"There is no such thing as-"
Ghosts, unicorns, fey and hags. England has kelpie, pookah, he has everything. There is an abundance of spiritual energy and entities thriving in his home, lurking among his people. He is magic. He is the land of ghosts, the stories of ghosts and the ghosts of stories.
Phantasms of sensation. Specters of culture. Generations decimated and assimilated. During the latest hours, when midnight has bloomed, in his ears are plaintive whispers. The softest murmurs in an eternal nocturnal song that follows him, lulls him, to sleep.
Sing him songs of regret, aches, and desires.
He is good and righteous, but he is not so pure as that.
England has had many lovers. As he lies drifting and asleep, he recollects and re-collects. His hands have sampled virgin flesh, he has fucked it raw, fucked it gently. And he has been fucked. Shamefully, but more often than not, with dignity and mutual consent. No nation has a specified sexuality and though there may be preferences, borders may be penetrated or willingly given, altered in creative ways. Cultural quirks regularly pass among them with the sweet caresses of fingertips and lips. A relationship may form, it may crumble or it may simply exist. The unspoken, nameless thing of nights.
His is not alone, he is not lonely.
America, one level down, slumbers on his couch. Where he has lain for three days too long. Whatever business he had with Japan had apparently gone unfinished, become complicated. Or, had been complicated. For an unknown, indecipherable, and likely stupid reason. It was not something anyone would put past the fool to sour a meeting.
England's lips are chapped. Tongue flicks out, moistens, lingers. Runs over cracks which taste faintly of metal.
Japan…
Japan is a wistful memory. There is the tempestuous Ireland, with whom he has danced for centuries. He feels the implication of the past on his skin, where islands have given him the hottest, most delightful and fleeting of kisses and damned... damned if he doesn't recall that one time with-
He won't go there. England turns over in his bed, adjusts his gown and rakes his fingers through his matted hair.
Nails have scratched bloody rivulets into his back.
The pull of it feels real again…
He has felt filled. He has filled. He has plundered with tongue and teeth. Been bitten as much as he bites. It is not something he would admit, would ever allow any of the men and women he works with to discover- those who were not already aware.
He remembers everything. But whatever he has touched, he is bitter for whatever he has not.
Some of them know that too.
One of them knows it too well.