You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
The words steal around the shadows in his mind and chase each other about his moonlit bedroom. His mind is settled now, aided by the cool water poured down his throat on arrival at his house. Scotland and Wales have already stumbled into their old bedrooms in England's too-large house with surprising automation. It's something neither England nor the nameless (bedraggled) young man had the wherewithal to question or prevent so said young man only allows England to vomit compulsively into the toilet and then drags him into another bedroom (mercifully, it's England's). England reflects that the man managed reasonably well, given that he was far too young to have been at Westminster for long.
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
Ah, and his brother's words are back for another round of his brain. His throat feels scratchy and dry and throbs. There is day-old water at his bedside table. There's also probably a pack of paracetamol in that clutter, which he will need for tomorrow's headache. But England knows it's not really water or pain medicine that he wants.
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
The words have been playing around his mind for hours now, probably. He has lost count, staring mutely and peacefully at his white-washed ceiling, fingers interlaced neatly on his stomach. Drunk and tired as he is, these two sentences fight sleep impressively. These and a sepia image of a radiating smile and flick of dark, glossy hair. India.
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
But he knows the image is alone. It is surrounded by darker memories, memories he'd rather forget, memories of her glare, her hate, her anger. Memories that are the reason he and India no longer speak beyond the occasional greeting.
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
No, maybe he can't. But by God, does he want to. He is intoxicated by her, and has been for a long time. Scotland's words unearth a base need to prove his brother wrong. But it is something that Scotland's challenges have always evoked in England – and Wales, and North. England must temper this reaction with weary logic. India doesn't love him. Does she? Can she?
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
Oh, but I can, Scotland, is what he wants to say. And it is this arrogance, and his tiredness (and mostly the way his torso aches when the sound of India's laugh plays through his mind) that are the reasons for the weakening dam of logic finally bursting in his mind. And the flood is free.
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
I bloody well can. Just you wait. I'll speak to her. I'll court her. Apologise to her (beg, plead…)
You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't.
England makes a plan. He will seek her out after the next World Meeting. They will speak. It will work.
And it is with this thought, the first positive thought of the night, that England finally succumbs to the sweet bliss of sleep.