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The air in England’s old, stuffy Victorian bathroom (at least, that’s what America thinks it is) is stifling, much too muggy for his liking. America drops his bomber jacket cold bathroom floor, all the while keeping a warm hand firm on England’s shoulder.
“Ah — Ame — America —“ England is retching again, spilling the contents of his stomach onto the cold ceramic of the toilet. England makes a keening sound, like he’s disgusted with himself — but America doesn’t even flinch.
Instead his palm brushes the long, scraggly hair over England’s forehead and pulls the strands back to keep them out of the way. There are tender fingers lightly massaging his scalp and from America's lips pleasant, calming noises spill forth. Gone is the England he’s pissed off with, the England who shoots down every one of his proposed policies in meetings, who manages to ridicule him in front of peers and diplomats that sometimes even America's most nonchalant laugh can’t cover his wounded pride.
Right now, there is no rivalry between them, not when England looks like he’s about to puke himself to death. The most America can do is try to pull him back out from the grave.
“Ssh, it’s alright, it’s okay. Stop talking, let it all out…"
“I don’t — need to be babied —“ England's protest is interrupted by another wave of nausea so intense he feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes, and quickly ducks once more as if pulled by an invisible force. America bites his lip, winces, unable to do anything but keep England’s hair out of his face.
It’s a cruel thought, but perhaps England deserves at least a little bit of suffering. This is not the first time that America has had to take an early leave from an official meeting after a frantic call from one of his nation friends, usually Francis or Kiku, and quickly travel to England’s home — for the sole purpose of carrying his drunken ass back.
“Why do you have to hold your meetings or discussions in bars, anyway?” America had raised his concern several times. “You’re always complaining about overdosing on alcohol, but you ain’t doing shit about it, are you?"
“It’s none of your business where I decide to hold my meetings for domestic affairs, thank you,” England had replied haughtily, obviously offended by the accusations. “Pubs at my place are in fact very civilised —"
“Bullshit,” whispered America under his breath.
“— and create the perfect atmosphere simply thrumming with adrenaline, inciting productive discussions and innovative ideas and —"
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just make sure you don’t beg for my help once you’re stuck in that self-imposed hell."
“I don’t always end up getting smashed! I go home sober 50% of the time.” At America’s eyebrow raise, England had stuttered, “Maybe… Maybe 40%… or 30%… Perhaps 25%? Either way, be reassured, you would not be my first choice on a list of hangover caretakers, anyway."
But of course, it’s as if the choice has been made for England, because each time America still finds himself here, in the exact same bathroom with the old but polished tiles, the gold-framed mirror and the toilet bowl that has seen far too much of England’s suffering.
One would think as a nation centuries old in age, England would learn his lesson by the second, third or fourth time his stomach disapproved of his nightly antics.
It’s almost as if England enjoys being in such pain.
*
“What are you doing here?”
“Look,” America rolls his eyes, padding slowly into the room. “You’re in no state to be declining help."
Morning light is streaming into England’s room and his face looks even paler than usual, marked by a gaunt and hollow quality that tempts America to shut the curtains closed. The glass of water he’d placed on the bedside table last night is now half empty, the bottle of aspirin loosely screwed back on.
“I never said I was declining help,” England shoots him a mean look. “I just don’t understand why it has to be you."
“If it wasn’t me, who else would it be?” America spits back, and immediately regrets it as England flinches at his words. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.
“Thanks for bringing up my apparent lack of companions.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but England’s tone is so pained America feels guilt gnawing at his insides.
“Look, I — I didn’t mean it that way—"
“I’m hungry,” he interrupts, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “Is there anything to eat?"
Glad for the change of topic, no matter how awkward the transition, America shrugs. “No idea, it’s your house. I was going to make breakfast anyway, so I’ll have a look in your fridge."
“Try not to devour everything in there, lad."
“Like I’d go anywhere near those weapons of mass destruction."
“Not funny,” but England is snorting, and America quickly hightails out of the room before a dopey grin finds its way to his face. If England laughs or shows any hints of amusement whenever they’re together, it usually means America is succeeding in being less of an asshole.
And America likes being less of an asshole. Only it's a little difficult knowing what is tantamount to ‘being less of an asshole’ in England’s eyes.
*
“Are you a masochist or something?” America inquires over his mug of coffee.
England throws him a poisonous look. “Are you attempting to coax blackmail material out of me while I’m suffering a practically lethal hangover?"
“Not really,” he replies, undeterred by England’s hyperbole. “I just thought it’s either that or really, really bad alcoholism. Like, the ones you see in movies where the sufferer ends up dying pretty soon."
“What? I have never heard of such a movie."
“I figured that with the frequency this whole arrangement,” America gestures between them, ignoring England’s movie comment, “you must really like being in pain because you set no limits to yourself on how much to consume, and end up having to throw up half of your organs back out. But you don’t seem to mind."
“Stop, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“I just… it’s dangerous. Please stop drinking so much."
England closes his eyes, whispers something faintly. “Some people can’t help it."
“That sounds like a pathetic excuse to me."
England’s eyes open, the brilliant green colour sharp and accusatory. “You think you know what it feels like having barely any control of your desires, America, because you’re stuck in a loop of self-deprecation?” His voice rises, and the fist clenched around the spoon starts to shake. "Of course you don’t, you’re always so bloody full of yourself, it would be preposterous to thinking you'd have no idea what it’s like!"
“And do you know what it feels like watching someone you care about in pain all the time?” America shouts back. "When they’re slowly killing themselves but they can’t die, so the suffering continues! God, sometimes I wish you’d just die, England.” America grinds out through gritted teeth. “At least then you wouldn’t be hurting anymore."
Stunned into silence, England can only watch as America grabs the bomber jacket from the back of the chair, nudges his glasses up his face and walks away from the kitchen, towards the front door.
“We need to talk about this soon. Properly. But I think we both need to breathe a little right now.” With that, he slams the door closed.
*
Two months later, England’s first drinking tax comes into effect.