Prompt: Clubs

Characters: FACE, England-centric

Notes: takes place during 1910s-c.1931.

The moment between England and Canada in the middle represents the signing of the Statute of Westminster, which gave Canada legal independence from the United Kingdom.

Solitaire, America called it. Here, it was patience—a heartbreaking game, each card pockmarked by the pain of chance and the hazard of luck. England played it all the time. Couldn't stop playing it sometimes. It helped him sleep these days, the mechanical motions of picking up and replacing, trying to find matches, make sense of everything.

One evening, Canada, France, and America were lingering by the fireplace in England's living room and sharing a now-empty bottle of earthy whiskey as he played his game. He spread his cards out on the table, careful not to let them all slide across the slick varnished surface. Then he counted each one, organizing them by suit—hearts, diamonds, spades, clubs…

"What happened to that one?"

England jumped, his whole body feeling as though something had shot through him. He hadn't heard the chatter fizzling out across the room as the others had come to interlope on his game. Now he could smell the whiskey on America's breath as he leaned over his chair and tried to take the three of clubs from his hand.

"Don't touch that." England snatched the card away and tucked it in his pocket. He tried to think of a way to distract America so he wouldn't press further. "You shouldn't drink so much."

"Aww, but it's illegal back at my place, you know. Besides, 'm not even that drunk. Matthew's worse than I am."

England sighed. That was good. Canada would have been the most likely to notice how quickly he'd hidden the card.

Still, after taking responsibility for putting the young man to bed and checking twice to make sure all the lights in the house were out, England could have sworn he heard Canada roll over and murmur, "You play that game so much, you know… wanted to spend time with you."

Others had told him this before. One was a man in a trench with him during the war. Another was a group of men in a club on St. Johns street in London. They'd come over to his table, where he'd been sitting with a half-empty pint and his pack of cards at his elbow.

"You know that this can be a game for two," one of them had said.

"I'm sorry, what?" England replied. For someone who enjoyed drinking, he was awkward around other drunks.

"He means to say you're the only man here by himself," another said. "It does no good to come to a social club only to sit alone. It isn't right. Let's go for some more drinks—yours is running low already, look."

England couldn't argue with that. Even then, though, he'd preferred to get himself lost in a game of patience than to spend time with lots of people.

This had not changed nearly ten years later. His cards were keeping him company that morning as he waited for the others, mainly Canada, to arrive. The vicissitudes of the game, the normal grooves they wore in him, made the time pass, but not so quickly that he didn't notice Canada coming into the room. He heard everything now.

"Sorry I'm late," Canada said. "You've probably been waiting for a long time now."

England shook his head. "No, it's been fine. It's been fine, really."

He thought it best to change the subject as he swiped up his cards.

"Are you ready? Sure you wouldn't like to keep to the status quo a little longer?"

Though England had pulled out a chair for Canada, the younger nation remained standing, his expression light but his body tall and strong.

"I've made my choice. We both know this is the right thing."

England didn't like how he had to look up to see Canada's face.

"Right. No regrets on either side."

"Yes." Canada paused. "But there is something. One thing."

"Then let's discuss it." England pulled the chair out further, though the legs strained against the thick rug underneath them. Canada remained standing. This was rare. England smiled, whether to put himself or Canada at ease, he wasn't sure. He'd grown used to the young man's hesitation and shyness. But Canada was taking a big step with this law, and he would have to learn to speak on his own. The longer the silence and Canada's shuffling continued, the more irritated England became.

"If you have something to say, say it."

"I know. It's just—it's about the war. If that were to happen again—"

"It won't happen again."

"Yes, I know we don't want another war, but—"

"I said it won't happen again."

"I can't guarantee I'll go straight into war with you like last time."

"Fine." England shoved the chair back into place. "Because it won't happen again. It's over now."

Canada frowned. "What is?"

"That is."

As a matter of fact, to this day England remembers little of the signing of the Statute of Westminster. He only recalls fragments of that talk with Canada and playing patience while the others were eating lunch.

"Are you playing that game again?"

England placed the two of hearts on the three of clubs.

"Yes. I enjoy it. And it passes the time in this hellhole."

He thought of that exchange with increasing frequency now. It reached the point of echoing in his ears late at night soon enough. Sometimes he muttered it aloud to himself over and over, trying to heal the throbbing wound in his mind.

It was America who discovered this on one of the fireside whiskey-and-chat nights. France was the one who had to be put to bed that time. Canada had seen to the task of wrestling the half-nude man up the stairs, and England thought America had followed for the laughs. He sat at his living room table by the fire, a cup of chamomile tea at his elbow, and set aside his stack of papers for the moment (he'd done all the time-sensitive work long ago). Removing his cards from his pocket, he painstakingly set them in order, taking all the time necessary for his ritual.

"Yes," he murmured. "I enjoy it. And it passes the time…"

At the sound of footsteps, he flipped the cards over and tried to place them beneath his papers, but he wasn't faster than America (as usual).

"I came to tell you to come see France because he's such a funny drunk, but then I heard you talking to yourself or something," he said as he added little more whiskey to his glass. "You doin' another of your magic spells or something? Sometimes I want to do those to make the paperwork go away, too."

"Yes. Yes. Quite right. That's all it was, America." England reached for the tumbler, hoping his hand tremors weren't visible.

America, damn him, did not notice his hands, but had managed to catch something else.

"You said that a bunch of times for someone trying to cast a spell."

"Well, that's because the magic wasn't working."

"Geez, no need to snap at me. Maybe you just need the cards in another formation."

"No." England took a longer drink than he perhaps should have. "They're fine."

They spent the rest of the night getting drunk together, though England's mind was more on another young man, a cold trench, and the three of clubs split down the middle. In snatches, in his dreams, it was all just as clear as that moment. Other things were fuzzy, but not the catalogue of images, phrases, senses he ruminated over: the card in his hand, the instructions he had been giving the soldier on how to play patience, the smell of the half-ash cigarette the young man put between his blue-tinted lips for exactly three seconds (exhaling the same; it had been in his mouth when it happened), the cold mud clinging to their rough threadbare blankets, and the sound of the bullet that had ripped through the three of clubs and the young man.

Before and after were hazy, even in this dream.

France, looking immaculate, was on the couch next to him when he awoke.

"God damn you for being sober."

The older nation laughed. "I know better than to fall asleep drunk, even when someone puts me to bed."

"Stop talking. Turn out that damn light," England said, gesturing to the lamp, "or you're going to get killed."

His mouth was dry, his head full of a haze that prevented him from thinking clearly enough to counter France's banter, his heart beating loudly, erratically, the way his hands were shaking.

"Piss off," was all he could manage in response to the other nation's laughter.

"Oh, no, I'm not finished with you yet. America said you were casting suspicious spells last night."

"He was drunk."

"Not when you were doing magic—which, might I add, is suspicious because that's clearly not what you were doing. Even America could tell."

France began picking up and arranging England's cards. His hand hovered over the three of clubs.

"You can tell me. If something happened. If you want to."

England looked up from the pillow he had buried his face into.

"Leave me alone. Tosser."

France looked down at the game of patience he'd set up.

"No. Besides, you see, it can be a game for two."