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Morning comes for Wales like a pickaxe through the eye.
“Urgh.” He tries to roll away from the sunlight jabbing through his eyelids and only succeeds in scraping his face softly across rough wallpaper. Head banging like some fucker had set to it with a pair of mallets.
He swallows and his mouth scrapes against itself so harsh and acrid it makes him gag.
He wriggles around in his misery, brain stumbling through to reality- fuzzy flashes and confusions stringing together until he’s able to string together something resembling consciousness and he can wriggle upright and unscrew the bottle of Lucozade on his bedside table.
What had they done last night?
He fuzzily stares into the middle distance, sipping on his drink, until it hits him.
Oh. We went to Mum’s grave. Together.
A smile flickers onto his face. Their mother didn’t have a grave- not really. But Stonehenge was where they felt closest to her, felt the memory of her life drift closest to the modern world, so they’d made it that. Somewhere for them all to remember her, even as everyone else forgot.
Memories swim happily in his head- traipsing over to Stonehenge, all four of them suited and booted as if for a government dinner. Marching up the meadow, grass silver in the moonlight- placing their gifts in the grass and pouring her a drink and placing it on a fallen stone for her. Remembering her, together. They were there- alive and mostly whole, and that was all she would have wanted.
And then they went to a nearby pub.
Wales snickers to himself, shaking his head and wincing. He rubs his neck.
There’s a groan like a dying cat.
He turns- Ireland is lying face down in the carpet- a bold move considering Wales’d treated himself to the plushest carpet in the shop. He’s sort of amazed his brother hadn’t suffocated.
“Don’t vomit Eire- I just had this one put in.”
His oldest brother raises his head just enough to look at him- disbelief written over his sickly face. “You just got this? Cymru, get yourself down to the doctor and get an eye test I swear to fuck-”
“It’s nice.”
Eire squints at him.
He pouts. “Well, I like it.”
His brother groans and lets his head flop back into his nice, fashionable, homely , new carpet in a fetching paisley orange, before whimpering. “Fine. Just let me die here in peace, Cymru. Feed me to the worms.”
“Caieen, don’t.” Even so, he’s grinning as he says it, swinging his legs over and wincing as he sits up. “You know we’re not compostable. Besides, you need to pick up North from the airport.” He grabs the strategic Lucozade bottle on his bedside table.
Ireland rolls over onto his side so Wales can stumble past him- yelling at his retreating back- “He can walk!”
Wales just shakes his head, clinging onto the Lucozade bottle in one hand and inching himself along the hall with the other- trying, not entirely successfully, to leave his many many trinkets and keepsakes he has on his shelves undisturbed in their aesthetic clutter. It’s fine, none of them are fragile, obviously- unlike England he has the power of basic foresight- but he resigns himself to obsessing over the next few days to putting them right as he slumps his way into a dining room chair, collapsing his head straight onto the table.
“Morning lad!” Scotland's voice is obnoxiously cheerful - even the, whatever it is he’s cooking, bacon probably- sizzles and spits with delight, like his brother is some frying pan based Disney princess.
“Urgh,” He lifts his head up after a moment. “Paracetamol, please.”
“You’d be better off with my own recipe, y’ken?”
Scotland's own recipe- tabasco, raw eggs, tomatoes, and whatever food and spell components he could scrape off the inside of the fridge- was an abomination unto food. Hell, it was an abomination unto life . It had to be kept in a glass jar to stop it from eating its way through the fridge shelves. Sure, it worked , but at what cost? As England had put it, ‘it should have its own passage in the Geneva conventions’.
“Please brawd, paracetamol,” he says, feeling queasy at the thought.
Scotland shakes his head. “Suit yourself.”
He pauses in cooking to pop the tablets into his palm and fill a glass of water, handing them smoothly over to Wales. “By the way, what time is North's plane getting in?”
Wales huddles around the tablets, chucking them back and working hard to swallow them but knowing they will help. Eventually. “Ten thirty.”
“We’ve got time then.” Scotland turns back to the stove, turning the bacon lest it suffer the calamitous fate of remaining unburned. “Oh, the pan on the side there’s got some porridge I already made up, if you want some.”
Wales creeps over to it, peering in. “Any salt in it?”
Scotland rolls his eyes- “You’re all such ninnies. No it’s plain. I didn’t feel like putting up with any whining today.”
He helps himself to the porridge, fishing out honey from the cupboard and slathering it on, ignoring Scotland's look of disgust. “Is England still in the bathroom?”
His brother shrugs. “Eh, probably.”
“Mm.” Wales returns to the table, slowly chewing the porridge, and waits for his brain to boot up. Eventually, the clock chimes. Nine o’clock.
“I should probably check to see that he’s not dead,” he says slowly.
“Ehh, probably,” Scotland says as he scrapes bacon and egg onto a large plate already piled high with other fried food.
“I’ll go check on him.”
“Ok”.
He steals himself and levers himself upright again, feeling ropey but human- walking stabally to the downstairs loo and knocking on the door.
No answer.
He frowns, knocks again.
“Lloegr!”
He frowns at the door as it remains resolutely shut. Knocking harder, he says, “Lloegr, are you still alive in there?”
Still no answer.
“Oi, cariad! I need a piss and a shower before North gets here so I don’t smell like a brewery- oh!” The door opens unexpectedly under his hand as he fumbles with the handle.
Well. That was unusual for his paranoid little brother, but not unheard of. He really must have been hammered to leave it unlo-
The bathroom is empty.
Wales blinks at his small, empty bathroom. Washing machine shoved in one corner, small bathtub with shower (- a ‘jumped up washtub!’ Scotland had called it, ‘scarcely big enough for a five year old!’-), and the toilet and sink wedged in between. Salmon ceramic and green carpet uncharacteristically clean. All present and correct, apart from the notable absence of his little brother.
He pulls back the shower curtain. Just to be sure.
“Scotland~” he calls, eyeballing the empty bathtub. “Are you sure you didn’t see England leave the bathroom?”
His second oldest brother pokes his head round the corner, grease streaked along his cheek. “I mean I didn’t check , y’ken. He’s always crabbit when he’s got a hangover. I just used the upstairs loo instead.”
Wales nods, absentmindedly opening all the other doors on the hallway, wondering where else their (-second! Second now, he needed to remember that-) youngest might have crawled off to in his drunken state, if not his regular hideaway. Living room? No. Study? No. Pantry-
“What about upstairs?” Scotland announces as Wales stares between the England-less shelves and cupboards.
“I dunno, can you check?”
His brother sighs, “Aye, alright. Wart! Move your drunken arse!”
Wales continues staring at the empty rooms as Scotland stomps his way up the stairs, yelling all the way. He hears his heavy footsteps for a good long while ... .until they fade, and Scotland comes back down the stairs, face confused and contemplative.
“Not there?” Wales said.
“Not even in the attic,” Scotland replies, leaning against the bannister, “I checked twice, he’s really not there.”
There’s a thud- they turn, but it’s only Ireland slamming the bedroom door open as staggers into the hallway, hand holding himself up against the wall as he knocks over the few wooden ornaments still standing on the shelves.
“Hey, Eire,” says Scotland, “You haven't seen our wee dickhead baby brother have you?”
Ireland blinks at them uncomprehendingly for a second.
“Is he not in the bathroom?” he says eventually.
“Nope,” says Scotland.
Ireland looks between them. “How about the pantry? He gets mean cravings when he’s high.”
“Where the hell is he going to score in Salisbury? Off the fucking rabbits?” Scotland raises an eyebrow.
“We went through Bristol on the way back,” Wales adds.
“Aye for five minutes!” Scotland says, before sighing and turning away from the pair of them and their prying eyes. “Aye fine, I see your point.”
“Well he’s not in the pantry anyway,” Wales finds himself saying, to diffuse the tension.
Ireland holds his gaze for a second before shaking his head. “Look, not to sound harsh like, but can’t this wait until after breakfast. He’ll turn up. He’s probably passed out in the garden or something. C’mon now, my headache’s making me want to boke.”
They follow their eldest brother through to the kitchen, the air heavy with the scent of fried food. Wales casts one last look at the pantry before he follows them, stomach churning in discomfort.
“But I don’t remember him seeming high, just drunk, like the rest of us.”
For a moment, they just ignore him, and Wales slumps back into his seat at the table, piling his plate with sausage and bacon, and trying to ignore the sinking tension ( frustration, hurt- it will help you to name the emotions that come, Dafydd- ) in his gut at being ignored.
“Cymru, where do you keep your paracetamol? And Alba, where are the tomatoes, you scabic eejit?” He gestured at the plate in the middle of the table, piled high with bacon, sausage, black pudding, haggis…but no tomatoes.
“I have had some tomato y-”
“That-” Ireland gestured emphatically at the stained cup on the counter, “-is nothing but a biohazard. Now pass me the chopping board-”
“Like fuck I will-” Scotland leapt up, grabbing the chopping board as he went, “- sit down you old alkie, your probably still drunk- just don’t eat all the sausages.”
Ireland huffs and sat down across from Wales. “-I’m not, worry wart-”
Wales hands him a bowl of porridge.
“Cheers, cearn beag.” Ireland takes a deep swig of tea. “When’s North's plane?”
“Ten thirty,” he replies, loading up his plate with sausages and laverbread and ignoring the hurt in his gut.
Scotland piles tomatoes into the pile of foodstuffs in the middle of the table, and sits down. “It’s nine-thirty now.”
Wales nodes, they’ll have to leave soon. He feels himself frown. “Are you sure neither of you have seen Arthur?”
Scotland's lip flicks down a millimetre. “No, I haven't.”
He looks at Ireland, who just shakes his head. Wales doesn’t let his frustration or anxiet rise. He never does.
“I’ve not seen him since last night,” Ireland says casually, taking another spoonful of porridge, “We’re definitely sure he got back with us, right?”
“He must have done,” He replies quickly, “....didn’t he?”
“I think,” Scotland says carefully, long pauses waying heavy in the air while he stares deeply into his egg, “that I remember him getting on the train with us.”
“Which one?” Wales askes, heart suddenly skipping.
Scotland's eyebrows draw together into a terrible scowl. He doesn’t direct it at anyone. It’s just his thinking face. “The second one?”
“Yes.” Ireland clicks his fingers, pointing at them in turn. “He fell face first over the ticket barriers in Bristol.”
“Aye, aye,” Scotland says, pressing his finger into his temples. “Cause you’d lost half our tickets when you chucked your trousers at that lassie in the bar-”
“It was her hen night! You can’t say no to a bride on her hen night!” Ireland flails, flushing.
“Anyways-” Wales interrupts, trying desperately to ignore that, and the muttered ‘ her brother was a bit of alright too-’ “Anyway! We got off at the station together, he was with us then. Then what.”
The silence lies terrible, across the breakfast table.
“And then what, lads?” He flaps his hands at his two brothers. “And then what?!”
His two older brothers stare into their breakfasts like they contain the secrets of the universe, whilst Wales desperately scans through his fuzzy recollections of the 4AM stumble through the dark country roads from the train station to his house.
Then Ireland groans and puts his head in his hands. “....I th’k I p’sh’d ‘m into a h’ge.”
“What?” Wales said, leaning forward, thinking he’d misheard.
“I pushed him into a hedge and he fell through it into a ditch!” Ireland yells, face blazing red.
Silence.
“To be fair,” Scotland says after a solid minute, “he probably deserved it.”
“Eire,” Wales continues, “Do you remember where you pushed him in?”
“Nope.”
“Bollocks.”
“Aaand it’s nine fifty,” says Scotland, staring at the clock, “so we need to get going or North is going to be a wee misery guts all day, and fuck that for a game of soldiers.”
“Right.” Ireland stands, abandoning his breakfast. “I’ll get showered and pick him up from the airport.”
“I’ll clean up and make sure his room’s ready,” Scotland says quickly, snatching up plates with a clatter.
Watching his brothers clattering around, avoiding his gaze, busying themselves with literally anything else, Wales sighes. “And I’ll go looking for our brother, I guess.”
He just hopes he doesn't find him covered in vomit this time.
“Why did you shove him into a hedge?” Wales asks. He’s crouched next to Ireland in the clutter of his hallway, wedged with the shoe rack digging into his side as Ireland tries to tie his boots as quick as he can with his still-wet hair dripping into his eyes. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
His brother freezes, hands stilling for a second before slowly resuming tugging the laces tight. “He tried to appologise.”
He says it quietly. Like a crime.
Breath rushes out of Wales. “Oh.”
Ireland nods, before wiping his wet curls out of his face and quickly tugging his laces into a knot, readjusting his coat and scarf as he stood.
Relationships were complicated between nations, pretty much always. It was impossible for them not to be really, living as long as they did. But between his brothers…
Well, Wale’s relationship with England was hard, even difficult at times, but warm too- they were too close not to be. His relationship to Scotland was better, though the second eldest could be overbearing at times, and Scotland's relationship to him seemed mostly made of protective ( disappointed - a little voice whispers in the back of his mind) frustration, with his relationship to their (second) youngest being similar, but with less protection and more pride and anger. Hell, despite everything, Ireland and Scotland's relationship was downright warm!
But Ireland's relationship to England? Was just difficult.
Wales stares up at his oldest, and most embattled, brother, biting his lip. “And you didn’t want him too?”
And because Wales and Ireland are closest of all the siblings, warm and comfortable and understanding , Ireland sighs. “You know it’s not that simple, Cymru.”
The birds sing erratically as Wales surveys the scope of the problem. He cups his hands to his mouth.
“Arthur!”
His voice carries across the fields and hedgerows outside his home in Abergavenny, he knows it does. As his brothers have often reminded him, when he speaks he doesn’t know how to be quiet.
“Arthur!”
No reply.
“Oh boyo,” he sighs, resigning himself to a damp trudge back towards the station via lanes and ditches, and if he’s very unlucky, deer tracks. “Why can’t you just make this easy on me? Just this once?”
Oh, if only. He shakes his head and starts walking, gravel and mud churning under his shoes.
He walks, stopping intermittently to scramble up the verge to look into the hedge, calling every so often, like he’s looking for a wayward sheepdog rather than his little brother.
The thing is, he knows, it really isn’t simple.
He rubs his hands, remembering the soreness in his knuckles from centuries ago, the echo of it from his people's children, just decades ago. He swallows compulsively.
The next time he calls, he calls in Welsh. Just to reassure himself he can.
Still no answer.
“Come on, where are you?” he mutters to himself, still in Welsh.
Of course, his treacherous brain adds, Ireland had it worse.
“But that didn’t mean it wasn’t bad,” he mutters to himself, “And if England did apologise-”
He stops. Stares out over his landscape. Because that’s the rub, isn’t it? Really? His brother is so variable, has caused so much pain and yet-
(He remembers small hands reaching out to him- between the bars with bread when England's King is trying to silence him yet again, clinging to the hems of his tunic when Rome had forced them into linen to make them ‘civilised’, and from the bundle of blankets Mum plonks in his arms so long ago that the memory is a fuzzy haze of feeling and colour, apart from the sharpness of those tiny soft hands grasping in the air towards him-)
(He also knows the cruelty in those hands though- harsh clawing grabs and un-playful punches, a knack for turning anything to hand into a weapon, and an explosive temperament with a wicked sharp eye for where to hit to cause pain-)
(-and where and how to hit when he wanted it to look like he was causing more pain than he was. When he did that social dance that he always vehemently denied afterwards- that he stopped later, when things were less frequently volatile- between himself, and Wales, and the King- when he thought the King was going too far.)
(He remembers laughter, as those hands join his in trying to make his brothers first piercing, feeling so proud when they got the needle through where he wanted it- then Wales’s hands softly on his boiling forehead as he washed out the pus from the infected wound a week later. And then the comedy of watching his brother burn his fingers running the needle through a flame the second time-)
He sighs, letting the branches of a birch hedge spring back into shape.
Of course, it wasn’t that simple.
(And of course, it wasn’t the same experience as Irelands either. Wales and England had spent so much of their early childhoods together, clinging tight to each other in the face of invasion after invasion, Wales curling around his little brother every time he was returned, a little different, a little older, a little stranger, but still with that unmistakable hum of family in the connection. It’s deep in his bones, the love from that, despite everything. Same for any of his brothers, same as for his nieces and nephews, same as for his mother.)
(Until it all went wrong, of course, but lately-)
Wales sighs and keeps walking, until he sees an interruption in the hedge. He jogs up to it- branches of yew bent in an odd directions, some of them cracked or missing leaves. Like a sheep or horse had barged through it.
Or a brother.
He pries the branches apart to see a skid of mud- grass at the edge of the field uprooted like somebody had skidded down it, stood up, and fallen over again. Perhaps more than once.
His eyes follow the scraped up grass up the otherside of the ditch, to the pressed down grass of the field, to the small copse of trees in the distance.
“Ahh, of course you went this way,” he mutters, still in Welsh. And pushes his way through the hedge to follow the drunken path. “Never easy, are you, boyo?”
(The problem was. Wales couldn’t imagine his life without his younger brother in it. But he struggled to imagine his brother being different too, no matter how much the blond tried to re-invent himself. Enmeshment, his psychologist called it. Ireland called it Stockholm Syndrome. All Wales knows is that he’s spent so long being afraid of- and afraid for - his most troublesome brother, layered over a cocktail of frustration and disappointment, and then a strong undercurrent of love and warmth under that- that he doesn’t know what he’d be without it. It’s a bedrock, a constant. For the small pudgy hand in his memories, of course, but also the good times- the warm times. And there had always been warm times, but there had been more warm times lately and-)
(The trouble was, Wales knew he was bad at saying no. Especially to England.)
He follows the muddy path, trying to step in his brother's footsteps to avoid bending anymore of the farmer's crop.
(Of course, he also knows he’s England's favourite brother- not his most respected, that’s Scotland, hands down, no matter what the pair of them want to pretend- but he is the favourite. The safe one, the soft one, the one can, sometimes, see beneath that armour and lure their brother back to the table from behind the wall of thorns in his head. And as for Ireland-)
(He wonders if either Ireland or England realise the source of England's antipathy. If beneath all that venom about laziness and stupidity , either of them can hear the wailing tantrum of a tiny child screaming- you didn’t protect me! You never protected me! So why should I protect you!? . It’s deeply unfair, even dishonest in its own way- but that’s his younger brother for you.)
(It wasn’t fair that England made the eldest the scapegoat. Not in this, or any of it. And for all Ireland used to lash back by calling him a cuckoo’s child, it still wasn’t fair. His brother had come into power and comfort and had chosen to use it to wound them- to wound all of them- including himself. He had chosen that. Freely.)
(That was still hard for him to wrap his head around.)
(And the guilt , the guilt at the relief when England turned that rage outwards , outside of himself, outside of the family. Onto others that Wales did not know yet. And guilt for England's lack of it. Perhaps that was unreasonable, but perhaps not. He’d have to remember to ask his psychologist about that next time.)
He shakes his head and keeps walking.
(Once. Not so long ago, Ireland had sat him down and with nervous eyes had started explaining that with all the scandals on his soil- the church, the washhouses, the foster homes- he’d started researching how kids who’d been through something like that survived. How they grew and developed, the type of problems they had as they grew up and…)
(There’d been this look in his eyes- desperate and pained, but trying to hide it. “Cymru,” he’d said, “Were you two safe, with Rome? You- he didn’t, do anything? Did he? To either of you?”)
(And it had made his blood run cold, even as he laughed and said of course not - he tried to make them forget about them and Mum, but nothing truly bad . Nothing like that .)
(And Ireland had frowned and nodded despite the relief in his eyes, saying- “Good, sorry, I just- looking back there were these moments where you or England would just be, a bit off- I- . If anything did happen. You know you could tell me, right?”)
(“Of course,” he’d said back, “but nothing happened.” Not to England, never to England- he’d been too young, and their Governor had promised- )
A disturbed pigeon leaps out of the underbrush- startling him out of his spiral. He jumps, reaching into his pocket to feel the talisman he keeps there now. The swirling, crisscrossing wood of the love knot. The slight ridges in its surface- he hadn’t vanished it for this reason. He breathes. Opens his eyes.
No. England had been safe. Wales had made sure of it.
He snorts. If anything, England had been sheltered and coddled , safe from the worst excesses of that bastard-
A groan.
He jogs rapidly, squelching through the mud to follow the noise to the base of a hedge with several bent branches- he pulls some back-
Despite himself, he smiles. “Hello, sleepyhead.”
“Urgh?” England groans in his general direction. He’s sprawled every which way like a drunken stork, covered in mud, and as he raises his head a little to peer at him it sways strangely. Until he groans and lets it flop back into the mud with a sickening splat.
“Am I dead?” his baby brother whines, blearily.
He snorts. “Not likely, boyo.”
“Shame.”
He lets his brother stew in his own self pity for a moment before skidding into the hidden - hole? Ditch? It looks a little like a den that has been dug out by a fox or a badger with its rounded and ragged edges. “C’mon now, up you get.”
He grabs his brother's arms and pulls him up- counter balancing the swaying, scrawny git until he steadies into a semblance of stability- eyes gazing at the sky, pupils noticeably pin-pricked.
“Seriously?” he cries, half fond, half exasperated. “How on Earth did you manage to score in Salisbury of all places?”
England, still staring at the sky, grins like a particularly contented cat. “D’you think North’s big enough to pass for a uni student yet? I think he’d do really good at Chemistry.”
He sighs- God take him, but his brother must be hammered to be letting his grammar go that badly. “Maybe- Lord knows he’s done enough A-levels to last several lifetimes. Now c’mon mud-pup, let’s run you through the shower before he gets here. I’m not letting you in my house looking like that.”
“M’ not a mud-pup,” his brother mumbles ineffectually as Wales grabs his hand and starts pulling him along, staggering between the tilled rows, occasionally answering his brother's disconnected questions.
“Where are we?”
“In a field, Lloegr.”
“...where did I sleep?”
“In a ditch, Lloegr.”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“I don’t know Lloegr.”
They stumble back over the field- Wales making regular diversions as his brother totters off on tangents and has to be dragged back before he falls over a hidden hole. Again. Occasionally they do have to stop- to pick up a shoe half buried in a furrow, or the button up shirt that somehow ended up in a bush. But they do stagger back to the path, more or less dressed and upright, and hopefully still in time to get back before North and Eire.
“...I wonder if Jamaica will ever talk to me again.”
It’s a jarring, strange turn from the chatter about the kids- that Australia is planning a trip all across his land ‘cause he doesn’t want to deal with his fuck-head politicians’, that he’d heard Singapore had set up a hedge fund now- ‘he’s so talented!’- and he hoped Hong Kong was doing ok…Canada had really come out of himself since he got with the tulip fucker so he supposed he could forgive the cradle robbing bastard- (“Hmm, maybe,” Wales had said, mixed feelings swirling in his chest. “It is a big age difference though.”
“I’ve had bigger.” his brother replied.)
Still. Jamaica. It was an odd swerve, and it hung uncomfortably between them.
“Is she doing ok, at least?”
Wales feels himself tense, this unspoken difference, and Jamaica’s unacknowledged choice- “Yeah, she is. She’s happy. Focusing on learning about local infrastructure.”
A small, sad smile flickers on his face. “Is she still doing her music?”
Finally, back onto safer ground. He feels his shoulders relax. “Yeah, she is- last I heard she was thinking of putting together an album.”
England smiles. “Good.”
They walk on quietly for another minute. Wales…he doesn’t say ‘she might come round’ or anything of that nature- he doesn’t know that she will for one thing- but more than that he shouldn’t undermine her choice like that. It wouldn’t be fair to- to either of them honestly- either his niece or his brother.
“But Antigua sent me this picture of her painting last week and look- “ he whips out his phone, smearing mud all over it as he fumbles to bring up the photo- “she’s so talented!”
He nods along as his brother babbles on and on about his many, many children and wishes…
They come to his house and he directs England round the side.
“To the back gate boyo- you’re not going on my carpets smelling like that.”
“Hmm,” England placidly does as told- he truly must be hammered- wandering round the garden gate “Sure, sure, anyway did I tell you about Falklands- Argh! Scotland!-
A sharp, sputtering whoosh of the hose fills the air, joined by a series of yells and loud, harsh laughter. There’s some clattering, more sputtering and another yell, and an odd noise which makes Wales push open the garden gate just to make sure everything’s all right.
His eyes widen.
England is laughing. A bright bubbling laugh which he hasn’t heard for many centuries. Deeper, now, of course- but unmistakably the same laugh.
And then he’s soaked-
“Ah, Scotland!”
“Eh, you could use a shower,” Scotland says, grinning. “Oi, squirt, turn around- you look like the swamp thing!”
England turns around placidly as Wales squelches up the back steps to his older brother.
“Is he still high?” Scotland mutters as he passes.
Wales nods, slightly.
And Scotland scowls, lips pulling into a thin, frustrated line and his shoulders rise up around his ears-
Before he lets them drop and yells out at their little brother, “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“Err,” England stares into space, seeming totally absent. “I was working! I didn’t have time.”
“Fucks sake.”
Wales stumbles through into his kitchen and strips himself of the newly soggy clothes. Chucking them in the washing machine and his shoes in the wet basket. Rubbing his hair dry with the dish towel.
“I don’t want him in here till he’s smelling of roses, Alba!”
“Really? I was just going to wipe him off on the doormat- Oi!”
Wales ducks as the dishcloth comes hurtling back at him, a laugh bubbling up out of him regardless-
(He wishes- he wishes-)
(He wishes a great many things.)
He snags a proper towel as England drips into the kitchen, laughter still bubbling, and grabs the edge of his towel to dry his own hair before Scotland herds them both into dry clothes and forces his hangover cure into their younger brother to much squawking and gagging -
There's a crunch of tires against gravel outside the house.
“Stations!” Scotland yells, and they all scramble into the living room- broadly speaking upright, dressed, and technically sober -
And as the door opens and Northern Ireland comes through, complaining about baggage handlers and traffic and stupid politicians not knowing when to shut up so he can catch his flight.
(Wales wishes for a great many things. He wishes his youngest brother would say those kind and loving things to his children instead of to their Uncles, he wishes his brother would say it sober, and more often laugh like the child who would cling to Wale’s pudgy little hand and dry himself with the same towel-)
(And he wishes his brother had never changed, had never chosen to live the way he did, to chose to do to himself what he did and to choose to do worse to others-)
(He wishes he wasn’t living with the consequences of that. He wishes Ireland wasn’t living with the consequences of that.)
(He wishes so bloody many weren't living with the consequences of that-)
A heavy hand claps on Wales' shoulder.
“You alright there?” Ireland’s eyebrow quirks up, but his smile is tired. “I see you found him.”
“Yeah, ‘m alright,” he shakes his head, lets his frustration well up for a moment and show on his face. Mouths, ‘He’s high.’
Ireland. Snorts. Something in his face softening, and says quietly, “Aye, well, some of us need something to soften the edges of the world first before we try to move through it, y’know. I’d rather he went to a pharmacy too.”
“I suppose it was the prescribed thing back then.” His stomach churns with discomfort.
Ireland snorts again. “Don’t give him that much leeway, he’ll take a mile.”
Wales sighs.
“Anyway,” his oldest brother continues, quietly. Watching as the other three settle in front of the telly, England listening enraptured to North complaining about his Chemistry teacher, who’s a real arsehole, apparently, real demanding and inflexible. “He’ll sober up eventually. You’re alright, is the main thing. He’ll be alright, someday. We’re all alright.”
“Right-” he suddenly raises his voice, catching the attention of the others. “Who’s getting me a cup of tea?”
Wales watches as Scotland leavers himself upright, grumbling all the way, and as Republic walks over to the rest of them and ruffles England's hair, shoving him down to the floor so he doesn’t steal Scotland's seat while he’s gone and England lets him and settles down next to North and -
Breathes.
Jesus, Irelands therapist deserves a fucking raise.
Wales lets himself settle down on the sofa, third oldest- it’s a squeeze when Scotland gets back, they’re not small men, the other two got whatever skinny bastard genes were lurking dormant in their mother- and lets himself get sucked into North and Englands conversation, about what uni’s North could sneak his way into now that he’s (finally) about England's height and they can pass him off as a baby-faced nineteen year old-
“Y’know, boyos,” he says, “I started passing myself off as older in the mid-tenth century, it’s not as difficult as you might think-”
And between England's eyes rolls and yes, but you were already six foot one, and Norths rapt attention, Wales lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe-
It was going to be alright.