When England awakens, it is to the sound of sobbing. He places the noise several feet to his left. A man, young and in pain. He listens to the cadence of hitching breath and soft wails until the tendrils of sleep crawl back behind his eyes and pull him from the barely lit room.

The second time he wakes, a harsh chemical odor razes his senses and triggers a coughing fit that sounds too wet for his liking. Tears spring to his eyes, and his lungs and throat burn. In less than a second someone is at his side and laying a cool rag over his nose and mouth. He tries to search out a face, but the darkness of the room is a shroud, a blindfold. He guesses that it is a woman from the slender, soft fingers that tenderly brush his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. The hands are not soldier's hands, at least, and to England this feels alien. Sleep again takes him to the sound of gentle shushing.

The third time England opens his eyes, it is light. For a moment he simply stares at the canvas ceiling, which slopes down both ways from the center. He's in a tent, then. There is a pillow beneath his head, and he is covered with a thin blanket which hangs over the sides of his cot. His head throbs, his mouth is dry, and he feels at once frozen and on fire. Around him are similar cots, similar men coughing weakly and groaning.

Why is he here? He remembers the smell of dirt, dank and musty. A rainstorm. Mud and rats and artillery. An encroaching yellow cloud and barely getting his gas mask on in time. At that memory, his head begins throbbing, and he lifts a hand to lay over his eyes. But instead he hisses as pain erupts in the skin on his arm. It is dotted with blisters and scabs. He lets the arm fall back to his side.

"Mustard gas," says a voice to his right. England gingerly turns his head to look at the man who said it, but he doesn't really have to. He recognizes his brother's voice even after three months apart.

Scotland sits on a crate beside England's cot. He has a length of rope in his hands, which he ties and unties into different knots. His eyes– the same spring-grass-green as England's own– are fixed on England's face.

"It mostly got your arms and legs," Scotland continues. "You breathed a bit in. Blistered your throat. Maybe your lungs, too."

England has to work up some spit in his mouth before he can answer, and when he speaks it comes out hoarse. "You're supposed to be stationed in Loos."

"I was."

"You deserted?"

"I got clearance to leave."

"Why?"

Scotland looks down at his rope. "Nine days ago I got a letter telling me about your condition." He meets England's eyes again and lowers his voice. "You know, if you were a human, you'd be dead."

"Dead," England mimics flatly.

"Yeah." Scotland flashes a crooked grin. "You should have seen the nurses. They were beside themselves, wondering how Private Arthur Kirkland managed to get off with such tiny blisters when all the others..." And then the grin is gone.

This time, the pain in his arms does not stop England from pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids. The throbbing in his head intensifies. "The others?" he finally asks. "My platoon? Are they...?"

Centuries of relaying bad news to each other have rendered words unnecessary. Scotland's silence is answer enough.

England wonders if it would be bad form to demand some morphine.

"Maybe it's for the best," Scotland says. "Even when you live through the gas, it's not... pretty. If you've seen–"

"Of course I've seen. I've been in the trenches for–"

"I know."

"You never answered my question," England says. "Why did you come here?"

Scotland shrugs. "To see how you're doing."

"To bother me, you mean."

Scotland heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I thought I'd give you some company while you're recoveri–"

"I'd rather be alone right now, thanks."

If this irritates Scotland, he doesn't show it. A single beat of silence passes, and then he rises wordlessly from his crate and leaves the tent.

England had requested solitude, but even with his brother gone he is surrounded by burned men, moaning on their cots, and tittering nurses who always seen to pass over England as they scurry between patients. Maybe they're put off by the scowl he aims at the ceiling.

Bull-headedness is the British way, however, and six hours later Scotland trudges back into the medical tent. England feels a little more agreeable with the morphine in his veins, so he doesn't protest when Scotland seats himself at the foot of England's cot.

He's still playing with that rope. For a few seconds they don't speak. They both watch Scotland's thick-knuckled but somehow graceful fingers twisting and untwisting, tying and untying; now into a butterfly knot, now a square.

Without looking up, Scotland says, "You quit answering my letters after a month. Wales', too."

England lets his head fall back against his pillow. "I had nothing to write about."

Scotland snorts. "Do you realize I had no idea where you even were until I got the letter saying you were in the hospital?"

"Do you realize it's not your job to keep track of where I am?" England snaps.

"So I'm not allowed to worry about you?"

They glare at each other. A nurse is staring at them in alarm, so England lowers his voice to a stage whisper. "You never bothered before. Why the concern all of a sudden?"

"You said it yourself," Scotland whispers back. "You've been in the trenches."

Which doesn't make any sense. England had fought in wars before. He had been at war with Scotland, and then there had definitely been no letters or hospital visits.

But then he remembers giant rats gnawing on his boots. The smell of smoke and earth and blood. The boom of cannon fire and the shriek of artillery as it flew through the darkened sky. He feels the chemical burn of deadly gas beneath his skin.

"England?" Scotland asks. England realizes he's been staring into space.

"If you can deal with it, then so can I," England says slowly. "You've been down there, too, so if you don't need anyone fussing over you, then neither do I."

"I didn't come here to fuss over you."

"So why are you here?"

Scotland turns back to his knots. "Just thought you could use the company."

England doesn't know how to answer that, so instead he opts to go back to sleep.

That night, when England jerks from a nightmare in a cold sweat, the fingers that push the hair from his forehead are broad and calloused.

Scotland is nothing if not an honest man. For the four days that England doesn't feel like leaving his sickbed, his brother doesn't dote on him once. The most he does is fetch England a cup of water when he is croaked at to do so.

England grows to appreciate his presence. The inane conversations that Scotland likes to initiate save England from his own thoughts. They also save him from having to talk to the nurses, who pat his cheeks and call him "honey".

He won't talk with the other patients.

It is on the day of his discharge from medical care that England learns from a doctor that he is to be sent back home.

He wants to question this, to bark that he is still fit for duty and obligated to get back to the field, but then snippets of memory flash across his eyes- mud, rats, and artillery- and he hangs his head and nods. The doctor gives briefly squeezes England's shoulder before taking off to try to save some other doomed sod.

Scotland is silent as England prepares his few belongings for the trip to London. England feels his brother's eyes on him. What is he watching for? Does he expect England to break down now that he's off the morphine? To wail and gnash his teeth as he beats his fists on the ground? Maybe he should. His mind feels like a wire pulled too taut. Maybe he would feel better to let it snap.

In the end, though, he remains composed. He slings his bag, containing a single change of clothes and a small sum of money, over his shoulder and steps out of the tent.

The sky is impossibly blue and clear. England takes a moment to blink into the sunlight and breathe in air that is not tainted by the scent of stale sweat and antiseptic. It smells sweet like only the autumn does.

Someone clears their throat behind him. He turns to see his brother, red hair fiery in this brighter lighting, looking down and scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt.

After a moment's hesitation, England says, "I suppose you'll be returning to your unit, then."

Scotland nods and grins a little. "Yeah," he says. "I've probably been away for too long already."

"Hmm." England looks down at his own feet, feeling like he should say something else and coming up with nothing. Be safe, maybe? See you? I'm sorry for being so weak?

But it's Scotland who speaks up. "Hey, hold out your wrist."

England raises an eyebrow, but does as he's asked. Scotland fishes around in his trouser pocket for a second and then pulls out his rope. He ties it loosely but securely around England's right wrist, double-knotting the end.

It's not a spectacular gift. It's too short and frayed to be functional and about the farthest thing from pretty. But as soon as it's on, England's chest tightens in a way that's not particularly unpleasant.

"I'll see you soon," Scotland says, before England can thank him or do something stupid like cry. "We'll grab Wales and the three of us'll go out to a pub together."

England presses his lips together and nods, and the two of them part ways. Both headed back to the trenches– but England promises to write this time.