Chapter Text
“Oi, oi, wake up.”
Someones shaking him, heavy firm hands, which are still somehow familiar, even in his scrambled state. He opens an eye to see Wales, frowning.
“C’mon Lloegr, you know when I said to let the man in I’d hoped you’d put the groceries away too…”
England is in too much pain to respond beyond a grunt, leveraging all his energy to sitting up without letting it show on his face.
Its fucking pathetic, but it need to be done.
His brother sits back on his heels and tilts his head at him, mutters something to himself in Welsh again. But then he shakes his head and stands, and though England knows he probably deserves it, knows he should feel grateful that his brother feels able to speak Welsh around him again, and he knows he’s being ridiculous and pathetic and awful - there’s a small, stupid part of him kicking and screaming that he did understand, he did want to do it, he just couldn't-
England squashes it. Ruthlessly. Follows his brother through to the kitchen. Eats the rarebit Wales prepares (‘how is it?’, ‘it’s delicious, thankyou’) and hobbles back to the living room to sleep.
His brother frowns the whole time, and they barely say a word to each other.
After all, what is there to even say?
…a hand drifts above him. Below, his body tears between pastpresantfuture-
You don’t want to be that-
You never wanted to be that-
It reaches down, plucks, and pulls -
Arthur wakes, gasping. Sweating. He shivers and wipes his eyes, the salt stinging where its formed crusts, even when washed by fresh tears.
For a moment, he hates India. Hates him for saving the creature he is now rather than the child he was then.
But then it’s washed away by a fresh round of shivering and tears, as the image of his own hand reaching back invades his mind.
The next morning when Wales wakes him, England feels like a corpse.
“Up, up, come on England, it’s 10 past 10, there’s porridge.”
He doesn't have the brain power to tell him that it's pointless to make him go to the dining room when there’s snickers right here, so he allows himself to be tugged along and practically force fed (‘how is it?’ ‘Fine?’). But afterwards, rather than letting him shuffle off back to the sofa and just rot in his own juices, his brother takes him by the shoulders and steers him firmly outside, even giving him an extra little nudge to get him over the threshold and into the garden.
“It’s cold!” he finds himself complaining, turning to stare at his brother's laughing face, “and now my feet are wet!”
Wales just snorts at him. “Then you can go get yourself a jumper and shoes, cariad, while I sort out that bog-hole you insist on sleeping in. Get yourself some sun and some fresh air, it’ll do you good.”
England scowls, betrayed, at his brothers retreating back. He doesn’t want to be sleeping in a shit heep (even if it’s probably what he deserves), and he’s offended that his brother still thinks him so childish. Even that little habitual sarcastic nickname- cariad - heart- burns a little, even though he definitely deserves that-
(It’s just that Wales hasn’t meant it since they were very little, since well before the Normans, and even more after everything that happened after that.)
England banishes the thought and sits himself down on the deckchair- immediately regretting it as last night's accumulated rain immediately soaks through his joggers. It’s cold, and horrible, and he hates it.
He hears a bird call. Loud and warbling. After a moment, a robin flies down from one of the bushes and washes itself in the bird bath. He watches for a minute as its little body fluffs up and wiggles happily in the water a couple of times before jump-flying to the bird feeder for its morning meal (it’s running very low- when was the last time he filled it?) and flies off, the little flutter of wings seems to echo after it.
He doesn’t have the energy for much (even less if Wales kept insisting on making him go to the dinning room for meals, but he knew he should. It was the right thing to do. He was being pathetic .) but he feels he should spare a little energy for that.
After some time, Wales returns.
“Lloegr, are you going to stay here ‘till your bollocks drop off, or are you going to come inside and have some lunch?”
He stills his hands from where they’d been whizzing his phone around and around, and follows him back inside to the warmth and smell of-
“Rarebit? Again?”
“Well if you want something else England, you can fine well make it yourself,” Wales snaps, suddenly sharp, plonking another lovely cheesy plate of food down in front of him.
He slumps into his seat and rolls his eyes.
“I wasn’t complaining Wales, just pointing it out.” He takes his fork and stabs at it, steam rising.
“If you say so,” Wales huffs, sitting down with his own rarebit. After a moment, he seems to breathe, and his shoulders slump. “How is it?”
England takes a bite and suppresses the urge to wince at the heat. “Delicious as always, brother-dear,” it burns as he swallows. The pauses as the taste finally registers. “Hey, did you put more leak in it this time?”
“Yes I did,” Wales says, taking a bite- the disappointment on his face is obvious. “Is it noticeable?”
Jesus, if this is the thanks you get for being nice I’ll just keep my mouth shut - “It’s nice,” England replies anyway. He’s being fed at his brother's expense in his own house, he supposes he has to, no matter how annoyed he is. “Thankyou.”
Wales hmms noncommittally. For a while they just eat, the only sound being the soft chewing and occasional crunches as they eat- until a series of buzzes causes Wales to pick up his phone and frown- his eyes flick from the screen, to England, then back again.
“What is it?” He straightens up a little. “Wales, what’s wrong?”
There’s a momentary pause.
“Is your phone working?” Wales says.
England's blood freezes. “Yes.”
Wales eyebrows scrunch together. “Have you checked it?”
England glares, heart flip-flopping sickeningly in his chest. He feels his shoulders tense. “No. What's it to you?”
Wales blinks, head jolting back slightly. “It’s not what’s it to me, it’s people asking, brawd- people are worried.”
Are they? Flat disbelief courses through him. Wales is a gentle soul, much nicer ( weaker, a treacherous part of him whispers) than he himself is, and he tended to believe people at face value. Not when at war, thankfully, but during peacetime? England seemed to be the only one he could see through.
Is it entirely healthy to assume that others know what you yourself are thinking? I can understand how you’ve communicated things in the past- but like you said, things change over time, is it possible they may not realise that this is still a concern you have?
He shakes his head. That was an entirely different conversation- and he’d fucked that up too. He didn’t know why he was thinking of it now.
Wales frowns. “No, I think they mean it brawd- they’re worried. Japan, Portugal-” “I need to sort out some more important matters first,” England interrupts before his brother can encourage him to do something daft- like message them back. He’d been too long wallowing in his soreness and misfortune, the world didn’t stop turning just because a pandemic was on the loose. “Like the house, and the paperwork.” (and the birdbath, he doesn’t say). Suddenly, a thought hits. “Thank you, by the way, for cleaning the living room.”
Wales snorts, a small smile creeping across his face. “You’re welcome. I figured things had just gotten a bit out of hand. Where do we start?”
“Upstairs,” he says, immediately thinking of the stripped bed and the overflowing laundry basket.
It's a busy, terrible, wonderful idea. He starts by stripping the bed- not because he’d slept in the sheets but because he hadn’t- banishing the dust and changing them, achingly, for fresh ones. He chucks clothes into piles- dirty, fresh, worn once, and sweeps briefly around the shelves with a cloth. He drags the hoover out from the cupboard, panting, and hoovers- half the room.
He ignores his brother moving easily besides him-
“I’ll get that, later,” he interupts as Wales moves to take the clothing hamper from the bathroom. “Sheets first, I think.”
“If you say so…” his brother's voice floats past him as he hurries (hobbles) down the stairs to replace the feed in the bird feeder. That, he allows himself a smile at.
There, in the weak winter sun, exhaustion suddenly crushes him. Crushes into his bones. His knees go weak. He stumbles back inside and slumps at the kitchen table.
“Well, that's a good start I th- are you alright, boyo?”
A wave of curdling shame washes over him, prickling over his skin like thorns. He straightens up- tries to modify his face so his brother's pitying, seeking gaze goes unanswered.
“I’m fine, could do with a cup of tea though.” The words slip out reassuringly rote and comfortable.
“Sure, sure.” His brother's eyes lighten a little as he turns back to the kettle and fills it. For a little while there's only the growling hiss as it boils the water. It seems to take forever. As his brother pours, he feels his leg start to jitter. Throughout though, the exhaustion pushes down on him.
Embarrassing. He’s barely done anything.
His brother rattles the milk bottle after he’s done pouring.
“We need more of this, brawd,” he says, yelling over his shoulder.
“There’s a shop round the corner.” The thought of stepping outside the front door makes him feel sick.
Pathetic.
He almost doesn't hear his brother saying he’ll go out to get some. But between his haze he knows he must say something, because Wales simply nods, smiles and heads out.
The doors click echos through his head.
I’m sorry -
The words dry out and curdle at the back of his throat, and he chucks his mug into the sink- half full- and scrubs it fiercely for a second before jogging (stumbling) up the stairs and to the bathroom.
The clothes hamper, bulging and overflowing, stares at him.
He huffs and grabs it by the handles- strains to lift it. He won’t be defeated, and he half drags, half carries it to the top of the stairs. Putting it down for a moment, a sharp wave of exhaustion clouds his body. For a moment there's a sting of trepidation somewhere round his navel- the stairs are steep, built in the old style.
He does it anyway- he won’t be caught lollygagging (again).
He almost makes it.
The stairs are young, but already show signs of warping, one side slightly higher than the other, one wooden plank jutting out where the next slightly recedes. It’s not a big deal really, until it is.
Until his foot clumsily comes down not onto wood, but to air.
And he’s gone.