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8th July, 2009; London, England
The cool night air is a relief to England's overheated skin as she squeezes past the patrons of the bar. She takes a large inhalation watching her breath appear before her. The alcohol and her own resilience protecting her from the cold night air.
She sits on the pavement setting down the plastic cup gently beside rubbing her thighs to spark some warmth, trying to be inconspicuous amongst the other party goers.
"On your own, love?"
England looks up, as a young woman sits beside her, setting her own cup next to England's.
England waves vaguely at the throng of people hovering in front of the club. "I'm with my brother, he just broke up with his boyfriend. Sort of boyfriend"
"Aww that's nice." The girl flips her impossibly blonde hair over her shoulder. "You must be close."
England shrugs, "I s'pose everyone else was busy," she doesn't mean for it to come out bitterly but it does.
"I'm Hannah," the girl says, taking a liberal swig of her drink.
"Alice," centuries of practice has enabled England to remember her human name even when drunk. She leans over and shakes Hannah's hand.
"You've not got a fella?" Hannah continues after a few moments of comfortable silence broken by the sound of the bass line.
The alcohol burns at the back of England's throat at the question, the stock answer she keeps for situations such as these desert her, the alcohol and the almost bonding with her brother lowers her defences, Scotland's plight with France brings her own situation into glaring technicolour and the desire to bury her feelings beneath a combination of alcohol and denial increases tenfold.
"No, no fella," England says at last.
"Oh. A Lass then?"
England shakes her head, "no nothing like that. It's just..." She trails off, taking a fortifying drink she settles for the easiest answer, "no fella."
Hannah squints. "Pretty lass like you without a beau?"
England focuses on the little bow on her shoe, staring at the little velvet adornment as if it could answer all her questions, or at least to stop her thinking too hard and tying herself into knots.
"Don't underestimate a good personality, I am sadly lacking" England said, the bitterness rising inside her, she's kept all of this locked inside of her for so long for fear of censure and the sad reality is who could she tell? Who cared?There was no one she could talk to. Scotland had Wales to talk to and Jersey.
England is stuck talking herself in the dead of the night.
She forces her mind back to the present, the alcohol helps, dulling her senses enough so that her feelings are simply a hum at the back of her mind. The power of her loneliness sometimes had the power to crush her, a physical weight sitting upon her chest.
England can feel Hannah staring at her, and she fidgeted under the human's gaze.
"What about you? Any fella on the horizon?"
Hannah shrugs, reddens. "There's always a fella" she concedes.
England looks up, meeting Hannah's eyes and they share a moment of bittersweet communion.
"That twisty feelin your gut" Hannah says and England nods, yes, she understands that feeling the knotted sensation that feels as if her heart is constricting as well as her stomach that always seems to appear when she's with Alfred, the worst of it is she can't tell when it will happen, sometimes she is fine in Alfred's presence, content and other times she feels like she is standing on the deck of one of her ships at sea.
"Alfred is--" England struggles to come up with a suitable description, much of America's charm is in his sheer presence. It's difficult to put it into words, some things just have to be experienced.
"It's complicated," England says at last when words fail her.
"Bet he doesn't have a girlfriend," Hannah says bitterly into her drink.
England winces, "ouch,"
Hannah shrugs, "she's a bitch an' all."
The lives of humans are endlessly interesting to England, Hannah's plight is nothing new, England has lived with this feeling long before Hannah was born, hell probably before Hannah's parents were born. Decades of unrequited love with no end in sight.
"Oi!"
England catches sight of Scotland, standing on the edge of the pavement, phone in hand. England scrambles to her feet.
"That your brother?" Hannah asks, and England hears the interest in her voice. Despite his desire to live in his uniform of jeans and t shirts until they die and his hairs determination to be independent from his scalp Scotland is still ruggedly handsome, tall and broad.
"He's on the rebound," England reminds her and Hannah makes a face.
"Shame," Hannah says and there is disappointment in her voice and England tries not to shudder.
England moves to intercept Scotland but Hannah grabs her arm Pitching her voice low.
"Have you told that bloke--Alfred was it? How you feel I mean if there's not another girl--"
"I said it's complicated-"
How can she explain her relationship with America? It's all so tangled--impossibly so and England can't see a way out. There is only one thing she does know for certain, that America can never love her.
"Don't know if you don't try," Hannah says.
Hannah is lost in the crowd and England forces her attention back to her brother before he can do so something irrevocable and embarrassing.
She snatches the phone out of her brothers hand, switching it off before he can drunk dial France.
Scotland scowls but England ignores the look. If Scotland wants to dig his own grave then that's fine but she'll make sure he's stone cold sober when he does so. It's the least she can do.
"Ready to head home?" Scotland asks and England nods, she looks for Hannah but she's gone. Something like disappointment thuds in England's chest although it doesn't cross her mind to take Hannah up on her advice to talk to Alfred--she just--can't.
It doesn't matter anyway, she's been fine on her own so far, she doesn't need anyone- not really it would just be nice--she cuts herself off, looking at Scotland's haunted features, no, alone is really much better.