Chapter Text
January, 2014; London, England
Every New Year's Day morning – or, more often than not, early afternoon – England's first act is to swallow two paracetamol, wash them down with at least a pint of chilled water, and then spend a moment or two regretting the previous night and rueing his poor life choices.
His second act is to take up the nearest piece of paper to hand and write a list of New Year's resolutions whilst that deep sense of shame still lingers.
The first is invariably: Drink less.
The second: Give up smoking. For good, this time.
The remainder of the list varies from year to year. 'Get more exercise' if he's feeling particularly slothful; 'Eat healthier food' if his stomach is churning or the extra pounds he habitually piles on over the festive period are more noticeable than usual.
Just as invariably, he will have broken each one before the month is out, and the shame returns, tinged now with failure and self-recrimination, persisting until the season turns and the brightening days of Spring inspire a corresponding brightening of his mood
This year, his first resolution was to be kinder to himself and set more reasonable goals that don't require him to turn his whole life upside down or attempt to change his essential nature. His newest list should be far easier to accomplish; each change is small but attainable, improving his life in increments rather than attempting to overhaul it completely.
Halfway through January, he'd already achieved two of his goals – 'cut down number of sugars in tea' and 'take stairs rather than lift at work' – and buoyed by these early victories, flushed with pleasure at his success, he felt confident enough to tackle one of the more taxing and time-consuming of his resolutions.
'Declutter the house'.
Whilst England would never want his home to be a sleek chrome and leather paean to modernity like France's apartment is – and cold, empty and soulless as a consequence, to England's mind – he does find himself envying how simple it must be to keep it clean and organised. England's entire house is a dust trap writ large, and he's forever losing things in it, not because he's especially careless or forgetful, but because he has so much stuff that anything set down for a moment or two is in danger of being absorbed into his centuries-worth of accreted possessions and thence disappearing beyond hope of easy recovery. He's misplaced countless important documents that way, along with near every pen he's ever owned.
Determined to be rigorous about the task, he'd hired a skip and vowed to throw out anything that isn't useful, or beautiful, or particularly meaningful to him.
Even so, he'd thought it best to ease himself into it by tackling one of his smallest rooms first: the box room which had once been Northern Ireland's, now designated an overflow storage space. Every item he picked up recalled a snatch of happy memory and seemed too important to toss away, though. A motheaten teddy bear that once belonged to Australia; a book that was a gift from Portugal; even his old fishing tackle (a hobby he recalled he'd once thoroughly enjoyed and newly intended to take up again): each one felt precious and each one joined his 'To Keep' pile.
By the end of a week, that pile was more of a tower, the skip was still empty, and England admitted he may need some help.
He probably should have selected that help a little more wisely.
Wales, at least, appears at his door at the appointed time equipped with a pair of marigolds, a stack of packing boxes, and a can-do attitude.
Scotland arrives an hour later with nothing more than a surly expression to his name, and immediately stomps into the kitchen to demand a cup of tea.
"You can make it yourself; Wales and I are far too busy," England calls back from the depths of the pantry where he has spent the past ten minutes energetically and aggressively pruning his stores of dried goods in atonement for wasting the previous fifty drinking tea and complaining to Wales about Scotland's dilatory habits and poor time-keeping skills. "You know where the kettle is."
Scotland's stomping and grumbling grow louder, culminating in him sticking his head around the pantry door. "You should make tea for your workers; it's just good manners. I bet you've never let a plumber or electrician go without, have you?"
"No," England has to admit, "but you haven't actually done any work yet, Scotland. And, besides, you're not working for me, you're helping. Not everything in this house is mine. You and Wales left half of your belongings here when you moved out, cluttering up my attic."
"And where would I put them, exactly? We're not all lucky enough to live in fucking mansions, England."
He sounds accusatory, as though this is some vast injustice England has perpetrated against him; as though he was slung out of the family home on his ear and didn't instead choose to move to his little terrace house on the outskirts of Edinburgh the instant the opportunity presented itself.
As such, it's tempting to respond, 'You can shove them up your arse, for all I care!', but England doesn't want to risk antagonising Scotland, at least not this early in the proceedings when he's liable to turn around and stomp straight back home again without doing his fair share of the hard graft first.
So, he swallows back his irritation, stretches his lips into something approximating a smile, and says, "You could always rent a storage unit. Or throw them away if you don't want them anymore, like I'm doing."
Before England has chance to protest, Scotland lunges forward and grabs the bin bag out of his hand. He rummages through the contents, and then triumphantly holds aloft a bottle.
"Aye, because it's such a great sacrifice and hardship to chuck out a bottle of vanilla extract that went off in" – he peers at the peeling label – "1998. Or" – he resumes his rummaging – "a tin of kidney beans from 2005. Jesus, England, you should have got rid of this shit years ago, anyway. It's a wonder you've never given yourself food poisoning.
"I noticed you haven't put anything else in your skip."
Of course he did. He no doubt couldn't resist the urge to have a good nosey at its contents – or lack thereof – so he could better judge England's efforts and find them wanting before he even stepped foot in the house.
"I just want to be careful about this," England says, manfully not rising to Scotland's obvious bait once more. "Thorough. There's no point rushing it and doing a half-arsed job, is there?"
Scotland answers with a wordless hum which sounds distinctly, irritatingly, sceptical. He throws the bin bag down at England's feet and retreats to the kitchen proper. The bubble and hiss of the kettle boiling follows shortly thereafter, then the muted clinking of teaspoon against crockery. When he reappears in the pantry, though, he's carrying just one mug.
England glares at it meaningfully; Scotland rolls his eyes. "You should have said if you wanted one," he says.
England would have thought it only polite to make tea for everyone present unless they specifically asked to forgo the pleasure, but then Scotland is an uncivilised lout who…
England takes a deep breath and uncurls his fingers from the instinctive clenched fists they have formed.
… Who didn't have to come here. He could have said 'no', after all. He must have, on some level – some deep, likely subconscious level – wanted to help, and England should be grateful for that. He is.
"It's all right," he says through gritted teeth. "I've not long had one."
"Well, the kettle's still hot, if you change your mind." Scotland takes a sip of his own tea with obvious, vicious enjoyment. "Shouldn't take long to boil again."
"Right," England says, and then he deliberately turns his back on Scotland, busying himself with reading the 'best before' dates on a pyramid of baked bean tins to drown out the urge to smash the ill-gotten mug into his brother's face.
For a moment, the silence is broken only by Scotland's pointed, clearly exaggerated slurping, and then he asks, "Where's Wales?"
And of course that would be his next question; the concern upmost in his thoughts. "In North's old bedroom," England says stiffly.
Scotland doesn't ask whether England needs any help in the pantry, or if there's anything else in particular he wants him to do. No, he swivels immediately on his heel and heads upstairs. Judging by the echoing thud of his heavy footfalls, the pained creak of the ageing floorboards overhead on the second-floor landing, he heads straight to the box room to join Wales.
Of course.
After finishing up in the pantry, and with no small amount of trepidation attendant, England also makes his way to the box room, in order to check on his brothers' progress there.
He expects them to have been shirking their duties – to have dawdled, procrastinated, sat around with their thumbs up their arses and got nothing done – but he is surprised, shocked, horrified to discover that his 'to keep' mountain has disappeared, replaced by a pile of bulging bin bags.
"What the fuck?" he says to Scotland. "Were you intending on just throwing everything away?"
Scotland glowers at him, unrepentant. "It's all crap. You can't possibly want to keep this shit, never mind need any of it."
"It is not crap," England insists. He opens the nearest bag to hand, digs down through the – admittedly, somewhat worthless – layers of old magazines and worn-out clothing until he finds his fishing tackle box, which he presents to Scotland as evidence. "This is a perfectly good kit."
"You haven't fished for sixty years," Scotland counters.
"I've been meaning to start again," England says.
"Aye, so you've been saying for the past fifty-nine years. Face facts, England, if you haven't done it by now, you're not going to. And if, by some, small miracle, you do get around to it, you won't be using that. It's practically an antique. I bet everything in it's either rusted together or rotted through by now."
Scotland might well be right; England hasn't yet opened the box to check whether any of the lures, hooks, or lines it contains are still useable. That is not the point, though, and he turns again to the bag in search of more proof to demonstrate it properly.
"Here." He plucks out Australia's old bear next. "You can't possibly think this is rubbish. Australia used to love this bear; he carried it everywhere and—"
"Aye, and he was rough on it, too. Look at the state of it!" Scotland says, scornful and dismissive, because he's a hard-hearted bastard whom England suspects doesn't possess an ounce of proper sentimentality in his over-sized body. "All the fur's worn away, half of its stuffing's gone, and it's growing fucking mould on its ears.
"You used to hate that thing! You bought him another one to replace it, remember, because you were convinced he'd catch the plague off it or something. And that one's still in the bloody museum you've turned the weans' old room in to."
Which is also technically correct, but England can't help but feel strangely fond of the filthy old thing now, faced with the prospect of losing it forever. He wraps his arms around it.
"Don't be stupid, England," Scotland says, his eyes narrowing. "It's disgusting."
"It's Australia's." England pulls the bear closer against his chest when Scotland attempts to take it off him. Scotland grabs hold of its legs and pulls right back. "He might want it back."
"I doubt it; Australia's a grown man," Scotland says. "And if he did suddenly decide he was in dire need of a teddy, he'd want the other one. The one that isn't rotting. But you wouldn't let him have that, would you? Not and break up your collection."
"I could fix it," England says, a little desperately.
"No, you couldn't," Scotland says. "It's beyond help at this point."
He suddenly yanks at the bear. England tightens his grip on it, and yanks just as hard in the opposite direction.
The bear tears in two, ripping clean along the fraying stitches around its midsection.
Although England would have liked to hold Scotland down and force-feed him every last one of the sad, remaining scraps of Australia's old bear, he allows Wales to persuade him to instead put some distance between the two of them until their tempers have cooled.
It's Wales' customary advice in situations such as this, and customarily, England would ignore it, but he gives in for once, and after a half-hour or so's distance from his brother - time he fills by ranting, raving, and kicking inanimate objects he wishes were Scotland's head - he does feel a little calmer, and can grudgingly admit what he'd known was true from the start: Scotland and Wales had done a good job.
He'd known that all of the things in the box room were junk – it's why they'd washed up there in the first place – he just hadn't been able to summon the determination and the impetus to make that last, very final step and dispose of them. Amazingly, it seems he was also right about Scotland's potential usefulness here, and it would still be counterproductive to risk chasing him away prematurely.
He doesn't admit as much to Wales, though, grudgingly or otherwise. What he says instead is: "He's a wanker. Doesn't care about anyone's feelings but his own."
Wales squeezes his shoulder in one of his, equally customary, lukewarm attempts at comfort. "Okay, I'll admit that he could have been a bit more diplomatic about it, but… He's right. If you're going to do this, you should do it properly. You're going to have to be ruthless.
"You'll feel better for it, believe me. I did the same thing at my house a few months ago, and I found it very cathartic. I don't lose my car keys half as often as I used to, either."
"You did?" England frowns, trying to remember if Wales' house had appeared any less crammed full of sentimental nonsense and useless knick-knacks than it had in the past on any of his more recent visits. He honestly cannot recall if it did. "I hadn't noticed."
"Yes, well…" Wales' mouth tightens, and his voice become a little stiff. "Maybe I wasn't quite as ruthless as I could have been, then. But you should be. I think it'll feel good to clear everything out. New year, new start, and all of that."
Which is exactly what England had been hoping to achieve with that particular resolution. He nods, freshly determined. "Come on, then. Why don't we go make a start on the attic and leave Scotland to deal with the rest of the bedrooms, seeing as though he seems to have that in hand already."
Everything runs far more smoothly after that. England finds it much easier to be as 'ruthless' as he needs to be in the attic, by and large because most of the items stored there were already ones that he'd previously deemed unworthy of taking up space in one of the proper rooms in the house, so they were one foot out of the door already, so to speak.
He has neither the time nor the inclination to embark on trawling through one hundred and twenty-seven years-worth of photographs today, so his personal collection remains untouched (and, besides, Northern Ireland has always enjoyed looking through them, so it's the one task England thinks him better equipped to assist with than either Scotland or Wales), but all the paintings he'd put aside with the vague idea of one day having their faded colours or cracked frames restored are consigned to the skip. Not a one of them had been fit to be hung up anyway, even when they had been in pristine condition. He can't think what possessed him to buy them in the first place, though it was most likely strong alcohol.
Gone too are the two broken chairs from a dining set he used in the 1950s – the rest long since disposed of – the offcuts of carpets he tore up decades ago, the old shabby curtains he'd once contemplated repurposing into cushion covers but since forgotten about, and boxes upon boxes full of instruction booklets for long-obsolete technological gadgets, most of which he can't even remember having owned now.
Wales surprises him by being just as ready to have his own possessions binned, including the chest full of old clothes he'd insisted on keeping in case they came back into fashion one day – 'What does it matter if they do?' he says now. 'I've never been fashionable, anyway.' – and even a collection of leather-bound books with crumbling, yellowed pages in which he'd written poetry not long after he first moved into England's house ('embarrassing juvenilia' he terms them, despite having been well into his second millennium when they were composed).
There aren't actually that many of Scotland's belongings to be found, it turns out; just a few scraps of old armour and a scattering of swords. They're so corroded after being left for more than a century in the cold, damp environs of the attic that it's a wonder that they hadn't disintegrated into dust long since. England dons a pair of gardening gloves and gingerly scoops them all up – he's fairly certain that he's immune to tetanus along with every other human disease, but one can never be too careful – and deposits them in the skip.
Two of the swords return around a quarter of an hour later, clutched in Scotland's hands when he bursts into the attic, red-faced and scowling, his eyes glittering with malevolent intent.
"You wee shite," he growls, brandishing both swords at England. "Why the fuck are you throwing my weapons out?"
"Because they're rusty." England smirks at his brother, and it's petty, more than likely beneath him, but he's never been able to resist the hot rush of gratification, of triumph, he feels whenever he's handed the opportunity to turn Scotland's own words against him. By now, it's practically a reflex action, and not one he's inclined to try to be the bigger man and repress when he's got a sharp piece of rusted metal pointed at the hollow of his throat. "Because they're almost rotted through. They're useless, Scotland."
"What gives you the right to…?" Scotland's jaw tightens, and he thrusts one of the swords into England's hand. "We'll fight for it. If I win, the swords stay up here; if you win, they stay in the skip. Okay?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Wales puts in from the side-lines. "You're being ridiculous."
Scotland pays him no heed and swings his sword. England raises his own to meet it.
The blades both shatter on impact.
Scotland stares down at the hilt still clutched in his hand and lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "Fuck this," he spits, hurling it down to the floor.
He storms back downstairs, and a moment later, the distant thud of the front door slamming shut drifts up from below. He's either gone for one of the habitual strops around the block he'd used to indulge in when they still lived together and he wasn't getting his own way, or else fucked off back home again. England doesn't much care which one it is: the box room's clear, the pantry's sorted, and they've pretty much finished in the attic. Presuming that Scotland was actually working his way through the rest of the bedrooms during his hours' long absence, they have very little left to do, anyway. They don't need him anymore.
"Right," he says, before Wales has chance to moan and lament about their behaviour, as his sad, disappointed expression suggests he is on the verge of doing. "Downstairs we go. You take the library; I'll do the cellar."
England is about halfway through sorting his huge stockpile of paint cans – the majority of which are dry, but don't match a single wall in the house, in any case – when he hears the cellar door open and then close again, the sound of a light tread on the stair.
He looks up, thinking it must be Wales, but instead sees Scotland. He scowls.
"There's nothing of yours down here," he says. "I don't need your help. Wales might, though. He's in the library, if you want to ask."
"I already did," Scotland says. "And he told me that you'd found a box of my old spellbooks down here you wanted me to go through."
"I never said anything of the sort. What the hell is he playing…?"
England trails off with the realisation that he knows exactly what Wales is playing at. He probably sent Scotland to him in the faint hope that all would be forgiven once they set eyes on one another again, and they'd fall into each other's arms full of tearful apologies or some such claptrap.
"Well, he lied," England says, because he has no intention of forgiving or apologising. Not unless Scotland does so first. "You can piss off now."
Whilst England is certain that nothing would give Scotland greater pleasure than to do so – except perhaps kicking England in the bollocks and then pissing off – he dithers at the bottom of the stairs, regardless, presumably torn between his desire to get away from England and join Wales, and his stubborn aversion towards obeying anything that has even the faintest whiff of a command about it coming from England.
His lips part on what England assumes will be an insult of some kind, but England has no wish to hear it. He marches past Scotland, up the stairs, and wrenches open the door, intending to leave himself if Scotland insists on hanging around like a bad smell.
Or, at least, he attempts to wrench the door open. It refuses to budge. Even after he's jiggled the door handle, yanked on it, and even given the bottom of the door a few good, hard kicks.
"What the hell?" he mutters to himself, before attempting a simple unlocking spell. It fizzles uselessly against the iron keyhole escutcheon.
He tries a more complex version of the same spell, and then, in frustration, hurls a small fireball at the door. That, too, disperses harmlessly into nothing more than a shower of sparks and a small cloud of sulphurous mist, leaving the wood unmarked.
He pauses, drawing deep on his own power and the power of his land pulsating beneath his feet, gathering his strength for another, more potent attack, but Scotland's heavy sigh distracts him, scattering his concentration before it can build.
"For fuck's sake; this is just sad. It's pretty bloody obvious what's going on." Without a breath of warning, he reaches over England's shoulder and slams one of his huge, ham-like hands against the door, palm flat. Light flares beneath it, racing across the wood and coalescing into brighter spots at each of the cardinal points. As the light fades, they reveal themselves to be runes. "Et voilà."
England blinks at the runes, still perplexed. "What on earth…?"
"You can be so dense sometimes, Runt." Scotland sighs again, in a theatrical, put-upon fashion. "That's Wales' personal rune." He points to the swirling lines at the North point, which – when England squints and cranes his neck towards them – do seem vaguely familiar. "And this is clearly his spellwork.
"He's deliberately locked us in."