"Yeah, well, at least I'm not always-"
Alone? Hardly. England is a nation that has always been mobile. Expanding and contracting- like a mother giving birth. Conquests- impregnating western culture into countless nooks and crannies of the globe. An odd mode of thought, but not entirely far fetched. England has been a parent. He has reared children before. He has been brother and patriarch to many.
Not necessarily without conflict.
His home is still damp. He is cold now, because it is coming to be that season. Despite the pleasantries of an afternoon's victuals- the luke warm tea in one hand, the half bitten scone in the other, his throat is still aching and in fact, now it is raw. It burns if anything that touches the tender flesh inside bears a temperature either hot or cold. It must simply be- warm.
Thoughtfully, he stirs his tea a little as he provokes his memories in the same way, and listens distantly, with faint annoyance twitching his brows when he hears he has guests. America chatters enthusiastically with France and the latter has the audacity to make an incredibly crude comment while trespassing into England's home.
Prudish?
They are in the dining hall now. England purses his lips. He arranges his plate just so.
"Hey, hey Eyebrows- What the hell is this? This is a rock isn't it? Why is it on the table?"
He has faced centuries. Bared his teeth and cracked his muskets over heathen skulls. He has had allies turn with fangs in their mouths, bite at the yielding flesh of his wrists.
"That is a scone, France. And please refrain from breathing in my house- You'll sully the place."
They had felt and tasted like bile in the throat- acids eroding him from the inside out, and it continues to the very day. He drinks his tea as an antidote to the pain that rises and lingers still.
Sometimes, he drinks France's wine instead. Not today. France speaks adamantly of the bottles being a mistake and America ignorantly seems to think that he would like to join England for a nightcap later on. Both of them appear to be deluded about the fact that they are wanted.
"No." He states clearly around his cup, and while they bicker before him, he wonders as he briefly touches his neck.
America says his name once.
When he glances up, somewhat sharply, seeing that the boy- no, no, the man, of course- has reverted back to arguing playfully with the French bother, he delicately places the teacup back on his saucer. The scone, after a bite, as well.
The scratching in his throat does not go away, but something, if only for a moment, has soothed it.