"I added the vinegar but it still looks like it's missing something."

"This is-"

"Egg. That's it! Needs egg."

"This really doesn't look-"

"And do you have any cinnamon?"

"There's no way in hell I'm drinking this!"

Scotland glanced up from the small jar he was wrestling with to shoot his younger brother a quizzical look. "I thought your hangover was bothering you."

"To be honest, the idea of consuming this bothers me more." England bent forwards to sniff suspiciously at the glass of murky froth on his kitchen table and immediately lurched backwards, slapping a hand over his mouth. That smell was doing nothing for his already delicate condition. Turning away, he coughed, "I make it general rule to avoid anything that comes out of your kitchen anyway."

"You don't know what you're talking about when it comes to food," Scotland replied defensively, furrowing thick his brows in annoyance and channelling more aggression into unscrewing the lid of the jar. One second later, cinnamon was strewn across the table. "Bollocks… and this is your kitchen, little brother, so your rule doesn't apply."

"My kitchen, which you will be cleaning up. And I expect you to pay for a new toaster; I don't know what you were up to this morning but don't think I didn't notice that the power cable has turned to ash."

Scotland simply hummed in response, too preoccupied with his new task of slicing a lemon (working on top of a still cinnamon-coated table) to come up with an insult. A few moments passed in silence as England briefly considered running for the sake of his taste buds – his pounding headache and morbid curiosity keeping him rooted to the spot – and his older brother began squeezing powdery lemon slices over this glass of liquid calamity.

"I know there was lemon in the recipe. The sourness distracts you from the pain, you see."

England just nodded. Scotland was talking out of his butt in that calm, I-know-what-I'm-doing voice again. It was routine for whenever anyone questioned the method of his cooking.

"May I ask what the vinegar is for?"

"The acidity will counteract the… the ale you still have in your system."

"Right. And as for the raw egg?"

"You must always add raw egg if you make this in the morning because it complements your breakfast."

"What the-?"

"The cinnamon is for flavour."

"I think we're well past the point to be worrying about flavour."

However, there was no point in trying to argue with Scotland's kitchen logic. Lord knows England had been failing at that for centuries and had heard him come up with far more bizarre reasoning than that. The sheer confidence that the fiery-haired man had in his own culinary knowledge was enough to baffle England if he dwelled on it. I must admit that he's skilled with magic, though. He just needs to figure out the difference between edible food and black magical potions. Maybe if he took some advice from me once in a while-

"Bloody hell, Scotland, easy on the whiskey!" England snapped out of his thoughts at the sight of his brother generously pouring that all-too recognisable amber liquid into the brew. "You're trying to cure my hangover, not extend it until tomorrow!"

Scotland smirked and necked the bottle, tipping a little of the fiery drink straight into his mouth. England wondered why he was letting his brother try out this "magical cure" (that he'd apparently learnt from France) on him in the first place. Maybe it was because he found it irritating how fresh Scotland had looked that morning whilst England felt one breath better off than death, especially considering that the older man had easily drunken twice as much as England the previous night.

A few testing minutes later and there was no improvement on the drinks appearance. Scotland had added a few more ingredients (at random, England was sure – the recipe was long since forgotten) and now the two Brits were scrutinising the fruits of his labour.

England resisted retching. Scotland just frowned. "It doesn't look the same as France's did."

"Of course it doesn't, you twat. Somehow you've managed to create something with both the consistency of water and the consistency of tar – not to mention a smell that could halt a war. Are you still drunk, is that it?"

"Maybe I should have fried the onion first?"

"Like it would make any feasible difference."

"Well, it's ready to drink. Drink up."

"Like hell!"

England swiped his coat off the back of his chair and pulled it roughly around his shoulders as he finally succumbed to his impulses and began to make his escape.

"What? Oh no you don't," Scotland exclaimed, turning quickly to grab his brother by the wrist. "I put all this effort into making this for you so you have to drink it!" England attempted to snatch his arm back but Scotland held on tightly. "C'mon, brother. Brother. England! You can't waste it!"

"Piss off, you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to help you."

"That bile won't help at all."

"You don't know that until you try it! Just shove it down your neck!"

"I absolutely will not!"

Scotland released his grip on England, put his hands on his hips and confidently nodded towards his creation on the table. "Once you take a sip of this magical cure, you'll never have another hangover ever again."

"Oh come, now-" England retorted, looking warily at the pint glass (which was now steaming and overflowing all over the soiled table). "How would you like to drink something that looked and smelt like that?"

Then he paused. An idea sparked up within him.

Scotland shifted, uncomfortable, sensing the change in his brother's demeanour and feeling his own confidence deflating ever so slightly. "Wh… what is it?"

"You drink it." England said firmly.

"I…" Scotland halted. "I'm not the one who was slumped over the table ten minutes ago yelling at the fridge light for being too intense! It's for your hangover!"

"Dolt, I know that. I just want you to sample it. There's a World Meeting in three days and I want to make sure that this isn't part of some ridiculous rouse to render me bed-ridden whilst you conveniently take my place!"

"I'm insulted that you would be so suspicious of me when I'm clearly just trying to be a wonderful older brother," Scotland sighed, running a hand through his startling hair. "I'll drink some though, if that's what it takes."

And he did just that, swiping the drink from the table and taking a large gulp whilst England watched intently. The Scot slammed the glass down with one hand, wiped his mouth with the other and grinned triumphantly. "Told you it was harmless."

England still wasn't convinced. "I give you one minute before you keel over," he muttered.

"I see. You're too much of a wuss," Scotland said. "It's probably better you don't drink it. See, I'm fine, but someone like you won't be able to handle it."

That was enough to rouse the reaction Scotland wanted.

"You bloody idiot! If I can stomach your bloody haggis I can bloody well stomach this! I can bloody well handle bloody anything, I represent the United bloody Kingdom you bloody twat!" England snatched up the glass and downed it – lemon slices, egg shells, and all – before finally exiting the kitchen and making a point of slamming the door behind him, leaving Scotland blinking in bewilderment on his own.

"I bet that door slamming did nothing for his headache," Scotland murmured, smiling and glancing at the empty glass. "He's the bloody idiot. I'm a bloody genius. If I had a hangover, it would definitely be gone by now."

And whilst it was true that England's hangover didn't bother him for the rest of the day, it was probably due to the fact that he was being greatly bothered by a bout of food poisoning instead.

Being nursed by an apologetic Scotland (England felt too ill to kick him out), who was, again, irritatingly unaffected, England realised that whilst he may have overestimated the strength of his stomach, his biggest error had been very much underestimating the strength of Scotland's.