These Little Things will Define us

They're too old for this-or at least that's what everyone tells them. Scotland, though, can't see himself never not fighting England as he does. England's a prat, always has been (liar), so to show up past midnight on his doormat pounding on the door with a beefy fist while his other hand grips the glass neck of his bottle of Scotch seems right. When no one answers, Scotland growls and kicks the door causing it to rattle. Through his drunk haze, he wonders if the little prat isn't home tonight. Where would he be though? There's no meetings scheduled (he knows he refuses to take on his fair share of work, but that doesn't mean he doesn't pay attention!). A sneer pulling his lips roughly back he wonders if his wee brother isn't visiting France, Japan, or god-forbid America.

England doesn't know when to let something (someone) go, that little ass-hat can act the fool and hurt his brother however he likes and England, England never learns. He hasn't ever realized that the little colony he cared for doesn't care for him past manipulative purposes, hasn't figured out when it's high time to count your losses and leave; his brother's a bloody idiot ("Who's fault is that Scotland?" a voice discerningly like Ireland's hisses in his mind). Dropping his bottle, it cracks and spills what little Scotch is left into the mat as Scotland feels around-finding the key in a little niche just above the door.

Grumbling under his breath, the redheaded man sways as he opens the door with the key.

Entering the house, it's quiet except for the muffled tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the next room; looking around, Scotland feels irrationally upset to see his brother's presence no where in the hall. No keys in the little jar beside the door and no coat or umbrella lined up by the staircase, "Imma gonna teach 'im," he growls under his breath; feeling a sound trashing of his home will teach him to be home when he should be. Stumbling to the living room, he stops and stares. On the floor is his wee brother, a bottle of rum sloshed out on the carpet beside him.

Feeling both enraged and worried, Scotland makes his way across the room and picks his younger brother up by the front of his half-undone shirt. The blond's head lolls back and his mouth opens; filling the bigger man's nostrils with the sent of rum. Staring at the helpless brother in his hands, the redhead punches him in the jaw and drops him. England wakes up at that, his eyes still a bit hazed; tears gathered in the corner of each eye.

Rubbing at his smarting chin, the younger looks up at the shadowed figure and demands "Wha's tha' fo'?"

"Ya didn' answer the door," Scotland replies.

Blinking slowly, England grunts and makes to curl back up in his mess; however, the elder stops him. "Ya ain't fuckin' sleepin' there, ya lil' dullard."

England whines at the grip on his shoulder, but gets up without too much fuss and follows Scotland as his brother leads him out of the living room and up the stairs to the bathroom on the left. Closing the door, he begins to run the shower on hot and turning away strips his younger brother of his clothes and then his own. He's seen his brother naked enough times to not think much of it and England's too far gone in that drunken haze to feel any embarrassment at what is happening; all Scotland knows is he wants the stink of alcohol off his brother (and himself lest he contaminate him with the stench once more).

Stepping into the shower with his brother, he lets the water wash over them for a while-lets it sooth away any aches they may have. Once the water begins to edge on cool, he picks up the body scrubber England has and a bar of soap-successfully cleaning himself head to toe before he coaxes it into his absent-minded brother's grip.

"Clean up," he orders the blond. England does so without thought and when he's finished gives it back to Scotland who returns it to where he found it. Shutting off the water, Scotland wraps himself in a towel before doing the same for England. His brother doesn't react, not even when he makes a specific point of poking him between the ribs. Scotland hates this. Hates how every time he shows up drunk at England's home the younger seems even more intoxicated than him. He's beginning to wonder if his brother drinks even more than he does these days, he won't admit it, but it pains him. He doesn't like to think his brother's trying to block away the world and he especially doesn't like to think on why he might be doing so (it's because of him, him and everyone else who's every let England down).

Sighing, Scotland runs a hand through his wet ringlets before he shuffles them to England's room. As expected, he finds a set of pants and shirt that will fit him mixed in with England's clothes; shoving his younger brother's clothes into the blonds chest, the older grunts "Put those on." He can hear the rustling as England does so and the redhead head drops his towel to do the same. Once they are both dressed, he pulls them to England's bed where he tucks them in-England's hand hold his. Green eyes glow in the light of the electronic clock, so Scotland flicks his brother's nose. "Go ta sleep prat," he mutters. England's eyes close, but that doesn't mean the other will sleep (he can only hope at this point).

Exhaling, Scotland wonders if something couldn't be done to stop this cycle, stop the pain they cause each other...but, who would they be then? Not England ad Scotland anymore, that's who. It hadn't always been like this, he remembers; once, England tried to prove himself to him. What does he do now? He copies him, if he can't win Scotland's affections why bother? Take the easy way out, drink everything away (but you can't little brother, you were supposed to be better than the rest of us).

In rare occasion, he scoots close to his brother and presses a kiss to the shell of his ear. "Be better," he half pleads, half whispers. He just wants his brother to be better, wants him to be like he was-before. Before was gone and past, a hazy memory Scotland would be certain was a dream if it weren't the way his brothers mentioned it sometimes. They talked about it as if it was all they had ever wanted, a field, the sun and each other. Maybe that's all anyone ever wanted, a never-ending day of sun and green with the people who mattered most.

Finger curling just shy of harshly in the smaller man's hair, he knows it all is a silly, ridiculous dream. His brother won't get better, he won't get better nor will any of his other brothers; they will grow worse. That childhood day spent in field's tall, spring grass under a blue sky's sun is far gone and never will return. Eyes drifting close, Scotland briefly ponders the future to come; if the past is gone and can never be again, what will the future hold? If there is no love to find in it, why do they exist? Are they truly just the souls of their nations and people, adrift and limited in possibility or are they they're hope? Those idyllic days that are brimmed full with the future and all those possibilities? He doesn't...

(He dreams of whispering malachite against his legs, sweaty hands in his with a sun beaming down endless light).

England wakes up in his bed, an indent of a person long gone beside him. Rubbing his cheek in his pillow, he tells himself he expected as much.

A little exploration on Scotland, I suppose. Tell me what you think, thanks for reading guys and please review! :)