He knew. He knew that he wasn't coming back, and yet he still hopes.

Crimson blood gleams freshly against the pristine white of the table, his own, he thinks dimly. Even as another torrent of the aforementioned blood hacks its way up his throat and onto the table. He doesn't bother stopping it anymore, the table is ruined anyway. His insides feel like knives are continuously stabbing it, blending into an unrecognisable lump of flesh and blood, his throat burns with acid. So much pain, and for what? He still can't let go. Can't accept it.

Accept that he is gone. Such a simple fact. Gone, such a simple word. But it still hurts so much.

He knows that he won't ever come back to him, and yet he still waits.

Where did I go wrong? he wonders, Why did it turn out like this?

Every year, on this day, he sits and wonders over and over again.

Why?

His bottle of wine lies shattered on the floor, next to his equally shattered teacup which he had thrown in a fit of rage, the contents he had tried to drown himself in spilling over the floor, shards gleaming in the light.

He's still too sober, still able to think enough that the past torments him relentlessly.

Why, why, WHY?

He remembers that fated day like it was yesterday, can still feel the cold rain hitting his weary, hunched shoulders, soaking his already ruined battle uniform. Still feel the tears rolling down his face, the tears he tried to pretend was the rain. But it isn't raining now, and his cheeks are wet.

He could have shot, all he had to do was shoot. He had killed before, a press of a trigger, a slice of a sword and they were gone, fragile human life blinking out like the stars when morning arrives. He didn't have to kill, he could have shot to hinder, and maybe it would be different, he would have come back to him. But he didn't. Why didn't he shoot? Why couldn't he shoot?

Why?

He needs more, to be drunk out of his mind until he can't think, drown his thoughts and the pain along with it. But before he can, blood surges up his throat again, and he chokes. Flailing widely, he knocks something else of the table and it shatters.

He tastes the salty tang of his own blood and suddenly a hand hits hard against his back and the blood rushes out. He coughs, doubled over until the crimson stops flowing, all too aware of the presence behind him.

He doesn't have to turn around to know who it is. Only he would dare come on this day, the others are too scared, too wary, still trying to give him space even though it has been countless centuries since it happened.

"What do you want?" he asks, or tries to at least, internally cringing as his voice comes out hoarse with crying and screaming.

Scotland doesn't answer, opting to pull out a chair beside him and sits down, elbows resting on the table.

Ignoring Scotland, he reaches out to a bottle that isn't lying broken yet and drinks. He's chugging down the last drops when Scotland speaks.

"Hurts doesnae it." His tone is calm, without the edge of anger and fierce temper that usually accompanies it "Tae see him happy, movin' oan withit ye. Leavin' ye behin'." And like usual his words are blunt and to the point.

England drops the bottle he was holding, the empty glass on it's way to join it's fallen comrades, as the pain hits, sharp and raw, and crimson spills out.

His temper flares and turns to glare at the redhead "What do you want? Haven't you tormented me enough already? You don't know what it's like so bloody sod off!"

Scotland's bright, messy red hair hangs down, obscuring his eyes in a dark shade, his head resting against his hands, his tone still quiet and revealing nothing when he speaks "Ah dunnae hoo it feels? Dornt know hoo it feels when a brither ye raised wi' yer ain hands, fooght wars fur, risked yer life fur, turns against ye an' leaves ye lyin' oan th' ground in defeat? Ye taught me hoo it feels didne ye."

A pang of shame hits England when those words slaps him in the face, and he finally realises the all too familiar feeling in Scotland's words. Sorrow.

What right did he have to sit here and mope? All these years, his brothers, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, they had felt the same. Hadn't he done the same to them? They raised him, and in return he had turned against them, fought them and betrayed them. He had conquered Wales, slaughtered his people, spilled innocent blood. Fought against Scotland, tried to steal their throne.

Until they became The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And he had been proud of his victories too, didn't care about the lives he stole, families he shattered. Like his own.

It was in silence that Scotland stood and left. England tried to call out to him, to apologise. But what good were apologies? What was done, was done. Just like how America had left and would never come back. Like how he had completely and irreversibly shattered and ruined his own family.

That day in the field, he remembered when America had chosen him, left behind the wonderful food and joy that France had offered and chose him, the lonely failure. He had entrusted himself to England to be his big brother and take care of him and England had failed. And Canada too. The poor boy had done nothing but try and please him, had even stuck by his side against his brother and all he got in return was a horrible caretaker who couldn't even remember his name.

And all England could do is sit there, all alone surrounded by shattered empty bottles, and cry.

Really sorry. Meant to write some USUK fluff and some brotherly Scotland and this is the result. But I'm going to try and make this a bit more happy - the tag is hurt/comfort. And I'm not that mean (I am, look at my other fics) so hopefully poor iggy will cheer up or something.

I tried to do Scottish accent, sorry if it's really hard to read.