Valerija leaves me. The tiny house feels huge and empty without her voice to fill it up.

Days pass. Estonia and Lithuania stop visiting daily- now they call. They go back to their lives, back to things more important than me.

The serpent stirs in my mind. I call England, and we talk until the serpent is quiet again, about trivial things and things related to work. I feel better when we hang up.

A few days later, I find myself in the kitchen, staring at my drawer of knives. They've all been carefully washed, scrubbed free of any sign of blood. I think of the release of picking one up and digging the edge into my skin.

I close the drawer and collect my coat. It's evening and cool as I leave the house, tucking my hands into my pockets and walking down the street, stopping in front of a house. Mikelis's house. It looks warm and inviting, with children playing in the yard and light glowing in the windows.

One of the children leaves off her game and trots over, a sturdy child four or five years old at the oldest. "Hello." She says, very seriously, as though this is the most important thing in her little world. "You're Papa's friend. Right?"

"Yes." I tell her, nodding. "My name is Raivis. What's yours?"

"Monika." She says. "Come on- Papa's inside with Mama." She takes my hand and tugs me along like a little Queen of the World, marching past her siblings and up to the door, pushing it open. "Papa! Your friend is here!"

Mikelis comes down the steps, drying his hands on a cloth, and Ilona comes out of the kitchen with flour on her apron. I'm intruding. They're getting ready for supper, they don't want visitors, I should go-

Ilona's face breaks into a huge, welcoming smile, stilling my doubts with its brilliance. "Raivis!" She exclaims happily, hurrying over and hugging me. "Are you joining us for supper? I'll set an extra place. Here, here, off with your coat- Monika, let Raivis take his coat off."

Mikelis smiles as well, lifting Monika with one arm and kissing her forehead soundly. "Don't bother trying to argue." He advises me. "Once Ilona decides she's feeding you, you're being fed."

I smile back, hesitantly. It's a small smile, an uncertain one, but it's genuine. The serpent is silent as I slip off my coat and hang it by the door. It doesn't stir all through the meal, and I manage to share a conversation with one of the older children, who wants to work in the government when he grows up.

I help Ilona clean up after the meal, basking in the warmth of her delight and approval. As I prepare to leave, she presses a bag of pastries on me and insists I come back whenever I'm hungry.

I go home and wander through my house. After the noise of supper and the press of bodies, the rooms should seem echoingly empty, dark and dead. The serpent should remind me I'm an outsider, that I don't belong.

It remains silent.

I ready myself for bed and crawl under the covers, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before I realize why.

Even if the serpent did speak up, I wouldn't believe it. And we both know it.

More time passes, as time has a habit of doing. I go about my life, letting things move at their own pace. The time comes for another meeting.

Always before, I dreaded these times. The endless stretch of days without the knife, without daring to release. This time, as the date draws nearer, I find myself looking forward to it. I find I'm eager to go. To see England again.

All my years alone, all the years knowing England but never really speaking to him, make it odd that I would want so much to see him. That I would crave his company, call him without prompting, just to say hello. Odd that England would call me and ask if I might spare an extra day before the meeting just to visit. Odd that I accept without hesitating.

The meeting is in America this year, but I don't go straight there from Riga. I take a plane to Stockholm instead, then another from there to London, where England is waiting for me.

He smiles, and I smile. He holds out a hand, and I take it. He squeezes my fingers lightly, reassuringly, as we leave the airport.

For once, there is no pressure on us. We don't need to act professional. No one is watching over our shoulders, waiting for us to do something wrong. For all the people around us care, we're simply two young men of no importance, doing unimportant things.

England takes me to his flat. I change my clothing and leave my bag in his room, and he takes me down the street to a pub that's obviously a regular haunt of his.

We find a table in the corner and sit across from each other. He orders a beer and asks me what I want, giving me a skeptical look when I ask for the same.

"I lived with R-Russia." I remind him, smiling. "I can hold my alcohol."

He shrugs. "Well, you'll have the plane trip tomorrow to sleep off your hangover." He says, then smiles. "You're doing much better."

"Am I?" I ask. It's true I haven't bled myself in months now, but the urge is still there. The serpent is still inside me.

"You are." England insists. "Your colour's better, and you seem happier."

"Th-thank you." I say, flushing slightly with happiness. "England, can I ask you something?"

The waitress brings us our beers, and England picks his up, nodding. "Ask all you want."

"Why did you notice me?" I ask, sipping my own drink. "A-and why did you care?"

England goes still for a moment, then sighs, setting his beer down, and rolls up his sleeve.

The scars are old, faint, barely visible. They're a network of thin white lines across his arm, from a few centimeters above his wrist to where they disappear under his sleeve again.

"My brothers were hard on me." He says quietly. "I wasn't strong enough for it at times. At first it was just to feel I had some control over my own pain. Then it became habit. Then it became an addiction."

England did know. He faced the darkness and the serpent. But none of the scars were recent- he'd fought them off.

"Eventually, Wales caught on." England continued, rolling his sleeve back down. "Beat the daylights out of me for it, then helped me. He weened me off it, showed me how pointless it was. A bit before the wars, I broke the habit for good, and now here I am."

I stare at him, not sure what to say. There are no words- the memories and scars and pain can't be addressed directly. Not that way. I reached across the little table, laying my hand on his.

"Thank you."

I can feel the tears in my eyes. I don't want to cry here, in front of England and his friends. I want to be as strong as he is.

England turns his hand under mine, clasping it. "Thank you." He says. "For being strong enough to let me help."

I lean over the table, shaking, and sob. There's so much I want to say, so much I want to tell him, but I can't find the words.

I don't need to.

And that's what makes everything all right.

The alarm clock blared from the bedside table, a loud, steady succession of beeps, until a hand worked free of the duvet and slammed down on it. The beeping cut off abruptly, and one of the lumps on the bed moved.

"Time to get up." Raivis said, nudging the other lump with a yawn.

The other lump cursed inventively for a few minutes and refused to move.

"I warned you not to try and outdrink me." Raivis reminded him, climbing off the bed. "You'll miss your plane home."

"Then I'll bloody well stay here." Arthur grumbled, burrowing further under the covers. "So there."

Raivis smiled, yanking the duvet back, and kissed Arthur's temple. "Up." He said. "I'll go fix something for your head."

Arthur grumbled some more, pulling Raivis down and kissing him full on the mouth. "Do that."

Raivis smiled, standing again and hurrying to the kitchen. For Arthur's first Jāņi festival, it hadn't gone half bad, and Raivis had learned to expect Arthur's hangovers.

As he bustled about getting ready for the day, Raivis didn't spare a single thought to darkness, knives, or imaginary snakes in the back of his mind.