England doesn't mind picking up the empty beer cans and bottles, he doesn't mind hearing the shouting and taunts, he doesn't mind the warm drunk breath of his brother on his neck telling him he's "worthless" or "France doesn't really love you" he doesn't mind the pain of a black eye or covering it up for a week. He doesn't mind the stares of the other nations when he doesn't fight back like he normal does. He doesn't mind the scars from years ago that his brother had made. He doesn't mind the new ones sure to come. He doesn't mind the blood in the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, the car, that one hotel room where he didn't know his place. He doesn't mind the pain of knowing his brother hates him. He doesn't mind that Scotland blames him, he blames himself for being a useless brother. He doesn't mind that Scotland hurts him. He doesn't mind. Honest.