Young America was an energetic and curious boy, and soon after learning of the greatness of his English caregiver, he'd vowed to learn everything said man knew. England had drawn the line at piracy and anything beyond that, but anything less was of free range, and so as England lay sprawled across his bed with his hand bobbing between his legs, blissfully oblivious as he continued stroking and tugging while trying to stifle his flustered moaning, America secretly copied his every movement, shrouded in the shadows of the dark hall. He heard England's breathing quicken, and when he began to gasp in a hoarse voice, what America had learned from his past nightly wanderings resurfaced. He knew the moment was near, the moment where he and his secretly-dubbed "big brother" would reach a height of ecstasy unlike any other and then something that looked like milk-but did not taste like it-would splatter out from the tips of their privates. He loved that moment most of all, and he managed to silence his own cry of passion as he followed England in orgasm.

America, lying in bed much later that night, wondered if England's uneven panting of his name was what so often helped bring him to his finish.