"His fever is rising, are you sure he'll be okay?"
He recognizes that voice—one of a past lover; it must be the noise belonging to the one above him, cool palm resting on his forehead in worry before thin fingers run through his hair, brushing sweat-weighed strands out of his face.
"He'll be fine. Every nation is like this during an election—even America gets bed-ridden during the presidential election, and you should know that, France."
Its England talking, making Scotland wonder where Wales and Northern Ireland are… They were here earlier, unless it was just another fever-induced hallucination.
"Oui, oui, I know, Mon cher. It isn't that nations don't get like this, it's just I have never seen Écosse like this. He just looks so…"
"Weak?" England finished. "Yes, Scotland has always tried to appear stronger than most. But this is proof he's just like the rest of us."
He isn't invincible.
A groan escapes Scotland before he can hold it in and the cold fingers, most likely Francis' fingers, stop moving, frozen, as his bleary green eyes blink. He's unable to focus on the dark blue and green outfits of his younger brother, and his brother's lover: France was a thing of the past; the Auld Alliance, something used to tease England about regarding his lover's past and nothing more to him, as the feelings had disappeared.
"Why the hell can't I see correctly?" the Scotsman complained "Northern Ireland better not have drugged my tea again."
Though he remembered drinking tea from Ireland, he knew the truth. His "fever" was worse than what it had been diagnosed as—it was turning into a migraine—and worse, his vision was affected as well.
"Your people have been voting all day," England assured, "even I know it's not because Ireland drugged your tea, anyways you have to get up! Gentlemen don't stay in bed and whine all day just because of a measly election."
It wasn't just a "measly election," it was THE election; one determining Scotland's fate, the whole United Kingdom hanging in the balance—would Scotland leave his younger brother's tight grip, or would he stay? The polls were close, and even Scotland knew England, behind his gentlemanly exterior, was internally worried that Scotland would leave.
"Oi, if I hear you be talking 'bout your gentleman shit anymore I'll shove your electric guitar down your throat. I know that the idea of you as a "gentleman" is full of-"
A light slap on his shoulder stopped him and he blinked his eyes in the dark green blur's direction.
"Shut it, please. I'm worried, everyone is. Even though a lot is happening—No, because a lot is happening with you, we need you at the Summit Meeting today."
Scotland groaned. "Yeah, yeah just give me a sec'…" He closes his eyes, shifting so his body sinks into the mattress, ready to take a nap.
A yank on the sheets, forcing him to tumble to the floor, gives him a different idea.
Scotland stumbles, leaning heavily on France, trying to give his brother less of the weight so that it seems like he can hold his own. The meds Scotland took don't help much, and he's too delirious to be of use to anyone… but he still moves on his way to the conference.
"We're almost there," one of them says, and he smirks.
They're not anywhere near there; even though they're at the building's entrance, ten flights of stairs are between them and the wooden doors of the Summit Meeting.
"There better be an elevator, England…" Scotland says warily.
There isn't an elevator. It broke because of Prussia and America's attempts to play a practical joke on England, that worked, but Prussia and America are still in trouble for it.
They enter the building, turning to the stairs as Scotland, already worn-out, looks at England: "I'm not climbin' all those steps 'less I'm hammered."
Scotland was at his limits, he wasn't a lad anymore, able to go on with infinite energy. England could only sigh at Scotland's refusal.
"Well, you're not walking up those steps. I've hired some ignorant gits to carry you."
Scotland shouldn't have been surprised. England must have had this planned from the start; it was exactly like his brother to have everything planned, down to which cab they would take to the building.
Before the Scotsman can even protest, he's grabbed under the arms and lifted up while a flash of silver darts to his feet, pulling them up so in the end Prussia and some other "ignorant git" are carrying him up the stairs. Scotland squirms, trying to shake off the hands that keep him from falling onto the concrete steps.
"Sorry, dude, Iggy ordered us to do this, so please don't make us drop you! I don't wanna get 'im more upset."
Scotland Stops his struggling, just to glare up at sapphire eyes and mutter in Gaelic, knowing America and Prussia can't understand as he curses their and England's very beings.
Most of his voters during this time were voting for leaving the U.K.
On the tenth floor I was finally set down, facing the Meeting Room doors. America hugged me, squeezing me tightly, compared to most hugs, but it wasn't bone-crushing like many had described. …Bunch of pansies, they were…
"Good luck, Uncle Scottie."
He and Prussia left after that, leaving me alone on the floor, glaring at the stairs my brother was most likely climbing; as his messy blonde head appeared, my glare intensified. When England looked up, he winced, knowing I wasn't exactly pleased with his idea of transporting his older brother up the stairs. The next second, his eyes blinked, surprised as my lips twitched and slowly turned into a smile. Low chuckles escaped me and they continued to grow into a roar of laughter, England and France quietly joining in, not really knowing why we were laughing.
Like always with laughter, it died, but my smile was permanent, staying, as I held my hand out for England's.
"C'mon, they 'aven't got all day to wait fer us!"
We open the wooden doors together, France trailing behind and I greeted many nations as the Summit Meeting turns out to be more like a party, with ideal chat and catching up. The only thing missing is dancing, but the atmosphere is too tense; the United Kingdom's future is hanging in a delicate balance.
"The final votes are in!"
It doesn't matter who said it, or how excitedly it was said, the whole room freezes. Eyes turn to my ginger head and England's choppy blonde one. England knows I already know my peoples' answer, he just doesn't know what the answer is. For once, I hold all the power.
"It…" I catch my composure, "it was close."
It is my duty to announce the decision long before the counting has begun. It's unexplainable how I know, it's a gut thing that first occurred when my people first voted, who knows how long ago. I know my answer. Just like America knew his next president, and England could tell who the next prime minister would be long before even the Queen would find out.
…I turn to England, head lowered to work on turning my face into a more passive and neutral expression.
"I'm sorry, brother, but for centuries I, along with Wales and Northern Ireland have followed you… always in your shadow. Every decision I have made during those centuries couldn't change the fact that your decision was final. The one thing I can claim I know for certain is my people's desire for independence, and I won't just ignore them."
I look up and England's trembling, and his eyes start to water as he waits for the final blow: to lose another in the name of "Independence;" to lose his older brother, a constant in his life.
I walk to him, placing my right hand on his shoulder, smirking, changing lines he heard long ago to have a more positive outlook.
"From now on, consider me dependent!"
My words echo a younger lads, but without the 'in' the meaning completely changes. I'm not making the same mistake as that lad.
"For Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland united are a force, a force that once was an empire, and my force will continue to add to yours, little brother. I will stay by your side."
The next thing I know the wee lad I had watched since his beginning is attached to me, trying to see if I'm lying or not.
"You're joking!"
Always a disbeliever, my brother… My arms hold him, protecting him from the looks the other nations give him.
"Nae, I'm serious; as long as you have whiskey for me to drink, I'm staying!"
…Whiskey is serious business.
Forever in time,
Through this rhyme
Remember the one
In rain, holding battered gun
Watching with cold green eyes
As empire falls to its demise
For he is the one
With rum-filled blood
That stayed.