America stumbled home after a long night in the clubs, as England was visiting for a while.
Both the thought of the man and the alcohol made his head spin and his legs quake, but it was a good feeling.
Feeling for the light switch in the comfortable darkness, he hit the switch and swaggered into the kitchen for something to snack on.
Groping around in the winters breath chill from the fridge, he found nothing.
America had not been shopping in a dog's age and it now began to show.
His stomach yelled under his tight black shirt and he let out a whimper.
He shrugged off his brown leather pilot coat and scrambled around for something, but there was nothing.
Just when he was going to give up and stay up for the night being unable to satisfy his stomach, a knock on the door vibrated through the giant, empty house.
Walking weakly back, he opened the door to the sun-bright green eyes and loving smile of England.
The dark was washed away and there was only the two of them.
"Hey," he said, looking down at a white bag soaked with grease in his gloved hands. "I brought you some of your "fast-food" although it was not very fast. I remembered you say you were starved and I suppose I know you well."
He shuffled his feet and held out the bag with flaming red cheeks.
America leaned over and kissed his forehead, taking the bag and putting an arm around Englands shoulder to lead him inside.
They sat together and America snuggled close to the Britt, taking advantage of his drunken affection.
England responded and stroked his hair, something that had not been done since they had been the best of friends.
The greasy substance in the bag was eaten quickly, England daintily munching on his and America chowing down.
The world had peace that night and was the best of the both of their lives.