Chapter Text
There’s a memory, at the back of England's head, that isn’t meant to be there.
It’s fuzzy and strange, shuddering like a mirage, jarring in it’s displacement, like a page pasted in the wrong book, like a taken trinket that doesn’t quite match its neighbours-
It says. You didn’t enjoy being that way did you?
It says. Nobody deserves to be controlled by pain.
It says. Not anyone. Not even you.
It’s warm arms curled around him and the smell of spices and food and unearned safety tucked under a strong jaw-
And it’s a brown hand grabbing his as he immolates in a blaze of is-was-if-then-pastpresantfuture -pulling him out of the blaze alive and breathing and thinking in spite of everything-.
He owes his life to the man with the greatest right to take it. The vertigo makes him feel sick.
(The warmth inside him is stolen, a sham, a forgery. It still sunders him to the core.)
But England is a kleptomaniac. A habitual thief. So he keeps the memories. (He keeps them and he sneaks peeks at them when he’s on his own with a whiskey in hand, glances at them out the corner of his eye and lets them sunder him. Over and over and over and over-)
He keeps them.
(because people have called him many things- a monster, a tyrant, a demon, an angel, a feckless lying brat, the best ally they have, a traitor, a butcher, and Satan's handmaiden. A fool, a beast, an asset, an inspiration and a deep black psychopathic hole of a person, unable to be filled, unable to be satisfied, eternally empty psychopathic nothing-)
(And he can’t remember if anyone has ever laid their hand on his head and said. You were a child. Whatever happened afterwards, whatever you did, you were a child then, and you were hurt and you were scared and you should not have been.)
(I see you. I see you. I see you.)
England swallows, throat swollen almost shut. Fat, hot tears drip onto his hands.
See? This is why he touches this memory alone.
This time, he doesn’t grab the whiskey. Instead, he reaches out and closes his hand around his phone. Rings the number he half saved as a joke.
“Hello, you’ve got through to the Samaritans. I’m Jessica, what would you like to talk about?”
And Arthur just. Starts.
It’s the little things, England notices, that send him over the edge.
It’s been that way for as long as he can remember- since he was tiny and Scotland and Ireland used to call him a cry baby. And apparently it persisted, somehow, despite everything- no matter how tightly he controlled himself, pushed himself, held his muscles stiff until until they ached, until he didn’t flinch from pain nor droop from tiredness- until, on some level, he always thinks he’s forgotten how to cry. That this time-
Then.
Lost keys. A broken cup. Missed meetings.
He falls to bits. Rage, sadness, and the voiceless nameless feelings in between tear him to shreds. Like a beast in the night, they take him.
Like now. He’s sobbing so hard he’s shaking- throat constricted and burning, face wet and slimy and unable to stop but so lung-achingly breathless his vision’s winking in and out. Curled up like a beaten dog, he sees himself from outside- the way he does, sometimes, when his mind just gives up- hovering over his own hurting body as it fails him. Peripherally, he’s aware of his phone screen lighting up- but he’s unable to reach for it. He’s unable to even hear it over the sound of his own sobs.
It’s so fucking undignified. He hates it.
Eventually, the teeth of it subside- claws retracting and he slides back into the hollow of his body- hurting. God, I hurt so much- why did I let myself do that? Stupid, stupid- in this state, over a birthday party- fucking stupid, just stand on your own two feet you worthless, pathetic-
(He cannot stand at all just now- which is really half the problem - but it’s not an excuse, not an excuse at all-)
No. His nails bite into his palms, and he clenches his hands even harder. No. He tries to stuff it down- hold it in his chest, push it away- away and silent, until he can open his eyes, and see again.
The room is a fucking state.
He hasn’t even been able to drag himself upstairs for a month, so the living room is swamped in the detritus of survival, baskets of toiletries, stationary, and official documents vomiting themselves across the floor- spilling out from every half opened cupboard and underneath every side table. The telly drones on and on- Arthur doesn’t have the brain power to think where the remote has gone- newspapers tossed to the side because he can’t even think . The bright afternoon light only serves to glint off the dust motes in the air- and the bottles, cans, and snickers wrappers littering his table.
He grips onto the duvet, curling into it- ignoring the white shirt he’d thrown onto the neighbouring chair- pressing his face down until the soft, smelly fabric muffles the sound of the news and presses against his closed eyeballs-
Pathetic.
He yanks his head up, shaking it. Breathes ragged, deep and deliberately - grabbing his phone.
Ignores how it feels lead-heavy in his hand.
15.39.
He should get ready for the EU meeting- post EU meeting now, really.
Not that they need him there at all really. Not that he needs to watch them thinly veiled jabs, or ‘debrief’ with France and Germany where they just
look
at him with this tragic superiority as if he’s some frustrating but
stupid
toddler
He calls his boss instead.
“Hello, hello- yes, who is it?
Do you not even have my number stored in your contacts?
“England,” he says, hoping the pause sounds weighty and powerful, rather than like every word exhausts him. ‘You know, your country.’
(He should say, ‘one of your countries’. He should say ‘part of your country’. He’s trying to do better about that nowadays, biting his tongue and correcting himself, making space and cooperating. But- Scotland has Nicola, Wales has Mark Drakeford, and Boris might be thick as pig shit and half as useful even on a good day- but. He’s his. So. ‘Your country’.)
“Ah, Arthur old chap, absolutely splendiferous to hear from you! How are things going in your neck of the woods? I find-” Boris- and Johnson had asked him to call him that on the first day they met as Prime Minister and Country- whiffles on without giving him a chance to reply. The words wash over him, part update, part story, part aborted anecdote that England is too exhausted to sort through for anything useful. Eventually Boris must realise that he isn’t listening and he trails off, speil squelched out with an awkward cough. “And err, to what do I owe the pleasure, old chap? You’ve been, err, rather quiet…as of late.”
“The parties, Boris.” England tries to stifle an exhausted pant, only to trigger a brief, painful coughing fit. God-fucking-dammit. “I’m calling- about the parties.”
“Well I quite agree with you, my good man. I was flabbergasted, nay infuriated when that news made light of everyone’s suffering - horrifying, to think that my own ministers would go behind my back-”
“It was at your house,” England says, shifting his duvet, staring at the wall, ‘your new wife and child were at them. At one of them, you led a quiz.’
“Have you ever been betrayed, Arthur?”
There’s a moment of silence.
Arthur makes a small, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.
Boris continues. “Of course you have old chap, so think of it- all those times allies, fair weather friends, halcyon relatives let you down and gave up on you, went behind your back and took you for granted- imagine that and you will begin to understand the- the degree, the white hot intensity of the betrayal that I, a fragile short-lived mortal, would be feeling as I turn up to what I implicitly believe to be a business meeting only to watch with dawning horror- creeping dread even!- as the truth of my ministers betrayal became clear and the awful and disrespectfully frivolity of the event overtook me and I left!”
Arthur stares at the wall. He does not remember telling Boris anything about his old hurts with his family- he does not remember telling him anything personal at all. He does remember drinking with him though. Once.
“How long does it take you to realise a gathering with cheese and wine is a party?”
Deafening silence. Then, an awkward chuckle. “Really old chap, aren’t you taking this all a little too seriously?”
“I mean, really,” Boris says, “We’ve been working so very hard for you- and your brothers of course- down here in Downing Street throughout the whole of this ghastly pandemic, day in day out, you can hardly blame people for needing a rest. And doesn’t our record speak for itself? Brexit done (1), fastest economic recovery in Europe (2), and a spectacular vaccine rollout (3) if I do say so myself. Don’t let this dithering negative nancies distract you from the much bigger picture! Perhaps there were some ill-advised work gatherings- but I was hardly at most of them. I was in -----(4) for god's sake! Surely an adventuring man like you can understand that? Really, wouldn’t you say, under the circumstances, our behaviour has been exemplary.”
England blinks, “I stayed put.” Does the man even notice when he lies? He snorts from the irony. “I haven’t seen any of my family face to face for two years. And I stayed put.”
He doesn’t say- ‘A friend of mine died . A human. Frank, you don’t know him, he’s on old war buddy you know? The virus ripped through his care home like fire and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.’ He hunches up. Drawing his knees close to his chest and pulling the duvet tight around him. He’s beginning to realise, he never should have let his barriers down, he never should have forgotten what people, at their core, are like.
Idiot.
“Quite, quite, and nobody is questioning or- err- prevaricating- about the sacrifices you have made, the adjustments, especially as the nation yourself. You must be feeling this most keenly of all.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.” His mouth seems to move by itself. If he reaches for it- the deepest part of himself that is his people, that yawning hole of rage and grief and defiance- he could drown in it, it makes him numb.
But he isn’t really a person , now, is he?
“No no, that’s hardly true, you have made great sacrifices- but! But! Consider your alternatives- could you imagine Kier in my position? The man’s a lawyer for Christ sakes, can you imagine the dithering, and that’s to say nothing of that awful Corbin fellow- with that rot still hanging around in the Labour party-”
England phases out. Peripherally aware that the flesh sticks he calls arms are holding the phone, that on the other end of it is his Bosses voice rambling on and on about something he probably should be listening to but-
“-and, really, what sensible choices have you got, with all these loony leftists and woke mobs running around? They’d destroy everything you stand for! I mean really, who can take them seriously when they throw up this much of a fuss over some bloody parties for goodness sake. Over cake . Really Arthur doesn’t that just show the calibre of people that we’re dealing with here? We’re lifting COVID restrictions and all they can talk about is cake- ”
His eyes close. Darkness- unreal, pain free, safe darkness.
“-don’t you agree, England?”
Away from everything, untouchable.
“Arthur? Are you listening to me?”
Floating away.
“Please Arthur, you have to listen- don’t you agree?- you must understand- Arthur, Arthur- are you listening? As your boss I insist you listen to me- you must- I ORDER YOU TO LISTEN TO ME, ENGLAND!”
His eyes snap open, suddenly painfully, disconcertingly solid. Heart pounding against his ribs. The room sharply fills his vision again.
“I am listening, Big Dog,” he says, voice level, “that’s rather the fucking problem, innit?”
And hangs up.
For a good long while after he does, he just stares. At the wall- well, not at the wall; the TV and the ornaments and the empty space where his family photos would be are all in the way, and the space behind it leaves an imprint on his mind faint as a fingerprint in sand, but - the wall is there. He stares at the wall.
His body hurts- raising the phone makes his hands shake. He opens his contacts to the one labelled Boris Johnson.
Changes it, with a sneer, to Big Dog.
Then again, after a second, to Bad Dog.
Pathetic. His brain pipes up, that’s the best you can do? Bad Dog? Fucking idiot, no wonder you’re in this mess. No wonder no one respects you. Fucking pointless, useless waste of space, no wonder it’s so easy to lie-
He hurls his phone across the room- it smashes against the wall
“Fuck!” he yells. And immediately regrets yelling. He’d used up all his energy on one measly phone call when he had 20 other missed ones and 30 other texts. Useless. Stupid. Why did you ever believe him?
He’s too tired to laugh. He’s too tired to cry. He’s too tired to even crawl across the room and collect the broken pieces of the phone and put them back together the way he did the last time he really lost his fucking temper. He can’t even wipe the tears of his face as they drip, drip, drip against his hands.
It’s the little things , in the end, that always seem to get to him.
He slumps to the side, too tired to move the duvet so his feet aren't cold or even turn the TV off. He slumps to the side on the sofa he’s been sleeping on for three straight days now and just-
goes.
The next thing he’s aware of is banging at the door. He pushes himself upright- the sun is streaming through the windows, illuminating the mess around him with a hazy, pale light. He can’t remember sleeping. But he must have.
“Lloegr! England! Open up right now or I’ll- well I won’t kick the door in- I’m not Scotland- but I’ll give you a bloody stern talking to and make no mistake.”
More banging. Quietly, like gas slowly bubbling to the surface of a bog a thought bursts to the front of England's mind. That thought is: fuck .
“Oh for goodness sake let me in! I know where your spare key is boyo! Oh you moved it? Well you’re a creature of habit if ever I met one, so I’m just going to keep turning over pots until I find it-”
A shudder ripples along his body and he looks in panic at the room- at the everything wrong with it- take away containers, empty cans and whiskey bottles and his duvet and pillow, fuck! -
“Ah, there it is, the ugly lion's head pot. Right, I’ll remember that- now if I come in there and you’ve turned yourself into a flamingo again I reserve the right to- Jesus fuck Lloegr!”
England- and his brain must be running slow because he hasn’t even moved - looks up into his brother's face for the first time in two years. Processes the horrified look as he survives the trash heap, and short circuits.
“Morning Wales,” he says, barely managing to keep his voice together, “Lovely weather we’re having today, aren't we?”