Give me strength

It's exactly like all the other meetings.

Can you do anything but complain?

Jeez, I think the temperature in here just dropped a million degrees.

Yack yack England, just stop talking! It's boring. Not like you've got anything important to talk about!

I don't have to shut up, I don't have to do what you say! We went to war over it, remember?

It's a game, throw words, bat them back, try a curve ball, duck and let the insults hit the wall behind them. You don't get hit, you don't get hurt.

What are you, a million years old instead of a couple of thousand? So slow!

Nobody has to take you seriously- your empire fell apart remember? Couldn't even hold on to that!

It's not a revolution if you reinstated the monarchy after half a decade, idiot.

Cream tea doesn't make any sense! You don't put cream in and the stuff tastes awful anyway!

Arthur can't summon the energy to play anymore.

Someone notices his enduring silence. Whispers, the word spreads.
For a second, he half-expects someone to understand. Half-expects sympathy.
Renewed teasing, jokes, comments,
He's England.
Arthur.
This is the only way people know how to talk to him.
Not a kind word, that isn't laden with sarcasm or mirth, has reached his ears for hundreds of years.
Nobody else has realised this, naturally.
He's not in the habit of saying nice things, to be fair to them…
So it's not really that surprising.
Really, he's brought it upon himself.
Best line of defence is attack.

This thought doesn't make him feel any better.

It's one simple movement that pushes his chair back and him to his feet. Several equally simple moves that carry him to the door, away from confused calls that aren't at all concerned.

A painful move that makes his hand sting that slams the door behind him.

He doesn't bother to go further than round the corner. He slides down the wall and brings his knees up to his chest. It feels childish. Uncomforting. He relaxes the position, hands interlocking and falling into his lap as he sits up straight, eyes clear and dry.

Give me strength

He'll find it eventually. In his pride, in his stubbornness, in everything he's ever been. He'll get back up, walk back in, bite out an excuse and retaliate with fluidity.

He's done it a thousand times before.

"You okay?"

He doesn't respond. He's entirely convinced without even thinking that the voice is in his head, maybe a memory of one of his people that meant something to him in his past. Maybe Elizabeth, the first thing she'd said to him was that. In one of the times when England was at his best, she'd known he wasn't okay.

The idea that somebody has come all the way down the corridor to find him is laughable.

"Arthur?"

Someone tall drops down next to him, which is enough to provoke him into turning his eyes from the middle distance to meet bright blue eyes that stare back at him with a sort of confused inquisitiveness. After a few seconds, something inside him starts as he recognises worry in the mix of emotions too.

He still doesn't say anything.

An unfamiliar hand reaches out to gently touch his shoulder and the contact brings life back into him.

"What?"

The hand doesn't retract at the harsh tone, but it provokes a grin. "I was worried for a moment. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

England an island. For a very long time, the waters surrounding him had been his best and only defence. All anyone had to do was reach him, and he was lost.

"Hey, you know what they say. No man's an island, right? No need to close yourself up."

So someone had noticed. Someone had crossed the water that kept him away from the continent, kept Arthur from the other nations. In reality this someone had done it hundreds of years ago. 793.

He let out a sigh and the grin that was normally in the others tone faded, replaced with honest concern.

"Sorry? Norge always says that I-"

"Don't apologise. It's… probably what I needed to here."

A relieved smile. "Good. Defeats the point of coming out here if I upset you."

"Usually that's exactly why people follow me."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I've noticed."

Hurt flared up. "Why didn't you do anything?"

"Took me a while to notice they were succeeding. You put on a good mask, Arthur."

"Centuries of practise."

"Hah, well, you don't need it anymore."

"What?"

"People don't tend to act like bastards to people I'm friends with. I think the axe helps."

A faint smile. "I'd imagine so. Does that mean we're friends then? Our nations don't have much to do with each other."

"Not just nations though, are we? If you're thinking like that, no wonder you're crying in a corridor."

With complete shock, he realised the words were true and tears were speeding down his face and dripping onto his clothes. His enlightenment brought them falling faster. Hundreds of years of bottled up emotion were free.

After a moment's pause, hesitation, hands moved to his face and brushed the tears away with gentleness they didn't look capable of. The pair sat in silence on the floor, his shaky breathing the only sound.

"All the shit they were saying isn't true."

No man's an island.

"And I'm on your side, you know."

Give me strength

Here it was.

Arthur smiled.

"Thanks."