those of you who stuck beside me during these three chapters. It's been an absolute pleasure writing US/UK, and yet I still wonder if I could ever pull it off in the future. I apologize for any dissatisfaction for the ending. "What is this jam business?" you might be wondering. Well, I'm a sleepy, sleepy girl, I answer. And now, I must bid this small fic (that I am terribly proud of, regardless of poor quality) farewell.
Flummoxed is such a great word, don't you agree?