"England ye cannae keep daein' this," either the shouted words didn't carry through the wood or (more likely) England was ignoring everything the drunk irate redhead was shouting. Scotland kicked the door when he got no answer, swearing loudly when the thick oak won in the fight against his bare foot. He wasn't certain when exactly he'd lost his right shoe but it must have been some time in the last hour. "Open th' door."
Nothing.
"It's gunnae rain!"
No response but that wasn't very surprising - it always rained and the siblings were quite used to it. Still It didn't seem like England was going to budge and last time Scotland broke a window to get in England made him replace it. He waited another five minutes before treading out into the night again to find shelter.
It was because of exactly this that Scotland tried to make sure England was the one that walked away when they argued. It wasn't the first time he'd gone for a few drinks only to find the door locked on his return. He suspected Ireland had goaded England into it. Still maybe this way was easier. Because Scotland was still angry from the fight anyway.
He wasn't sure he remembered what the fight was about exactly - they were so frequent it was hard to keep track, but it had descended to the same moment they always did. The siblings would both shout and then a thick, agitated silence would settle between them. Equally determined gazes would lock together and one of two things would happen.
The problem being that only two words into an argument it was obvious what was going to happen but it would never change. Scotland could see pleasant conversation turning but he'd be unable to stop it. It was like being pulled along by a rope and no matter how much you struggled you were forced to walk down the same old path.
Every time they'd argue. Every time it would come to this moment.
And Scotland would see the hurt hidden under the anger on Englands face and he'd know what to say to make it all better. It'd be so easy.
Then the words would stick.
They would have the stand off, either descend into physical violence or one brother would leave. Then Scotland would drink. Because his damned pride had made it happen again and it would be weeks until they were on speaking terms again. Weeks of the stand offs - of the brothers systematically torturing each other. Little things like pouring away the sugar England took in his tea, or Scotland finding all his lighters suddenly didn't work.
He gave up his search for shelter when the rain soaked through his clothes and plastered his hair flat. At least the rain was sobering. He wasn't angry at England exactly. He was angry at how England couldn't let things drop - or that he didn't understand when Scotland wanted to take things back.
It was a brick wall he ran into many times. Scotland couldn't just say sorry. He stood by his actions right or wrong. It felt more responsible somehow. He'd suffer the consequences alone and that was that.
The night was long and occasionally the red head dozed, always woken by the chill of the air. When morning finally came he wasn't sure if the splitting headache was from the cold or the hangover. He got up, trying to rub the ache out of his limbs. But he wasn't ready to go back and deal with the smug eejit. He sighed lighting a cigarette. He had to face stage two eventually - England becomes insufferable because by locking Scotland out he technically won. Scotland would make him pay - of course, he had to. He inhaled the smoke deeply, letting his mind go carefully blank with the sensation. Bring on the months of hate.
