Something I wrote to (hopefully) eradicate this annoying Writer's Block I've been having recently. Nothing special.

I kind of like this fic, but...ah. It's up to you. I tried to make it slightly different than my usual humorous writing, like, more serious. How'd I do?

Summary: "Once I have something, I keep it. And I don't like sharing!" US/UK, with mentions of Fra/Can. One-shot and fluff.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, aside from the story itself.

Read and Review; no flames please!

A Good Kind of Selfish

America, Alfred F. Jones, sat uneasily on his seat during the entirety of the World Conference Meeting, every so often taking glances at a certain Englishman, who seemed to be in heated debate with a certain Frenchman every two seconds. The American tapped his right fingers on the wooden table, pushing Texas up his nose with his left. This was getting quite tiring. He was tired of not being in an argument for once, and a couple of times, he had almost lost it, but caught himself. It was when England was so caught up in his argument with France to even notice America calling his name that the American finally snapped.

Slowly pushing himself out of his seat, America stood carefully, picking up his binder with his right hand. At first, none of the countries noticed. Then, turning to the American (who had swung his right arm back, binder in hand, ready to throw), everyone suddenly became aware of the impending doom awaiting either England or France. Italy shivered and hid behind Germany, and Canada opened his mouth to warn France, when–

Bam!

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. No, wait. I think it was pretty bloody likely that you could hear a feather drop as well; yes, that seemed much more accurate. England widened his eyes and brought a hand to the back of his now-throbbing head. His eyes drifted downward, to the neglected black binder on the floor that had just been used as a potential concussion-starter. Or maybe just a pretty bad headache.

France was staring, too, as well as the entire world. Literally. But they weren't staring at the binder, like England was; they were staring at America, face slightly flushed and breathing heavily. If looks could kill...

Slowly, the Brit turned around to face the American, shocked.

"You...America, you...," England didn't even know what to say. His hand rubbed at the back of his head, unsure of the concept of America actually hurling a binder to intentionally hurt him. The thought...somehow, it made him...sad. But that was how he and America were supposed to be, right? Enemies. Right? So why did he feel sad?

The American breathed heavily, blue eyes staring down emerald ones. "I think we should get started with the meeting now, Arthur, Francis. Apparently, we have a couple of global issues that need to be tended to, and they are much more important than you two bickering and squabbling over there." America caught his breath, then, crossing the room, went to pick up his binder and went back to his seat, paying no mind to the shocked stares the other nations were giving him. The American pushed Texas further up the bridge of his nose.

"We can begin this World Conference any minute now, Germany," the hamburger-lover said coolly, watching in satisfaction as England and France went back to their respected seats. (He twitched a little when he saw his brother–what was his name again?–showing concern to the Frenchman, but he paid it no mind).

Germany, as shocked and caught off guard as the other countries in the room were, blinked and then smiled. "Thank you, America. I see you can be serious and somewhat heroic when you have the proper, erm," the German took the risk and glanced at the Englishman, who, thankfully, was staring absently at his feet, "motivation. Now, if you will all please turn to page four, there are some things we need to talk about..."

~A Good Kind of Selfish~

England gathered his notes at the end of the day, pushed them into his binder rather haphazardly, and stuffed it all into his suitcase. The back of his head still throbbed tremendously from the pain America had caused with his binder, and the Brit scowled. Why had the bloody idiot gone and hit him like that? Did he know it was going to hurt so much? He mentally face-palmed for having asked himself that. Of course America knew it would hurt him. The binder had one-hundred-fifty-plus pages.

The Englishman grabbed his suitcase and walked out of the Conference Room, passing along a couple of "Goodbye"s to Japan, Austria, and Hungary as he passed them, and a grunt towards France, who merely smirked and continued texting on his cell phone. England decided not to start an argument with the Frenchman, considering how he seemed to be texting Canada. How did he know? Well, it was written all over France's face.

The Frenchman's lips were curled a bit upwards into a calm smile, a genuine smile, and his eyes were looking fondly at the cell phone as he texted. England couldn't help but smile softly. He knew France had found the right person; Canada just...completed him, plain and simple. There was really no other way to describe France and Canada's relationship.

The Englishman walked past the Frenchman and frowned as his own cell phone began to vibrate. Reaching into the pocket of his suit, he pulled it out and blinked at the screen. It said that he had just received a text message from America. Scowl deepening, he opened it. The nerve! It read:

To: England

From: America

Heeeyyyy, Iggy. I need to talk to u 'bout something. Could u meet me at the one Starbucks down the street? Thx. :D

England sighed in annoyance at the decided meeting area and the nerve of his former colony. Well, the Brit did have further topics that he needed to discuss with the American...and maybe he would get to beat him with something later on to get back at him for that hit on the head. Who knows.

The Brit sighed and texted back:

Argh, fine, you bloody git. But I'll have you know that I am still pretty ticked off at you for hurling that binder at my head. What was with that?

England stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket and sighed for probably the umpteenth time that day. When he stepped out of the building, the sun blasted itself in his face and a bus drove by rather fast, leaving behind some unwanted fumes and making England cough.

Yes, definitely a bad omen.

~A Good Kind of Selfish~

England stepped into the coffee shop and winced at the American already waiting for him. Alfred had somehow already sipped down three cups and stuffed himself with four hamburgers (where did he get those?), and was still going. The Brit sighed in disgust. Where did I go wrong?

The Englishman crossed the room and sat opposite America, who blinked, swallowed, and pushed Texas further up the bridge of his nose. "Oh! Iggy! Hey." England rolled his eyes.

"How do you do that?" the Englishman asked, gesturing towards all of the discarded wrappers and plastic cups scattered across the table. He began picking them all up and threwthem away in the nearest rubbish bin, grumbling.

"Do what, Iggy?" America asked innocently when England came back to his seat.

"Eat that much and never get sick," the Brit said, twitching. Then he blinked and waved his right hand in front of his face in an effort to wipe the American's mind of anything he had previously said. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know." America smirked.

"No, you don't. Want anything?"

"I think I'll pass," England mumbled. Then, averting his green eyes from America's blue ones, asked, "What was that for?"

The American blinked and stopped slirping up his third Java Chip Frappucino. "Do what?" This question was met with a hit upside the head from an angered Brit.

"You hit me on the head with your binder! It bloody hurt!" England yelled, earning himself a couple of stares and glances from other customers. He lowered his voice. America blinked again, then widened his eyes in concern.

"Oh my God, I totally forgot," the American said, regret lacing his words. "Sorry. That's what I wanted to talk to you about, anyway." America looked down at his shoes and flushed slightly, then, looking up, asked meekly, "It...it doesn't still hurt, does it?"

It was England's turn to blush. "N-no!"

"Don't you dare lie to me, England," America said, taking a huge sip of his (which one was it now?) drink. The Englishman widened his eyes, blushed further, and looked away.

"It doesn't hurt, America," the Brit mumbled. "I'm...I'm fine." He's worried about something that's his own bloody doing? Wanker.

"Now look me in the eyes and say it," the American said, his voice barely above a whisper. England turned to the American and was about to open his mouth to tell a white lie, when he felt a hand brush against the back of his head, where the binder had struck him. The Brit involuntarily hissed in pain.

"A-ah! America!" England swatted said American's hand away, who sat back in his seat, a look of pure horror on his face. The Brit raised one bushy eyebrow.

"Wh-What...?"

America slapped himself on the forehead. "Sorry, Iggy...it hurts that bad, huh?" What bothered England wasn't that America was just now realizing this (the binder had one-hundred-fifty-plus pages!), surprisingly. It was that he was actually genuinely concerned. England felt heat creeping into his cheeks and quickly looked in the other direction, unconsciously placing a tender hand to the back of his head.

"American idiot...Don't trouble yourself on my account, stupid," the Brit found himself saying. America frowned.

"But I caused it! You're hurt, and it's all my fault!" the hamburger-lover protested, putting down his hamburger in the process.

"You're bloody well right, it's all your fault!" England snapped and immediately regretted it. America cast his eyes downward again and fumbled with his fingers.

"Well, you know...that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Arthur," America whispered softly, still looking down. The use of his human name, so rarely used, was enough to bring the Brit to full attention.

"Yes?" England asked, raising an eyebrow. America glanced up at him, then back down at his feet.

"Um...you know...I called your name about three times during the meeting. You weren't listening to me, 'cause you were arguing with France," America said, voice barely above a whisper. England, whether he knew it or not, had leaned forward on the table to listen to the American. "That wasn't the first time, though. I don't know why, but...the lack of attention from you...got to me." The Englishman felt his face flush again–just when it had gone down, too!–and his green eyes widened.

America glanced up, then hurriedly looked back down, and...was he blushing? England blinked. Bloody hell, I wish this was on tape or something. It's too cute. He mentally slapped himself five seconds later. I cannot believe I just thought that.

"Today, I just," America began again, "I lost it. Sorry. I didn't mean to get you so badly hurt, it's just...I...um..." The American paused to gather his thoughts, his face reddening considerably.

America finally looked up from his feet and fixed his unsettling gaze (yes, his gaze was still unsettling, even if he was embarrassed) on England. "France was a threat. I had to rid myself of him, see?" The American rambled, sighing at the end. England blinked.

"Ex-excuse me?" he responded dumbly. "France...has Canada. H-He obviously loves him an awful lot..." England said. This was where America whammed his head against the table with a loud thunk. A couple people looked, then quickly turned away.

"I know," America mumbled, his voice muffled by the table. "I knew full well that France only ever looks to my brother. I knew that France buys him stuff without being asked practically every freaking day, but...I still did it." The American looked up and turned away.

"God, I hurt you so badly, Iggy...," the American mumbled.

"It's not that bad, it's just–"

"Don't...lie. Just don't," America said softly. An awkward silence fell over the two English-speaking nations.

"America," England said, sighing, "I really don't understand what you're trying to tell me. Please, just say it out loud so that I will be able to help you with your...dilemma." America snapped his eyes off of whatever he was looking at and, after a long, silent pause, nodded.

Then, he grabbed England's tie and pulled the Brit into a soft, meaningful kiss. England blushed, but eventually closed his eyes and kissed him back.

"There, okay!" America said, pulling back and blushing, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at the Englishman. "I love you, you old man! I hit you because I wanted to get you to notice me, even argue with me if it meant getting to be the center of your attention!" England brought a finger to his lips, then smiled.

"Once I have something, I keep it. And I don't like sharing!" America spat, looking back at England and about to yell again, when the Brit pressed a kiss to the American's lips again. When they pulled away, this time, it was America who was stuttering.

"...the hell...?" America started.

"I love you, too, you bloody American idiot," England said, smiling smugly. America blushed. "Now what was that about having something, America...?" The American frowned and flushed.

"'O-once I have something, I keep it. And...and I don't like sharing'...," America responded meekly, repeating his own words. England smiled and leaned forward on the table, leaving very little distance between himself and his former colony.

"That's awfully selfish," England whispered, causing a shiver to run down America's spine. America was about to open his mouth to protest, when the Englishman lightly pecked him on the cheek. America swore he could feel the Brit's smirk against his face.

"But that's okay," England whispered against the skin of America's cheek, feeling both of their faces heat up slightly.

"It's a good kind of selfish."

~A Good Kind of Selfish~

FAILED FIC IS FAIL.

I tried to write it fluffy and slightly more serious than all of my other fanfictions. How did I do? I kind of liked this one... :)

Read and Review, no flames please! Thanks~loves ya!

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Blank Paiges ^^