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Twisty Ties

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England tapped his pen impatiently as America stood by the projector and pontificated enthusiastically about using the McDonald's mascots as negotiators for the currently volatile situation. He lost track of the points he was taking notes on (the better to berate America later with), when he noticed that the said nation's tie was crooked and twisted to one side.

He felt his fingers twitch when America turned towards him, twisting the tie further. The superpower focused his blazing blue eyes on him, thrusting a finger at his face and exclaimed, "You will be my back-up England and you're gonna be wearing the standard McDonald's cashier's uniform!"

As fascinating as the statement sounded, England still couldn't take his eyes off the red, white and blue monstrosity. It was leering at him, refusing to return to it's original state and lie flat against America's shirt. It offended his sensibilities more than the crayon stick figures that America had used to portray their next plan of attack. His mind wandered to why the superpower had even bothered to use the projector in the first place, he could've easily bypassed that and used burgers and soda cups to map out their strategy like he did the first time they had decided to attack.

He stood up slowly, interrupting Canada as he said something about sending more bombers and polar bears to the east. The world faded to black, only that stupid, crooked tie existed for him. It made him itch. Made him want to straighten it. Flatten it out on the pristine white shirt stretched over America's broad chest.

America's chest. There were tiny bits of lettuce and spots of ketchup on it which he absently, tenderly brushed away with his fingertips. Then he ran the length of the tie over his hand, feeling the silk fabric twist sensuously against his palm. Gently, reverently, he undid the knot (a half-arsed Half Windsor, simple and easy enough to unravel) and pulled if off America's neck, which seemed oddly flushed for some reason. He smoothed it out and stretched it until he was satisfied by the absence of creases. Then he finally lifted it up and over America's head, leaning closer to trail his fingers over the nape, making sure it lay flat against the collar.

 


Eyes hooded, he moved to the intricate part of knotting the tie, a more dignified Four-in-Hand knot. He felt a warm hand on his cheek and looked up into America's blushing face. He parted his lips to speak, to say that he needed to finish the knot. But then America smiled, red faced but happy, and leaned closer. Someone cleared their throat, and some giggling was heard.



He snapped out of his daze and blushed scarlet when he saw their audience, and realized that they were both standing in front of all the other assembled nations, on the platform where America was giving his speech. Both Japan and Hungary had their cameras out. France was smirking at them in knowing way. Italy was giggling and tugging at Germany's tie. And Germany?
 


Germany's face was a mixture of irritation and embarrassment. His face was mostly hidden in his palm until he decided to slam it down on the table and gritted out a forced polite, "Thank you England, for that enlightening demonstration of how to make a proper tie. Moving on, we were discussing..."


 


"Ve~ ve~, Germany! Your tie is crooked too!"


 


All the other nations immediately looked sideways to their companions's ties with a thinly veiled interest. Variations of, "Allow me to fix your tie" and "Get the hell away from my tie, you freak!" were heard all over the room.


 


Stubbornly willing the fire in his cheeks away, England finished the knot and smoothed it down America's chest before stepping back from the other nation's close proximity. He cleared his throat and defiantly looked up.


 


"It was twisted!" he began indignantly, massive brows furrowed as he adjusted his own, perfect Shelby knotted tie. America eyed his elegant hands as the fingers stroked the knot of the red striped silk nervously. Whatever he was going to say next was forgotten when America placed a warm, possessive hand on his own, dragging both their hands down the strip of fabric suggestively.


 


"Sure England," America winked. He leaned closer and placed his mouth by England's ear and whispered in a low, seductive voice. "I kinda want to fix your tie too."


 


Dumbfounded, he let America drag him out the door via his tie, mind racing with all the possibilities (and knots) they could do.