The shouting had become hoarse by the time Scotland punched England in the face. Why do we continue to do this every bloody year? England thought as he glared daggers at the red-haired Scotsman as he pulled at his hair. Since the deadly wars of the past had ceased to be in humans' memories, the brothers' human bosses had requested that they hold annual meetings, which actually meant "do not declare war on each other or spark an international incident with two or more parties involved."

Needless to say, England and his brothers were not happy. They had content with what they had been doing for years: beating the shit out of each other and moaning drunkenly about past grievances. The "meetings" that they had were held in Scotland's house. Scotland had smirked and proclaimed smugly that it was because he was the oldest and most organized of the four. England forced himself not to laugh out loud.

Our bosses probably thought it would be best to hold the meeting in Scotland's house because he's mostly drunk, anyway. Although Scotland's house appeared elegant and refined on the outside, England's eldest brother's house was covered with empty whiskey bottles and filled ashtrays with documents collected or not in various places in the house.

And people wonder why I'm the representative of the United Kingdom, England had thought many times while nursing a bloody nose or broken bone or two. In the present time, England glowered at the painted picture of one of the Scottish heroes of the past. Scotland remained patriotic as ever. Besides having pictures of the Scottish countryside and the depictions of controversial heroic battles, Scotland had various paintings of warriors and leaders throughout his history, including Robert the Bruce, one of the bloody Scottish kings. One time Scotland had broken England's arm because he overheard him calling him Robert the Brute. I still have a bloody scar where you stabbed me, you bastard! England thought as he growled at the sight of one of the thirteenth century defenders of Scotland.

"Well, you've got your bloody wish!" England spat. Sharp pain coursed through him as Scotland lifted his head toward his face. "You're independent now!" His anger increased when he saw Scotland's smirk. "You're free from me now, just like that fat bastard wanted!" He managed to break away from Scotland's grip, breathing hard. His emerald green eyes feverishly looked at the three pairs of eyes that were now staring at him coldly. England ignored the pain collecting in his throat as he spoke again. "Why the bloody hell do you have to rub in my bloody face?" His last sentence almost came out as a scream, echoing in the room as Scotland's self-satisfied grin echoed in his mind.

"I can't resist watching you squirm," Scotland stated with a dark gleam in his eye. "After all you did to me, and to my brothers, it feels nice…watching you suffer so."

"Your brothers?" England almost choked. His nails made indents into his palms, and his hands turned white. "They're my brothers too, you stupid skirt-wearing drunkard!"

"Some brother you were," Wales uttered with cold rage, "given of how you used me as your servant as soon as you gained power."

Scotland's eyes narrowed, and spittle started dripping from his mouth as he suddenly yelled and grabbed England's collar. "Don't you remember?" he hissed. England almost shuddered from the coldness in his voice. "Wales, our bloody brother, became your first colony. Our languages almost became forgotten by our people because of you!" His grip tightened, and England found himself drowning in his brother's rage-filled gaze. "And because of you, we were dragged into wars that we had no interest in! You almost killed Ireland, you stupid fucker!"

At the mention of their names, Wales and Ireland turned their cold and unforgiving eyes on their youngest brother. England was beginning to find it hard to breathe, with Scotland now holding his throat in his hands. "Your own brothers!" Scotland continued to scream. "The ones that used to carry you on our backs during our time before you fucked everything up!" England's eyes widened as he started to become light-headed. Scotland's face and his fiery hair started to fade in and out of focus. Suddenly, England collapsed on his knees and started to cough violently as his brother's hold on him ceased. He could feel the three pairs of eyes burning into his back, and his gasping face met theirs. Scotland wasted no time to crouch down next to him.

"I'm glad I'm free of you, you arrogant Englishman. You have no idea what it means to want to be free," he stated, laughing at the shock and then anger echoing across his brother's face. "Now I join Ireland in his independence, just like Wales fourteen glorious years ago." He smiled, the color draining from England's face. "Isn't that great, brother?" he said in mockery. England still didn't respond. "I still remember when I told France about my independence." Laughter echoed throughout the room, and in his glee Scotland didn't see England look up at the sound of France's name.

"It was so cold that night, but he seemed to be happy for me. "'I am happy you got yourself rid of that horrible Englishman,'" I remember his saying. We remained closer even after our alliance," Scotland whispered slyly even as his brother apparently was affected. For some reason his face became even more white. "Then he asked me to come over!" Scotland did not yet realize the stunned look on England's face, or of the lips starting to tremble. "How could I say no to a good fuck? I mean, he is very good in –" Suddenly Scotland found himself hard on the ground with a scrawny England on top of him, with a furious expression on his face.

"What the hell, England?" Scotland roared as England feverishly tried to injure his skin wherever he could reach. A faint purplish bruise started to darken on his face before Wales and Ireland could restrain the furious and struggling England. Scotland felt blood from a punch to his face drip onto his chin. Dark emerald green eyes met the almost identical ones with rage.

"I'm tired of this shit!" Scotland roared as England continued to struggle. "I'm tired of you getting pissed off when I mention the goddamn useless nation!" He inched closer to England's face. "And you know what? I don't understand why Mother sacrificed her life for you!" Scotland harshly held England's chin. "Why? For such a useless, deploring life?" Suddenly England stopped struggling as Scotland continued to yell. "You're exactly like Ancient Rome, building an empire only on death and blood!" he hissed. "Ancient Rome should have killed you!"

England's eyes widened impossibly wide as he became limp in his brothers' arms. His arms lay limp by his sides, and his entire body started to shake as his white face stared at the harsh face of Scotland. He tried to open his mouth but couldn't speak. Ancient Rome… His thoughts started to turn back to the ancient past, when he had been alone and afraid. Another memory, of angry tears and rage pulsing through his chest as blood leaked from the cuts on his hands.

"Stop it!" England stared dully at the youngest sibling before them. Northern Ireland, with her dark brown hair and dark blue eyes, looked nothing like her brothers. She had been born in the bloody aftermath of the Irish Independence. England had found her, a small thing with only a tuft of dark brown hair and the biggest dark blue eyes he had ever seen. She had been around the human age of two years old, and since that day more than one hundred years ago, she had grown up in England's house. She only met her brothers during their meetings, for despite being fourteen years old in human years, their bosses had stated that she shouldn't be unsupervised. Probably only there to see we can get along, England had thought with a slight chuckle when he had heard that shortly after the destruction of Scotland's house. Northern Ireland's dark blue eyes as she looked at the still form of her closest brother, and she was about to reach for him when Ireland barked, "Leave us alone, you stupid bastard child!" England didn't have to look to know that Northern Ireland had closed the door to the room behind her and started to sob. "No one wants you here either, England." England could only stare dully into Ireland's emotionless brown eyes. "Go to hell."

Shakily, England finally stood. No one moved to help him. Their hateful stares burned into his back, and he heard Northern Ireland's wails as he steadily walked along the hallways. This had been the worst fight that they had had. Not once had Scotland or any of his brothers had mentioned their mother even during the most violent times in their history. Until now. Now as he stood behind the doorway, he could hear the rain outside. It would pelt against his face, cold like the ice outside, but somehow England found himself not caring.

He stepped outside into the rain, not noting that Northern Ireland was beside him until her voice echoed into the sky.

"England, why are you crying?"

England didn't stare into the girl's dark blue eyes as his footsteps echoed in the snow.

"It's only the rain," he whispered.