England reflected that the conversation had only taken a crescendo to shouting in the last half an hour, which was quite impressive given that the Republic had been in there over an hour. Then again, it wasn't as if his conversations with North had been much better as of late.
The Republic had dropped in to visit that morning, as their bosses had suggested she do more and more recently. Fat lot of good it would do. England exchanged a few forced polite words with her and excused himself, saying he had copious amounts of paperwork. Ireland had then taken over the lounge with Wales and Scotland, where conversation between them had flowed far more naturally. Lastly, Ireland had – out of nothing but duty – gone to talk to the last brother. The one that had spent the day up in his room upon hearing of the Republic's arrival.
It was a shame, England thought, that Northern Ireland had got the last bedroom in the house, which had happened to be next to his study. After Ireland had left he had bribed, wheedled and shouted down his other brothers' protestations that they have that bedroom, stating repeatedly that he could have peace and quiet in the study only if they took the bedrooms on the lower floor. However, when they'd found Northern Ireland as a gawky seven year old in Belfast (God knew how long he'd existed before then), England had had no choice but to surrender the last empty bedroom and his supposedly blissful peace. In hindsight, he probably would have had to surrender less of the latter if he had let Wales or Scotland take that room.
A shrill cry echoed through the wall, "You ungrateful little – "
It was over taken by a lower younger shout of "Ungrateful? For what exactly? Your bombs?"
Even England had to wince at that once. He tuned out the argument with weary practise as the voices escalated.
The Republic had probably dropped in to greet North with the same forced politeness that she had used with England, given her more or less equal disdain for both of them at the moment. England could only guess what North had said but petrol had been added and the resulting fight had burst into flames like it so often did in their family.
"Stay with your precious England, then! But don't forget which of us colonised you! Which of us dragged you into their wars!" Ireland's voice reverberated through the house.
Ah, and there was the inevitable slam of the door. England listened to Ireland's furious footsteps on the stairs, no doubt headed for the lounge where Scotland and Wales had sat in uncomfortable silence even if they hadn't heard as much of the argument as England had.
England picked up his pen and returned to the dull stack of sheets before him but another door slamming caught his attention first. He turned around to see a sullen, red-faced Northern Ireland march into his study and drop himself onto one of the sofas. North glared at him pointedly. England crinkled his eyebrows, casting around desperately for something, anything to say. The prickly silence stretched on.
England cleared his throat. "What did you say?"
North glared at him more until he crossed his arms and said, "I asked her why she bothered with her polite little act."
England nodded. That would start a fight, he supposed. "Right," he said awkwardly.
He regretted it instantly as North's glare only intensified, as did the angry blush on his face.
The painfully awkward silence – which England knew he should break – stretched on. Downstairs he heard the indistinct voices of Wales and Scotland calming Ireland down. That's what he should do – offer words of comfort to North; talk to him. But even mentally England cringed away from the words, rusty as they were with disuse. And a hug, squeeze of the shoulder…well, England couldn't remember the last time he had done either to North, if ever.
"I told her she clearly didn't give a damn about me, or she would have done something by now. Told her people or back off or something, I dunno. And she practically caught fire." North finished in an angry shrug.
England could only nod again, brain ridiculously empty of anything appropriate to say.
"Said she was glad she'd walked out. Bitch."
That North, the sullen North who had had a troubled country since its existence – had to come to England to say anything after an argument warranted some sort of reply; a half-decent, wise, helpful reply.
England nodded awkwardly for a third time.
North let out an exasperated sigh, rolled his eyes and stormed out. England was getting tired of slamming doors.
As his little brother gave up on him, England couldn't help but feel a sinking feeling in his chest. He put the pen down slowly and dropped his head into his hands. He remained like that for perhaps a few minutes, absent-mindedly listening to the parting conversation taking place downstairs. Soon he heard the front door close, this one at a reasonable volume.
Ireland had left.
England heard a whimper from next door. And a thump. He was knocking at North's door before he knew it.
"North?" He called out anxiously. "North, are you alright?"
A slight gasp and another thump.
England wrenched the door open to find North curled up in a tight ball against his bed, hands clawing at his temples.