27th December, 2009; Kent, England
(The day following the complete bloody fiasco that England's family turned his Boxing Day in to; near Canterbury)

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If he can't solve a problem with either tea or alcohol, then Scotland's next suggestion is always hiking.

Gaping head wound? Just need to stretch your legs. Raging fever? Nothing that a bit of fresh air won't fix. The after-effects of a party which ended in a violent argument when all the host had wanted was to get through one fucking family gathering without the need for police involvement or visits to A&E? Of course the only possible course of action is to just walk it all off.

Scotland had not had any takers when he first proposed his idea over breakfast; probably because it was a fucking ridiculous one. Everyone bar Sealand was nursing either an injury, a hangover, or both, and had only just been able to make the onerous trek from their beds to the kitchen.

He had not been deterred, however, and after a mere quarter of an hour's intensive badgering, Wales – who could be remarkably spineless at times under such onslaughts from their brother – had finally agreed to accompany him. France conceded defeat not long afterwards, persuaded by uncertain means that England did not care to ponder too deeply as he was fairly certain that they had involved wiles of some sort.

England hoped that wiles weren't the reason behind America's last minute announcement that he also wanted to tag along; Scotland certainly wouldn't have deployed them, but France could never be trusted in that regard, so-called 'committed relationship' or no. And England had found himself following America as though tugged along by some invisible lead, despite the fact that he had planned to spend the day lying down in a darkened room alternating between drinking Alka Seltzer and Lucozade.

His spur of the moment decision had earned him a knowing smirk from Scotland, and a snort of laughter from Wales, but seeing as though England was Not Speaking to either of them following their disgraceful behaviour of the previous day, he didn't even attempt to justify himself, and simply let his index and middle fingers do the talking for him.

There had then followed one of the more unpleasant hours of England's life. Travelling in Scotland's horrible clapped-out old banger was a trial in and of itself at the best of times, doubly so when it was carrying more than three people and leg space was at a high premium, and triply, quadrupley, quintupley so when one was forced to listen to Scotland and France arguing about Scotland's erratic driving, Wales whinging about his queasy stomach, and America's repeated attempts at engaging them all in inane car games for the duration.

England had actually found himself approving of Scotland's habitual speeding for once, however, because no matter how hair-raising his breakneck turns and last-second stops at red lights were, at least it ended up shaving almost an hour off their journey time.
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As he very rarely gets hangovers himself, it never crosses Scotland's mind to make allowances for those who do. Consequently, the pace he sets for their walk is punishing, and Wales, England and America soon start dropping further and further behind.

Wales bows out not even half an hour in, announcing that he 'feels inspired' and simply has to get his thoughts down on paper whilst the mood is upon him. Although the scenery is stunning – Kent is called the 'Garden of England' for good reason – England suspects his brother is rather more inspired towards crawling under a bush and having a nap, chill wind and icy ground notwithstanding, than rhapsodising about the munificence of mother nature.

France, however, seems to be keeping good pace with Scotland, despite his aversion towards exerting himself fully-clothed. Admittedly, he doesn't have much choice in the matter, because…

"They're holding hands now," England says, nodding towards his brother and France as they reappear into view beyond a small dip in the path ahead. "Can you believe that?"

America makes the same sort of disinterested hum in reply as he had previously whenever England pointed out that Scotland had France pressed up against a tree, or France had slipped an arm around Scotland's waist. He doesn't even bother looking at the two of them, keeping his eyes downcast, apparently fixed on his shoes and the small sprays of frost covered pebbles he kicks up with every step.

"They're acting like teenagers," England continues, because America really doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. "In fact, they never even used to act like this when they were younger. Or, if they did, they at least had the decency to do it behind closed doors. You must have noticed that they can't seem to keep their hands off each other lately? Pretty hard to miss, I suppose, given that they seem determined to flaunt it in everyone's faces at the slightest fucking opportunity. I wouldn't be surprised if they're off shagging in the undergrowth by the time we –"

America chuckles. "You're starting to sound a little jealous," he says.

"Jealous?" The idea is so preposterous that it barely deserves refuting, but England still feels it necessary to do so lest America is convinced there's some grain of truth to it if it he stays silent. "I've yet to discover one quality the frog possesses to recommend him, and Scotland…" Is argumentative, bull-headed, crass, bad tempered, and, most importantly: "Scotland's my brother. Why the hell would I be jealous?"

"I didn't mean of either of them." America's shoulders lift in a quick shrug. "Just, you know, in general."

That accusation is much harder to refute. So much so that a glib denial doesn't roll easily off England's tongue, and his hesitation becomes a lengthy pause becomes a prolonged, awkward silence before he finally manages to formulate one and splutter it out.

The delay was no doubt damning, and England cringes inwardly, anticipating laughter, or mockery, or…Or something, at least. Anything. But America says nothing, and his expression is completely unreadable.

If it were anyone else, England would say they were poker-faced. The term has always seemed laughable when applied to America, given how crap he is at that particular game solely because he is seemingly completely incapable of not broadcasting his every passing thought and emotion loud and clear, his opinions on the strength of his hand included. Or was incapable, at least; there have been a number of occasions like this over the past few years when England has found himself unable to even begin to intuit America's mood.

It's a slightly unsettling development – England could always take comfort in knowing exactly where he stood before – and one whose origins have always proven too complicated a puzzle for England to solve, even without the disadvantage of sluggishness that two days of festive excess have lent to his thought processes.

That, at least, is a problem which is easily rectified.

"How do you fancy finding ourselves a pub?" he asks America.
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England had had no plans on getting drunk, only self-medicating with a little hair of the dog, but he thinks he's going to be in short order so if he keeps up his current pace. Two pints in, and America is still in the midst of telling the long-winded story he'd started upon when they first took their table.

England thinks it has something to do with an evening America had spent with Canada and Prussia – a month ago; everyone knew about that particular development long before England and his brothers, it seems – during which Prussia behaved like a complete arse. As 'complete arse' is Prussia's natural state of being, none of his behaviour was anything that England hadn't personally witnessed on numerous occasions over the many years of their acquaintance, and so he's finding it difficult to keep his mind from wandering.

Unfortunately, it insists on wandering towards America's accusation earlier, no matter how concerted England's efforts to divert it. Every cognitive bypass he travels down – admiring the scenic watercolours that decorate the pub's walls; mentally critiquing the pint of Boddingtons he's been forced to drink because there's no better beer on offer; even, in desperation, trying to enumerate the floorboards between his table and the bar – somehow still leads him to the same place. To the same fucking question:

Am I jealous?

It's not a simple one to answer. When he was younger, and his emotions tended to run much higher, he was; almost constantly. Not just jealous, but angry that he was to be forever denied something that seemed to inform such a large part of so many people's lives.

Centuries past that rush of hormones and resentment, he finds such feelings tend to wax and wane. They happen to be waxing at the moment, but that will no doubt pass, given time and determination.

He can't even blame it all on America, because it's not just informed by lust, which is something he's much better equipped to handle than in his youth by dint of centuries' worth of practise. The realisation had been both infuriating and humiliating to acknowledge, but once he did, it became glaringly obvious that it's grown steadily worse since devolution.

The vast majority of the time, he'd hated being forced to live with his brothers – hated the fighting, the lack of privacy, the constant picking at every little thing he said and did – but since they moved out again, he's found that occasionally the house is just too quiet. That he misses having someone he could speak with any time he wished, no matter that he had had arguments far more often than he ever did conversations back then.

He likes to think that, after nearly five hundred years, it's simply jarring to be living completely on his own, because it's better than the alternative. How can he be lonely, after all, when he has the fae? And they will always be there, only a call or an incantation away; never as fickle in their attentions as humans or even nations.

Unless, of course, England were to have sex.

It's always seemed a strange requirement to England, as he's not sure why it should matter to them what he does with his genitals, but Scotland had been insistent all those centuries ago that they value chastity above all else. Bodily chastity of a very specific sort, thankfully, seems to be sufficient for them, because England has never been particularly chaste in thought.
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Unlike his brothers, England doesn't even have any human friends to compensate.

His relationships with his bosses, and the other politicians and civil servants he deals with during his working day are generally good, but don't extend beyond clocking-off time. Jim, the landlord of his local, seems to like him, but England suspects that's likely due to the large amount of cash he spends in his establishment on a regular basis. Beyond Jim, there are a few fellow classic car and real ale enthusiasts he enjoys talking to on occasion, but he would hardly call them friends.

If there's some mystical bond that's supposed to attract his people to him, England has certainly never been able to tap into it. Not in his civilian life, at least. In wartime, he's always been humbled by the unwavering respect and faith offered to him by the troops under his command, but that connection is one he can never seem to recapture in peacetime.

America, however, has always seemed able to charm England's people just as easily as he does his own. He had struck up an easy conversation at the bar with one of the locals whilst he was buying his and England's next drinks, and had subsequently been invited to join a game of darts that was apparently just about to start up.

He stops by their table for just long enough to drop off England's fifth pint before taking himself and his second glass of Coke away to take up the offer. He doesn't think to ask England along.

England goes back to the bar to buy himself a whiskey chaser.
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America proves just as skilled at darts as any other sport he tries his hand at, and England finds himself so distracted by watching him hit bullseye after bullseye that he doesn't think to check his caller ID before he answers his mobile.

"Where the hell are you?" greets him as he does.

England scowls. He can't very well cancel the call, that would be unconscionably rude no matter who the caller, but there is the small matter of: "I'm not talking to you."

"Bloody hell, grow the fuck up, England," Scotland growls. "I've already apologised, and, if you recall, it wasn't all my fault…" He sighs loudly. "Never mind, I'm not getting into this again. So, which pub are you in, then?"

If the sound of the rather spirited darts game in progress hadn't tipped Scotland off, England's sure that his slightly – only slightly – slurred speech might have done. "And have you and the frog inflict yourselves upon us? No, thank you."

"Us? Is Wales there with you? We couldn't find him anywhere, either."

"No, last I saw of him, he was going off to write some poetry. Or so he said; I wouldn't be surprised if he's just passed out in a ditch somewhere."

"So you're with America, then?" The irritation that was so plain in Scotland's voice evaporates completely. "Well, we don't want to disturb your date. We'll go and try to find Wales again, and leave you to it."

Scotland disconnects the call midway through England's assertion that it most certainly is not a date, because he, apparently, cares not one whit for the niceties of phone etiquette.

For a moment, England contemplates ringing his brother straight back in order to finish correcting him, but there seems little point. Since August, Scotland has been strangely preoccupied with England and America's relationship, such as it is. Despite knowing better than anyone just what is at stake, he seems determined to persuade England that he has got a choice.

Shit or get off the pot, as he had so eloquently put it on Boxing Day.

Shitting, to stretch the analogy, is out of the question, but the other? England's not sure he has the strength for that.
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England's sixth pint sits forgotten on the table for the time being, because America has stopped playing darts and has started playing pool with his newfound friends.

His jeans pull tight and snug across his arse every time he leans forward to take a shot, and England's mouth is dry, his fingers curled tight against his palms as he fights with the need to push America further across the pool table, and.. And…

He never feels like this around India anymore, or even Portugal. He is perfectly capable of spending time with them nowadays, and feeling nothing more than a dull ache of regret and longing. There's none of the urgency, the hot itch under his skin he can't hope to scratch.

But then he's had so much longer to grow used to it, to learn to suppress it, and maybe that's all he needs with America: time and distance. Sixty-odd years are little more than a blink of an eye in comparison, after all.

It's infuriating to concede that his brother's right, but England's going to have to find the strength to step back. To accept that spending time with America is more painful than pleasurable right now, and give himself the space he needs to let go of the futile hope he's allowed to flourish for far too long already.
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It occurs to England halfway through his seventh pint that America might take exception to England simply refusing to spend time with him outside work.

In recent years, it has become more common, if still not normal, for them to spend their free time together when they're in each other's countries outside the usual round of G-8, G-20 and World meetings. He probably owes America some sort of explanation before he cuts such visits off completely.

And there still remains the infinitesimal chance that America's feelings towards England mirror England's own towards him. The odds are ludicrously long, but, still, England really should let him know that he should move on, and probably with a great deal more subtlety than he had used when he'd told Portugal the same thing.

Unfortunately, he can't think of any way of doing either thing other than telling America the truth. A truth that only Scotland and Wales had hitherto been party to. It is, he fears, as subtle as he is capable of being at the moment.

He probably shouldn't have allowed himself to drink quite so much.
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America reappears at the table as England is polishing off his latest glass of whiskey.

"Your brother just called," he says. "He wants us to meet him back at the car. Oh, and, apparently, if you throw up in it, you can walk home."

"Like it would make any difference to that heap of junk," England says. Or tries to say; the words are there in his mind, his mouth opens and closes in the right way, but all that actually comes out is a meaningless jumble of unconnected syllables.

"Okay," America says slowly. "How much have you had to drink, Arthur?"

At last count, it was nine pints, five shots of whiskey, and if the strong taste of aniseed lingering at the back of his throat is anything to go by, at least one shot of sambuca, although he doesn't remember having bought any.

"Enough," he says, because it's easier than reeling off the list.

"Do you think you can make it to the car?" America's slightly concerned expression suggests that he very much doubts England's abilities to that end.

Which is absolutely absurd, because England has drunk far, far more on many occasions, and still managed to make it back home under his own steam. When he gets to his feet, however, the ground beneath him seems to drop away for a instant before surging back up again just as suddenly.

"Arthur?"

America's hand curls around England's wrist as though in an attempt to hold him steady, but England shakes it away. It's just like finding his balance onboard a ship, really; something which is second nature to England. He doesn't need a helping hand.

"Jus' need to find my sea legs," he tells America, and then sets about proving that by walking towards the front door of the pub.

He may well weave a little along the way there, but as he doesn't fall on his arse or spur America into making another grab for him, he considers it a complete victory.

"See, 'm fine," he tells America.

"The car's still quite a long way off," America points out, pissing liberally all over England's moment of triumph.

"'m fine," England insists. "Stop worryin'"
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England's certainty lasts for no more than quarter of a mile.

The ground is not only dipping up and down now, but rolling from side to side as if it's determined to trip England up, and it's taking almost all of his concentration to stay upright, never mind moving forward. America keeps making the situation worse by catching hold of England's elbow whenever he stumbles, because then all England can think of is how warm and strong his fingers are, and he completely forgets how to keep his balance or put one foot in front of the other.

England needs to tell him now, before he has chance to think better of it and he's full of Dutch courage. Maybe he'll back the fuck off, then.

"You asked earlier if I was jealous," he says, and the words are the clearest he's spoken for the last half-hour or so, even if they are said in a sudden rush.

"Yeah?" The lenses of America's glasses catch the moonlight as he tilts his head towards England, and the glare obscures his eyes.

"I suppose I am, a little." England's throat closes up, pulled tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. He swallows heavily to loosen it before continuing: "I can't shag anyone, you see. In the undergrowth or anywhere else. 'd lose my magic if I did. And the fae. So I never have. And I never will."

"Wow, it really sucks that you believe that, England," America says, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in either his tone or his expression that suggests that he feels anything about the revelation other than faint sympathy. Or perhaps, even worse, pity.

There seems little reason after that to bring up the second point England had thought might be needed. It's clearly not necessary, as it appears that England's 'getting off the pot' won't trouble America at all.
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Notes: This chapter is set the day after the events of An Unexpected Path (part 41 of the series).