Surprise. I was meant to update this on my birthday, but it is now almost 2am the following day. You know, me giving a bunch of strangers a gift (aka the chapter) instead of, uh, being the one receiving the gift. Because that's how birthdays work. Absolutely. (Jk I totally got good gifts. Plus one of my favourite fics just got updated, so I definitely won't be sleeping tonight.)
Anyway, imagine if I managed to update this in less than a month for the next chapter. That's the plan. 5th of November, my guys. Probably incredibly optimistic, but it is half-term next week.
Warnings: some, uh, confusing descriptions of shit. And a lot of anger. I promised a change of tone in this chapter, and thou shalt receive.
Allons-y!
Twenty-Three
Burning Rage
It is in their absence that he finds his strength.
When he reaches the third week, he takes his first steps down the stairs. Other England is already at the bottom, almost as if he knew today would be the day.
'We've been waiting for you to finally join us,' he says with a smile.
England says nothing. He couldn't make his words make sense if he tried. He remembers the first couple of days in his new room, where he babbled aloud his pleads for someone to hear him, unable to differentiate between the words in his head and the words on his tongue, and certainly unable for the former to fully translate to the latter. The connection between his head and his mouth is fuzzy and ineffective.
They've given him food, water, changes of clothes, a comfortable bed, the solitude of his own room, and they unlocked his door for him to venture into the rest of the house. Such 'kindness' can only herald something new to break him down.
'Ready for the next game?' Other England, hands behind his back, rocking back and forwards on his heels and toes.
England says nothing. He feels only the familiar twinge in his stomach, small but there.
Other England pulls an arm from behind his back and reaches out, grasping England's hand. His skin doesn't feel as cold as it did the first time they touched. England wonders if perhaps his own skin has grown colder.
'Come,' Other England says, grinning. 'This is good timing. We have a visitor.'
England suspects another trick. Perhaps Other England has tried covering up Other America's appearance again with a façade of his counterpart, only this time he may have remembered to change the eyes as well, and England will lose that last part of America, his America, that he can just hold onto.
He is wrong. As Other England pulls him through a door on his right and into a kitchen, England's gaze falls on a figure sat at the table. It is not Other America, and no one has tried changing this man's appearance into an exact replica of anyone England knows, though he already appears similar enough to someone familiar. He is dressed in a creased purple shirt and his dirty blonde hair is almost as unkempt as England's. There is a stubble on his chin, directly beneath a cigarette in his mouth. His eyes slowly roll in England's direction, half-lidded and bored, and he gives a sigh.
'About time your little mouse came to say 'ello,' the rough looking doppelgänger of France says. ''Ow long 'as 'e been up there, anyway?'
'Almost three weeks,' comes Other America's voice from a spot by the sink. He is pouring himself a glass of water, his back to the others in the room. The twinge in England's stomach twists a little stronger and more painfully, and he becomes conscious of his heart beating a bit faster. Suddenly, he wants to run out of the kitchen as fast as he can and race back up the stairs to his bedroom. But his door only locks from the outside. It is not a sanctuary. It is a cell. He can't stay safe in there.
Other France's eyes are drilling into England, scanning him up and down. 'You're not feeding 'im very well,' he remarks, sounding incredibly indifferent. ''E's skin and bones.'
'He wouldn't touch my food at first,' Other England says, a little sulkily. 'I made him special cupcakes every day and everything.'
Other France's eyes are now boring into him. 'And did you put any, ah… special ingredients into these cupcakes of yours?'
Other England grins. 'Just a smidge.'
Other America snickers.
Other France seems unamused. 'And 'ow exactly do you expect 'im to do well in any of your little games if he's being either starved or poisoned?'
'We've been giving him normal food for weeks now, haven't we, Al?'
'How should I know? That's your responsibility.' Other America turns around and sneers at Other England. 'I only cover the fun stuff.'
Other France leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. 'Ah, oui. The 'fun' stuff, you call it? Like the stunt with the wolves?'
Other America rolls his eyes. 'Ollie and I did that one together, man. Don't just blame me. Plus, it was fun. That was one hell of a game.'
'It was reckless,' Other France says, 'and you know it.'
'We had it under control,' Other America replies, returning Other France's glare with defiance.
'From what I 'eard,' Other France says quietly, 'you almost got 'im killed. 'E was seconds away from death. This particular game of yours was childish and stupid. You cannot be doing anything like that again. 'E will not be dying because of your foolishness.'
'But he didn't die, did he?' Other America says coldly. 'Because we had it under control.'
Other England finally pipes up. 'He's right. We knew what we were doing. Our part in it worked perfectly.'
'There was only one let-down,' Other America agrees, and that's when he finally looks at England. He doesn't smirk or show any signs of malice. He simply stares, looking rather dissatisfied. England suddenly gets the feeling that Other France isn't the only one whom Other America is angry at.
There's a new feeling inside him now. Still a twisting in his stomach, but something that makes him feel quite sick too, and hotter than before.
'And you,' Other France says, turning on Other England. 'This was 'ardly the first time you risked 'is life. Starving 'im for a month? Giving 'im nothing but poison when you did feel like feeding 'im? And no water whatsoever? What were you thinking?'
'He survived the month,' Other England says, still smiling away like nothing is amiss. 'And we ended it when he was ready.'
'Ready? You mean dying. You ended 'is trial in that cell when 'e was on the brink of death.'
'We knew exactly what we were doing,' Other America growls. 'There was a point to it, you asshole.'
'Tell me,' Other France says, 'how much blood did 'e lose when you 'ad 'im strapped to that table?'
'Not enough to kill him. Because I knew what I was doing,' Other America practically spits. He seems very intent on making his point.
'So you say,' Other France mutters.
Other England giggles softly. 'You'll want to be careful there. You might make him think that you're asking all this out of concern.'
'I am concerned,' Other France says. 'Concerned that the two of you are risking everything.'
Other America manages a cruel smile. 'Nah, he means he's worried that you're gonna make our guest here think you care. Mind you… turns out he can see through that sorta thing. Our tricks didn't work on him, not for long. It was a shame, really. Ollie worked hard on that spell.'
Other England nods fervently. 'It was a toughie, I'll say.'
'If it didn't work out 'owever it is you wanted it to, then it was pointless, wasn't it? You almost got 'im killed for nothing.'
'Oh, I definitely think it achieved something,' Other America smirks. 'He may have seen through it, but I bet it still screwed him up.'
'And does 'e actually talk?' Other France says sceptically, pushing his chair back and standing up. He walks round the table until he is face to face with England.
'Say hello,' Other England chirps, nudging England. The touch sends jets of both cold chills across his skin and a burning wave of heat inside his twisting stomach. England doesn't quite understand the second feeling. He keeps his mouth firmly shut. The thought of talking, of letting his disjointed words flow out in a nonsensical mess, is unfavourable.
'Doesn't seem to 'ave any manners, does 'e?' Other France remarks.
Somewhere at the back of England's mind is a bright hot flash of victory. Since the incident with the wolves and the brand new perspective he was offered when he was in his other form, he's come to see that not all of his mind's workings must focus on words and conventional thought process. He may not be the prey anymore, but most of what he feels, or what he lacks in feeling these days, is simply registering as instinctive senses.
The old him would be offended at being accused of being impolite. The new him finds vindictive pleasure in pissing them off. Even if he is punished for it, at least he is feeling something. Something good.
Other America peers at him, his expression unreadable. He doesn't quite seem as irritated with him anymore. 'You like that, don't you? Something funny?'
England stays silent. Staring back at Other America is hard, so he opts to look at Other France instead. Of all the people in this room, England is least afraid of him. After all, he hasn't demonstrated what he is capable of yet. England isn't foolish enough to mistake Other France's concern for his wellbeing as kindness, like the other two seem to think he will; a part of him knows that Other France simply wants to ensure his survival for some master plan he and the others have concocted. England is apparently no good to them dead.
He privately makes note of this.
''E does talk, right?'
Other England bites his lip and frowns in a saddened manner, like he finds this upsetting. 'He did. I'm not sure why he won't now.'
Other France's heavy lidded eyes fall on Other America. 'It seems,' he murmurs, 'that your little toy isn't as broken as you seem to think 'e is.'
'What are you talking about?' Other America demands. 'He can't even talk anymore. If that's not broken then I don't know what is-'
''E's not staying quiet because 'e can't talk. 'E's staying quiet because 'e won't talk,' Other France explains dryly.
The other two stare at England. 'Is that so?' Other America says softly. 'Why won't you talk to us?'
England's mind is washed in a dimming black and flashes of dizzying white and red; a fearful array of bones crunching and blood spraying, and something else, something harder and hotter than the fear. Something very familiar.
He forces himself to look directly into Other America's eyes. The crimson burns, icy cold, into his skin.
'He's scared shitless,' Other America decides, looking irritated once more. But it's not just anger- he's disappointed too. England can see that now. 'I guess we should have seen it coming. Our bad, right?' He glares at Other France, as if daring him to agree. 'I just thought he'd do better, ya know? I didn't think the wolves would get him, and we'd have to pull him out. And that he'd hide away and shit-'
'Al, we've talked about this-'
'Mention the swear jar one more time, Ollie, I dare you,' Other America snaps. 'He was supposed to be better than this. We all thought he would be, don't deny it.' He looks back at England. 'You may not be talking now, but you can still hear. You getting any of this? You sure you haven't got anything to say?'
The red in his eyes matches the red inside England's head, perfectly, and he suddenly remembers what it means.
'Like what?' Other France puts in. 'An apology, for not living up to your unrealistic expectations? 'E almost died. 'E's not going to apologise, no matter 'ow much you think 'is mind 'as cracked. Of course 'e's afraid. What were you expecting? 'E is not 'ere to be your special little project, for you and you alone. This is for all of us, and you will not ruin it.'
England looks away from Other America and past his own counterpart, to over by the kitchen sink. There's a window above the counter, big enough for someone to climb through if they pushed it open far enough. The blurring, dizzy flashes of panicked colours yearn for escape alone, but this feeling isn't as strong as it usually is. The burning dark red, solid as concrete in his mind, calls for what is beneath the window: a cylinder of utensils. While the others talk amongst themselves, his eyes fix on its sharp contents immediately, forgetting the window.
When he finally looks away, he finds Other America watching him carefully with narrowed eyes. The other nation glances questioningly at the window, then seems to realise that England was fixated with the cylinder. He stares at it for a few seconds before looking back again. His mouth twitches slightly at the edges.
'I was wrong,' he says quietly, and the other two shut up in an instant. He takes a step forward, and England flinches but holds his ground. Other America seems to notice both these things, and something about the two combined satisfies him.
'You're afraid,' he says, 'but you've got something else as well. Something even stronger than fear.'
Five days into his period of recovery in the psych ward, or his imprisonment (as England has secretly begun dubbing it), he is called to see his appointed doctor. He imagines she is thoroughly exasperated with England's entire case, given all the complications have were presented to the ward upon his arrival. His brothers sure do know how to kick up a fuss and use their authority to bend the rules. England has tried to reason with them; he accepts that someone should always be keeping an eye on him in case he has another breakdown, but he's getting pretty sick of them arguing with the hospital staff.
'Good morning, Arthur,' the doctor says as he takes a seat in front of her desk. 'How are you today?'
'Fine, I suppose,' England replies. It's not a lie. He dreamt of his missing memories last night, as he seems to do every night now, but they didn't leave him panicking or hurt when he woke up. They haven't done for several days now. He knows he should be relieved, but much like his paranoid past self in the memories, he is convinced this must mean that something big is coming. Something that will likely be incredibly traumatic, no doubt.
He just hopes he'll be out of the hospital by the time it comes, or else the breakdown that will follow will likely force him to stay much longer than originally planned.
'As I understand it, you have a sibling in another part of the hospital,' the doctor continues. 'One of your other brothers mentioned it. He also suggested that he believes this may have been what caused your lapse in health.'
England nods. He, Ireland and Wales have agreed on how best to explain the breakdown that landed him in the psych ward.
'It w-was upsetting,' he begins. 'He fell from q… quite high up. I panicked badly afterwards, and w-when I visited him the n… next day, it all got… worse inside my head. So I was admitted here.'
The doctor bows her head, sympathetic. 'It must have been frightening. I obviously don't have access to any details in your brother's ward, but I've heard from the rest of your family that he is making quite the recovery. They're arranging for him to be transferred to a hospital in London upon their return to the UK. They've also been adamant on bringing you with. From what I've observed, you seem healthy enough to at least travel back to your own country, although I would strongly advise that you pursue further treatment once home.'
England wonders what she would say if she knew about the scars littering his skin. This is one thing his brothers have fought desperately to keep secret from the staff. They've ensured that he always bathes and changes clothes in complete privacy. The last thing they need is the police getting involved.
'I'm impressed with how you've done since you came here,' the doctor says kindly. (England imagines she's less impressed with his brothers and their attitude.) 'Your speech is certainly improving.'
This is something England is glad of. His inability to enunciate his words properly has aggravated him, especially since he was forced to admit to himself that the cold weather wasn't the cause.
'Your family has been incredibly… supportive, too,' she carries on, politely struggling to find the right word.
'You can say smothering. Th-they can't hear y… you,' England says, then immediately feels a little bad. His family have been fighting against hospital policies to keep him as safe and as comfortable as possible. Even he must admit that they must care a great deal, paranoid insecurities aside.
'Involved,' the doctor decides, smiling. 'They've certainly been involved.'
'I apologise f-for all the trouble we've c… caused you.'
'Not at all. None of this is your fault. And while I must say your brothers have made things slightly difficult for us, there's no denying that they want what's best for you.' She turns to her computer and begins typing up a form. 'They plan on taking you out of the ward two days from now, so you can all prepare to head back home shortly. Are you comfortable with these arrangements? If you feel that you wish to remain here longer-'
'No, that's fine. Th-thank you.'
She leans back on her chair and gives a slightly baffled smile. 'Honestly, it's hard to believe you and your brothers all chose to work in the same field.'
'I suppose you c-could call it a family business,' England jests lightly.
Ireland and Wales are both waiting for him in his room when he returns from his meeting with the doctor. Surprisingly, Germany is here too. This clearly must be quite official business. The tall nation is as composed as always, but there is a minor amount of discomfort lingering on his face.
'How did it go?' Ireland asks as England takes a seat on the bed.
'Well… she's fine w-with letting me out. So I can c… come back home and everything.' Admittedly, although he's glad to be finally leaving the hospital, England is not looking forward to the flight. He was paranoid enough on the plane coming here with Scotland, almost two weeks ago. Since then, his health has deteriorated considerably, and he doesn't like the thought of being trapped in a relatively small space for several hours, thousands of feet in the air. Upon this thought, his mind immediately jumps to an undesirable outcome: that the nations in the other world might somehow make an appearance, that there may be another attack. How the hell could he handle something like that on a plane?
'That's good,' Wales is saying. 'It works with our plans- potential plans,' he quickly adds. 'Which all depends on what you have to say.'
Ah. That would explain why Germany is here.
'I suppose th… there's some sort of arrangement you'd l-like to make,' England says.
Germany nods. 'This is difficult. We ask for your consent, and if you do not give it, we will respect that and have to come to some sort of other arrangement.'
'For w-what, exactly?'
'A world meeting,' Ireland says. 'A big one. Not just eight nations, or even twenty. We want to get everyone involved, everyone who can make it.'
'Of course, it would be optimistic- no, impossible, to assume that every country on the planet will be able to attend, what with the current relations between certain nations,' Germany continues. 'But as many as possible.'
'And… why exactly d-do you need my permission?' England asks. He knows exactly which angle they're coming from, but he also knows his word in this particular matter shouldn't have to count as much as it currently does.
'Because it's about yeh, numpty,' Ireland says, rolling his eyes. 'A coupla weeks ago, the main plan was introducing yeh back to the world slowly- yeh know, start out small with the G8, then maybe some kinda European conference, and so on until everyone was up to date. But, um…'
'We're in somewhat of an e… emergency,' England finishes.
Germany bows his head. 'Ja, that's one way of putting it. From what you've told us of this other world, alongside the contact others have had with it over the last two weeks, particularly the entity's attack and harm inflicted on Scotland, we must assume that our world is in a fair amount of danger.'
'For all we know, other nations might be being targeted right now,' Wales says. 'And everyone has the right to know of what we might all be up against.'
'I doubt they're going r-random nations in our w… world. N-not right now, anyway,' England murmurs.
'Why not?'
He sighs. 'They'll want my attention. Th-they're targeting people near to m… me. They s-started tormenting the G8 b… because I'm here with you. Which is why…' He draws a deep breath. 'I'm not sure it's a g-good idea, bringing them all together. B… bringing them near me.'
'England.' Ireland grits his teeth. 'We've talked about this. Yeh're not responsible for this and yeh bloody well know it-'
'Whether I'm r-responsible for it or not,' England replies hotly, 'there's no denying I'm right. B… But on the other hand… if they do decide to start targeting random nations, r-regardless of whether they're around me or not, it's b-best if everyone was brought together. And that way, w-we can at least warn them all personally.'
'Exactly,' Germany says. The reason for his obvious discomfort finally comes to light with these next words. 'I'm sure you know, England, that realistically… people aren't going to believe your story. Especially if we do it all by phone or other means that don't involve us all meeting in person. You are aware of this?'
'Naturally,' England says dryly. He's a little too aware. After all, he had a hard enough time believing that the nations here in the States with him would buy any of it.
'The fact that yeh're alive isn't gonna prove where yeh were or what happened to yeh,' Ireland says. 'They're gonna need more than that. Hopefully, seeing as it's not just yer word, but ours as well, they might believe the story if yeh've got several nations backing yeh up. Especially with the majority of them being the G8 themselves.'
'What exactly is it y-you want?' England asks. 'My permission to call for a w… world meeting? It's an emergency. Even if I th-think gathering everyone together could end badly, it's b-better than individuals being targeted w-with no one around to help. We'd have… I d-don't know, safety in numbers. The whole thing shouldn't d-depend on my word.'
'Well, the thing is, we want to hold it in London. So we're gonna need yer permission,' Ireland says. 'We're also trying to arrange for it to happen as quickly as possible. The world nations are gonna get pissy about being given such short notice, but that will hardly matter in the long run. This ain't something we should delay.'
'We just wanted to run this by you. I take it we have your support?' Germany says.
'Of course,' England replies. He wonders why they don't just decide to have the meeting here in the States- at least that way, the nations here won't have to leave, but will instead have time to prepare for the arrival of all the other countries. But of course, London is the beginning of this whole mystery, isn't it? It's where he went missing, and where they'll at least have a chance of finding more answers. If only the city signified the end to all of this, too. But none of this ended when England returned to this world, not like he would have hoped. It's just the beginning of a whole new game, Other America and Other England would likely tell him.
He'll have to win this one.
On his final night in the hospital, Wales is the one watching over him. The two haven't exactly found each other easy to talk to lately, and generally resort to uncomfortable silences. England spends all his time doing the only enjoyable thing he can really do in these circumstances- reading. Unfortunately, he doesn't find himself fully immersed in the books he is given, not like he always used to be. His mind wonders constantly, fixating on words he feels he should say, and some words he even wants to say. Perhaps with all these nations here in the States believing his story, he should be opening up a little more. He truly does feel like at least a small weight has been lifted from his shoulders, although he has yet to provide any details to everything he has already told them.
How would I even begin to explain the wolves? How would how it all felt make any sense to them? They'll be mortified when they hear what happened at the end. They'll understand that part well enough. But…
They'll never see it, never feel it like he did. And that's a good thing, because England wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Except perhaps those who did it to him.
Ignoring a strange hot churning in his stomach, he decides to ask a question that's been pestering him for several days now. He's asked it before, but never really received much more than a vague, unsatisfying answer.
'How is Sealand?'
Wales jumps badly and drops the newspaper he was reading, completely unexpecting to hear England speak. The silence has lasted for hours, after all, and England hardly says anything these days, even when he is expected to talk.
The older nation smiles slightly, amused by England's persistence with this question. 'Like I keep telling you, brawd, he's fine. Nothing else has happened to him.'
'He saw m… my counterpart,' England points out, 'and it clearly sh-shook him up.'
'He's spending most of his time with America,' Wales says. 'Even when Ireland and I don't need someone to watch over him. He's not happy with us right now.' He sighs. 'That's fair. I know that. He'd rather be elsewhere, and he's very fond of America.'
'So I've heard.' England's stomach is twisting once more. He wonders if it will ever stop doing that. Feeling a little cold (a stark contrast to the strange burning that seems to be raring up inside of him lately, both in his dreams and real life), he traces his fingers over the goosebumps on his arm.
'It's nice,' Wales says with a little smirk. 'That you're worried. That you're showing it. You and Sea are finally getting closer. I think he likes it. He'll never admit it, but I'm sure he does.'
The chill on England's skin feels even colder. He shivers and tries to ignore it. 'Yeah.'
Wales peers at him closely, seemingly noticing his strange discomfort. Of all of England's brothers, Wales always was the easiest to interact with, and certainly the one who understood him best- or at least bothered to. He'll know exactly what England is thinking right now, and what is really bothering him- something England is hardly going to voice aloud.
'You alright?' Wales asks softly.
'I'm not p-panicking or anything. It's not that,' England says quietly. He feels slightly sick.
'I know. You and Sea are going to talk soon, aren't you?'
England nods. 'I suppose so. Yes.'
'And to the rest of us, as well,' Wales says. 'About the things you haven't mentioned yet. I'm sure there's parts you've left out, because you weren't ready to tell us.'
England's mouth is very dry. 'What if I'm still not r… ready?'
Wales smiles at him. 'Then we'll wait.'
He, of all people, deserves to hear a bit more of the truth (despite that nasty voice in England's head telling him that Wales deserves nothing of the sort, that he helped Scotland tell everyone that England was dead, that he never listened to Sealand). No matter what mistakes Wales has made, he has been incredibly supportive.
'I remember th-the other France,' England mumbles.
Wales stares at him. 'For how long?'
'A couple of nights ago. There w-wasn't really anything l… last night. But it's come back to me.'
'So just him, the other America, and the other you so far?'
'Yes.'
'And what was he like? Did he do anything to you?'
'Nothing that I r-remember yet,' England mutters. 'He was… tamer th-than the other two. But I d… don't buy it. I'm sure I d-didn't fall for it back then. And I'm n-not doing it now.'
The heat is back, washing over his chilled skin from underneath it, coursing through his veins. He understands it now- and he knows Other America could see it in him, and know what it was too. Underneath his bed covers, he clenches his fist.
Outside, the sky is pitch black, although Wales has yet to draw the curtains. England stares out at the city lights and narrows his eyes until it all becomes a blur. From this, he can almost pretend the shining dots of light are stars, stars he knows are up in the sky somewhere, hidden by all the light pollution. But at least he knows why he can't see them. At least he knows they're there.
The yellow dots of light give way to two new glowing flecks, these ones red, accompanied by a dark silhouette behind them. England's eyes open wide and he takes in the sight of something all too familiar: that demon he had once been so afraid of, the one he had been convinced only he could see, due to the fact that no one else ever reacted to its presence, other than France.
Of course, now he knows that he was simply looking at America the whole time, hallucinating his counterpart in his place- only by that point, he hadn't regained his memories of Other America and his appearance. His mind had compensated by replacing the image of the figure with that of a dark, blank silhouette, with only the eyes remaining.
A swirling mess of colours flash in his mind; a blurring, frightened flash of white pain and that burning red, small at first, before spreading through his head like wildfire. His body is a twisting mixture of cold fear and that burning feeling that seems to blend with the red, like nothing else matters.
In an instant, he throws himself out of bed and lunges for the lamp on his beside table, yanking it so viciously that the lead comes straight out of the plug socket with one pull. Wales yelps in surprise and is quickly on his feet too, but England pays him no heed.
With three brisk steps, England is in front of the window in an instant, glaring out at the city, his heart thumping rapidly in his eardrums. He can vaguely make out the sound of the of his own heavy breathing and the twitching cold fear streaming through his body. It is still here after all, although the red almost drowns it out completely. For once, the fear doesn't seem all that powerful or suffocating anymore.
'England, what is it?' Wales demands nervously, quickly making his way to his brother's side.
'You didn't see it?' England asks, his voice rather flat. The words come out like steel, fixed and solid, no quiver whatsoever. He has no room for satisfaction, however. He grips the lamp tightly in his hand, holding it out threateningly like he would do with an actual weapon. It's dangerous enough, but the base is blunt. All the better if the bulb shatters; that will certainly do some damage…
'… what? See what? England! Answer me!'
England peers closely at the window, the hand holding the lamp shaking slightly. The fear may be slightly subdued, but it is not absent. He knows this. But he knows something else- he has control of it.
When he stares directly into the glass, only his reflection and his brother's look back at him. Wales's face is constricted with anxiety. '… Nothing,' England says finally, talking a step back from the window, his grip on the lamp loosening slightly. When he looks at his reflection, the face he can see himself wearing resembles the expression Other America had first worn when he had recounted England's failure in escaping the wolf pack. Disappointment.
He shouldn't be disappointed that the visitor in the reflection has vanished so quickly. He should be relieved… or rather, more relieved than just this small bit of comfort. Like the fear, his relief is practically drowned out by something much stronger; that same aggressive, flaming red, blaring in his mind.
'I wasn't nothing!' Wales protests at once. 'I must have missed whatever it was- you clearly saw something!'
'Nothing now,' England corrects himself. 'He's g… gone.' He dully notices the loss of his structured words once more, and more disappointment sweeps in, just as the red-hot feeling starts to fade. Suddenly, England doesn't want it to go. He could speak properly when it reigned over his mind, and he was brave enough to try and defend himself, to walk towards the danger, instead of running in fear like he tends to do these days.
Wales shivers. ''He'?'
'The other America.'
'The… the one who pushed Scotland…' This isn't a question. Wales looks thoroughly mortified, and very, very pale. He sinks onto England's bed, staring at the ground in shock for a few seconds, before glancing up at England in panic. 'We need to get out of here. I'll think of something to tell the staff, so we can-'
'He's gone,' England repeats, gesturing at the window.
'He might come back,' Wales hisses, his voice high pitched.
'No. He w… won't. Not tonight.' England walks over to the bedside table and places the lamp back on it, before reaching down to plug it back in. It's a wonder he didn't break it, honestly.
'You can't know that for sure,' Wales says in a shaking voice.
'But I do,' England replies, strangely calm. He can't explain how he knows this with such certainty. He can't even properly explain how the colours attribute to the emotions he feels, but maybe that's the point. There weren't words for these things when he was the prey, only blind instinct. But he doesn't feel like prey now. He feels something quite the opposite.
'You can go, if you w-want,' England says, trying to be gentle. He can see how frightened his brother is, and realises rather uncomfortably that this is how he must generally look to everyone else these days. 'If it will m… make you feel better. Though I doubt you'll be willing t-to leave me here.'
'Of course not!' Wales exclaims. 'England, you've got to come with me-'
'I have to stay-'
'England, he could still be watching-'
'Perhaps. That's why I m-must stay.' He gives a humourless chuckle. 'I can't let him see m… me leave, like some kind of b-bloody coward. Enough of all that.'
'England, being afraid doesn't make you cowardly,' Wales says firmly.
'It's not like l-leaving would matter,' England says with a bitter laugh. 'As if finding me is a p-problem for them. Th-this is hardly the first reflection they've used. T… trust me, Wales. He's gone. He's made his p-point. And I've made mine.'
'What does that mean?' Wales practically chokes.
England thinks back to those narrowed red eyes, and to the face he had briefly made out in the glass. He'd seen that all-too familiar malice, and as he thinks back to it, he realises how a minor amount of disappointment in the other isn't the only thing they've shared. Because he had spotted something more familiar than any other feeling he could ever hope to identify.
Fear.
There had been fear in those red eyes. Only very briefly, when he came up to the glass with his weapon at the ready, gone almost immediately. But it had been there.
England doesn't know what to make of it, and all of a sudden he feels incredibly tired. The adrenaline from Other America's brief visit has vanished, and now it's left exhaustion in its wake.
'It's late, Wales,' England says wearily. 'I kn-know you're scared. Believe me, I understand that b… better than anyone. But he won't bother us again tonight. N-not now.'
'How do you know?' Wales asks hoarsely.
England gives a small, weak smile as he climbs into bed once more. 'Because,' he says, 'we're n-not the only ones who get scared.'
England tries to think the way he used to, the way people do. He tests out putting words to the senses inside his head, but it's as if he's forgotten every label, like he's erased all memory of what things are called. The dizzying blur of his vision, along with the wash of cold across his body, mean fear. He knows that much, at least. Fear is his only real constant these days, the only label his mind seems to think is worth remembering.
It's practically blinding, now. It feels as if it's tearing his lungs apart.
'Go on,' Other England encourages him, nodding at the front door.
This is a trick. It must be. The wolves are probably waiting just outside. And it doesn't matter what form he's in- the pack will easily be capable of ripping him apart. Again.
Whatever this is, it is simply the next game. Nothing more.
The other two are already outside, waiting. This is the first time he has come outside during the day in several months now. The light hasn't particularly agreed with him recently. He caught bits of it streaming through the barred window, back when he was kept in the cell, and he can very clearly see daylight through the window in his new room, though he opts to always keep the curtains closed. Although all the terrible things seem to happen in the dark, he has grown accustomed to it. In darkness, he can hide. Our here in the open, in broad daylight, he is vulnerable.
England can't make out any wolves, fortunately. They tend to favour night time, anyway, so perhaps he won't have to worry about them appearing. Without the wolves to focus his attention on, he is able to finally observe his surroundings. He had been dying when Other America had pulled him out of that cell, too weak to notice much of anything, and it had been dark on top of that. When he had been in the body of the rabbit, his only true concern had been escaping from the ever so literal jaws of death. He had taken in things, of course, but his way of thinking, or rather, perceiving, had been warped by his new form.
It's much like the kind of sky he's used to, completely white with clouds, obscuring the sun. But these clouds are darker, and the air feels almost heavier because of it. He wonders if perhaps this is why he could never see the stars here; it must be much the same at night time. Despite the darker hue of the clouds, the world around him isn't too dim; it still seems as bright as ever to England, and offers a full view of the street.
They must be on the outskirts of London, hence why the fire from November hasn't touched these parts. The people don't set fire to absolutely every part of the city, only the vast majority of it. Nevertheless, remnants of the flames have reached out to other ways to these parts. Sections of the ground are blanked by light piles of ash that must have drifted this way through the air, though for the most part the ground is clear. Weeks' worth of wind now and then has likely blown most of it away.
The other houses seem unoccupied. There are no cars in sight, and when England thinks back to his time racing through the city, he can't seem to recall having caught a glimpse of any cars. The houses, or at least the parts of them that he can see, seem to be structured in an old-fashioned manner, wooden fences instead of iron chains or railings separating the tiny front gardens from the ones next to them. What's more, several of the windows are covered my more than just curtains; dark materials are spread over the glass from the inside, as if to block out all light. Or perhaps… to prevent light from the inside being seen out here.
Down the street, a couple of the houses are in serious ruin, the top floors having completely crumbled into the floors beneath. The debris is covered in shrubbery in weeds, as if they've been in this state for a long time.
England feels as if he's stepped back in time. The street eerily reminds him of his capital during the Blitz. If it weren't for the overgrown plants, he may have even believed himself to be back in the past.
'You gonna quit gawking or what?' Other America demands, snapping England out of his daze. 'As you can see, this place has gone to shit. Nothing interesting about that.'
'Now, Al, don't be so obscene,' Other England admonishes him immediately. 'You can hardly speak, silly.'
'At least I actually bothered to clean up a bit after the war.'
'My efforts are focused elsewhere, as well you know.'
'What?' Other France taunts, joining in. His former seriousness has finally given way to a more sneering attitude, now that he's calmed down a bit. 'You mean rebuilding parts of your city every year, just so you can set fire to it again and again? It's pointless.'
'You have your customs, and we have ours,' Other England sniffs.
Other America rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, never mind all that. We didn't come out here to stare at this shithole. You.' His eyes fix on England, and he takes a step forward. 'You know what I find interesting about you?'
England says nothing.
'You are one stubborn asshole,' Other America elaborates with a grin. 'Ollie told me about all those cakes he made for you, and how you just refused to give in and accept them.'
Other England, Ollie, nods, looking affronted at the mere memory of it.
'And then you finally did eat one,' Other America continues. 'Which was a shame. But I guess it was good thing too, 'cause you were kinda dying and all. Your pride was no good to you if you were dead.'
He takes another step forward. 'And then, there was that whole thing with the spell Ol did on me. It took you a little while, but you saw through that in the end. And then it didn't matter what I did to you, 'cause I couldn't change the fact that you'd figured out the truth.'
One more step, then another. 'But then, you were, uh, compliant. You accepted the food. I get you were all screwed up after my game and all, but still, not cool, ya know? You're not supposed to play nice. You're supposed to kick and shout, like some whingy little kid. You're meant to fight back.'
He's growing closer and closer. The blurring fear sears its way through England's mind upon his approach. 'So then there was the thing with the wolves. I think you've kinda got the gist of how we feel about that. Long story short- that did not go how we wanted it to. You weren't meant to get caught, but you did. So you can understand why I ain't too happy.'
He's a mere five feet from England now, his red eyes blaring with dissatisfaction. England finds the colour sweeping through his own head in an instant, a sudden, churning heat washing over the fear and sinking down into it so the two can blend together. He shudders a little as Other America draws close, but holds his ground.
'You stayed in that room and hid afterwards,' Other America states coldly. 'Sure, I'd probably get it if I'd been in your place. I'd understand if I'd been screwed up like you have. But the fact of the matter is, I haven't. Because I'm not the one who got captured by a bunch of nations from another world. I'm not the one who got trapped and broken down. Because I don't ever let myself become the prey.'
He's right in front of England now. The red in his eyes matches the crimson in England's head, perfectly.
'To me, it's just sad,' Other America says. 'And by that, I mean pathetic. Not the kinda sad that makes me wanna cry, 'cause I can't feel shit like that anymore. None of us can, not for years, and that's why we don't fall into traps for the weak. 'Cause we're not weak. We made it, and we did it well. Survival of the fittest and all that.'
England's fists are clenched, and shaking badly. But they're not cold. They're burning, like they're on fire.
'But,' Other America says, his chilly seriousness pushed to the side by that cruel smirk, 'the point of this speech was to say what I like about you. So. Let's see. You are so, so scared right now. I mean seriously, you should see your face. But like I said back in the house: you're not just scared. You're getting a handle on that fear, 'cause you're feeling something else too, something that beats it. Something that's using it, and turning it into strength. You feel me?'
And then, with no warning, he punches England in the face.
The smaller nation goes tumbling back, crashing into the ground with a hard slap. It hurts, of course, but it pales in comparison to the poison, to the knives, to the wolves. Above him, Other America pulls out a dagger he recognises immediately: the seemingly favourite one, with the smooth green hilt and the long, sharp blade.
'Yeah, you know this one, don't you?' Other America sneers. 'This is the special one. Real nice, huh? This one made the prettiest marks on you.'
His voice drowns out at the end, and all England can see is that pulsating, fiercely hot red. With a surprising amount of speed, clenched fists still quivering, he pushes himself off the ground and back onto his feet, ignoring the angry stinging on his cheek and the aching of his bruised back.
'See!' Other America exclaims, and to the side, Other England whoops in delight. 'There it is! You ain't weak. You just had a little fall along the way. And you built yourself back up again. I saw you looking at those knives in the kitchen. See, I thought you were looking at the window at first. But you weren't.' His grin is wider than ever before. 'You weren't searching for an escape. You were searching for something to fight with. 'Cause even when you're terrified, you can still find your rage. About time you let it out.'
He puts the knife away, clearly uninterested in using it. In another swift motion, he sends another blow to England's face. This time, however, the smaller nation is more prepared, and although he stumbles badly, he still manages to stay on his feet. Other America's words are opening doors inside England's head, letting words flow back in, words he'd replaced with colours and senses. Strength. Fight. Rage.
'Think about all the shit we did to you,' Other America taunts him maliciously, licking his lips. 'We dragged you outta your world. We locked you up. We hurt you and beat you and broke you down. Hell, you got torn apart 'cause of us. Look at everything we took from you. Your dignity, your strength, your safety. We took away your home. Surely you gotta want at least a bit of revenge after all that.'
England sees the next blow coming, and he swerves to one side, instinctively swinging his own fists out in both protection and retaliation. Other America grunts in pain and steps back, his hands flying up to massage his face.
His whole speech about being strong, about not letting anything beat him, must be true. He's clearly not used to having anything hit him, or even wound him at all.
England's heart is hammering powerfully, in a frantic blend of fear of what Other America will do now and unrestrained, thick, red rage.
Through the pain, Other America winces and manages to grin at England. 'That's more like it. Guess you're not a lost cause after all. If anything's gonna beat your fear, it's your anger.' He hesitates. 'No. It's not just anger. It's fury.'
England lunges at him.
My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com
The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song
So I like. Actually contributed to the fandom with fanart. And it didn't go terribly. I kinda want to do it again.
I want to elaborate more on that weird unease England has when he and Wales are discussing Sealand. That will be important later. Probably. I love adapting England and Sealand's relationship, but that obviously means acknowledging how it was before. And there are complications there for England.
Can you believe it's taken me almost two years two write less than two week's worth of plot? I'll finally have them going back to the UK in the next chapter. And then a world meeting. I'm hella excited for writing how that'll go down.
Also, I'm trying to finally start seriously elaborate on why the 2Ps are so screwed up in this story. I'm really throwing in references to it now. This chapter's meant to signify a whole new part to the story. Like the fearful stage for England, part one, that bit is over. He'll still be scared, of course. Who wouldn't be? But he's got this newfound strength in his rage, and honestly I've been waiting to finally get round to writing this part for ages.
Anyway, the most important part: thank you so much for all the feedback and support. I've had one really rough month and my birthday wasn't exactly a shining relief, so writing this has actually been the highlight. As always. Writing this story has always been the highlight for me. I'm fixated on its progress and completion. I may have mentioned this before.
As always, thank you so much for reading, and remember to review!
