North has taken to hiding in her room. England doesn't know what to do. He wants her to be happy. He wonders if she wouldn't be happier with Ireland. He tries not to cling back when she clings to him, and not to wince when she screams at him. Sometimes he overhears her on the phone with Ireland, through her closed bedroom door.
Scotland whispers to him, after one of their one-sided fights, "Why can't you show your brothers that kind of love?"
If he means the kind that will weather hatred for the sake of things done from love, England does. If he means the kind that would let go, if required, England has no answer. He can speak of neither possibility, so he lies, "I don't love you."
--
Scotland stops abruptly, once, in the middle of it. Gets up, shaking his head. England sits up, and mumbles around the gag to ask what's going on. "Shouldn't be," Scotland says - more or less; he's had a few. "Shouldn't - " He breaks off, then storms out, slamming the door behind him. England would stand up to follow him, but as soon as he swings his legs off the bed the sudden motion makes him woozy, and he collapses to the floor with a crash, clawing at the blankets to stop himself but managing only to drag one off with him.
It's a good minute later before Wales appears in the door. He shakes his head, comes in and wraps an arm around England's shoulders, tuging him upright. He undoes the gag, and drops it to the floor with a disgusted noise. "Are you bleeding?"
"Don't think so," England answers. His brain still feels wrapped in cotton wool.
"Good. Don't scream, you'll wake up North." He lifts England, almost manhandling him, into the bed. England winces as the motion jars him, but manages not to make any noise.
He lies still, afterwards, breathing carefully and waiting. After a minute he snaps, "Go on."
"Go on what?"
"Take your turn. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Wales shakes his head, and pulls the blankets over England's trembling shoulders. "Hearing you is enough."
--
Part of him wants to protest, to say that what's done is done, that there's something wrong with him for just lying back and taking it so readily. He should never allow it. But to protest would be to prove Scotland right, to demonstrate that England is still, through and through, self-righteous and unapologetic.
And there's a masochistic satisfaction in it. He just had to decide as much. The first weekend had been nothing but cold misery, but the things Scotland does to him in bed - he leaves the gag on, afterwards, and strokes himself off to the fresh memory, presses his fingers against the bruises as they ripen. Blood is enough of an excuse to wash his sheets, whether or not there was blood.
He'd let Japan do things almost as harsh, and he loved Japan not a tenth as much as Scotland. If these bruises were part of that love, it was nothing to which England was not accustomed. Nothing he could not convince himself he'd wanted.
--
On the day of Bonfire Night, Scotland and England argue over whether to bring North with them to watch the fireworks. The argument is so long and loud that when they finally go looking for her to ask what she'd prefer, they find a note in Wales's handwriting on the kitchen table: Taking North out. We have our suitcases. Will be back in few days, maybe when you two've stopped being such wankers.
The note is on smiley-faced-sun notepaper England permanently borrowed from America at a conference, incongruous against the dark, scarred wood. It's weighted down with Wales's green enamel lighter. Scotland crumples the note in one hand, and flicks the lighter open with the other. It looks tiny in his hand. "Well, we can go without them," he says. "And then have the place to ourselves when we get back. Not bad, don't you think?" The lighter vanishes into his pocket. Odd, that Wales would leave it.
England is thinking of the way burns feel, how they flicker in and out of agony and linger long after the heat is gone. His mouth goes dry.
"Yes," he answers, as agreement to the explicit question, consent to the implicit.
gang aft agley [3/5?]
North has taken to hiding in her room. England doesn't know what to do. He wants her to be happy. He wonders if she wouldn't be happier with Ireland. He tries not to cling back when she clings to him, and not to wince when she screams at him. Sometimes he overhears her on the phone with Ireland, through her closed bedroom door.
Scotland whispers to him, after one of their one-sided fights, "Why can't you show your brothers that kind of love?"
If he means the kind that will weather hatred for the sake of things done from love, England does. If he means the kind that would let go, if required, England has no answer. He can speak of neither possibility, so he lies, "I don't love you."
--
Scotland stops abruptly, once, in the middle of it. Gets up, shaking his head. England sits up, and mumbles around the gag to ask what's going on. "Shouldn't be," Scotland says - more or less; he's had a few. "Shouldn't - " He breaks off, then storms out, slamming the door behind him. England would stand up to follow him, but as soon as he swings his legs off the bed the sudden motion makes him woozy, and he collapses to the floor with a crash, clawing at the blankets to stop himself but managing only to drag one off with him.
It's a good minute later before Wales appears in the door. He shakes his head, comes in and wraps an arm around England's shoulders, tuging him upright. He undoes the gag, and drops it to the floor with a disgusted noise. "Are you bleeding?"
"Don't think so," England answers. His brain still feels wrapped in cotton wool.
"Good. Don't scream, you'll wake up North." He lifts England, almost manhandling him, into the bed. England winces as the motion jars him, but manages not to make any noise.
He lies still, afterwards, breathing carefully and waiting. After a minute he snaps, "Go on."
"Go on what?"
"Take your turn. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Wales shakes his head, and pulls the blankets over England's trembling shoulders. "Hearing you is enough."
--
Part of him wants to protest, to say that what's done is done, that there's something wrong with him for just lying back and taking it so readily. He should never allow it. But to protest would be to prove Scotland right, to demonstrate that England is still, through and through, self-righteous and unapologetic.
And there's a masochistic satisfaction in it. He just had to decide as much. The first weekend had been nothing but cold misery, but the things Scotland does to him in bed - he leaves the gag on, afterwards, and strokes himself off to the fresh memory, presses his fingers against the bruises as they ripen. Blood is enough of an excuse to wash his sheets, whether or not there was blood.
He'd let Japan do things almost as harsh, and he loved Japan not a tenth as much as Scotland. If these bruises were part of that love, it was nothing to which England was not accustomed. Nothing he could not convince himself he'd wanted.
--
On the day of Bonfire Night, Scotland and England argue over whether to bring North with them to watch the fireworks. The argument is so long and loud that when they finally go looking for her to ask what she'd prefer, they find a note in Wales's handwriting on the kitchen table: Taking North out. We have our suitcases. Will be back in few days, maybe when you two've stopped being such wankers.
The note is on smiley-faced-sun notepaper England permanently borrowed from America at a conference, incongruous against the dark, scarred wood. It's weighted down with Wales's green enamel lighter. Scotland crumples the note in one hand, and flicks the lighter open with the other. It looks tiny in his hand. "Well, we can go without them," he says. "And then have the place to ourselves when we get back. Not bad, don't you think?" The lighter vanishes into his pocket. Odd, that Wales would leave it.
England is thinking of the way burns feel, how they flicker in and out of agony and linger long after the heat is gone. His mouth goes dry.
"Yes," he answers, as agreement to the explicit question, consent to the implicit.
--