13th November, 2011; Cardiff, Wales

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It takes Wales a moment to realise that the random burst of Take That he keeps hearing is actually his coming from his mobile, not because he doesn't recognise the ringtone – which has served as a regular reminder over the past few days that Northern Ireland now knows one of his more shameful secrets as it was no doubt intended to – but because he thought that everyone likely to ring him knew that eight o'clock on a Sunday was the worst possible time to do so.

It's even more of a surprise to see England's name on the display when he does go to answer the call, because his brother usually holds this hour as sacrosanct himself whenever the latest series of Antiques Roadshow makes its way on to BBC1's schedule. The incongruity makes Wales' heart race, thinking something truly calamitous must have happened if it could force England to make such a radical break from established tradition.

As might be expected in circumstances trying enough that he would risk missing the Remembrance Special, England greets him brusquely, and doesn't wait for the pleasantry to be returned.

What is wholly unexpected is the question that follows. "What are you planning on doing for Scotland's birthday this year?"

Try as he might, Wales can't think of a single emergency that could arise from his lack of preparedness for an occasion even Scotland himself doesn't honour. His pulse doesn't slow at this lack of revelation, however, as the anxiety he'd felt simply reshapes itself into a different form.

"Nothing, just like every other year," he says slowly, wondering if might be a trick question.

If England might somehow know that Wales had happened across a birthday card about this time last year that, whilst it could only be considered humorous in the very broadest terms, had nevertheless caused Wales to embarrass himself in the middle of Clinton Cards by laughing too loudly because the sentiment it displayed seemed to suit his older brother so well.

He'd bought it on impulse, but by the time he returned home, the small joy he'd felt upon discovering it had palled considerably, leaving him simply feeling foolish for giving into such a ridiculous whim. Scotland would likely not appreciate the gesture if Wales were to gift him with the card – being mocked mercilessly for his perceived sentimentality was the kindest reaction Wales could imagine – and, more importantly, he had no excuse to do so. Scotland, Wales and England had shared a drink to celebrate their national days now and again, but never once had they given each other presents to mark any occasion apart from Christmas.

So Wales had shoved the card into a drawer in his kitchen with the vague intention of saving it for whichever birthday Northern Ireland might have in the far future where he could pass for twenty-one, but otherwise forgetting its existence until then.

Forgetting it might have been easier if Wales had chosen a different drawer, however, and thus didn't see the card every time he needed to use his scissors or potato masher. Even though he barely registered it on a conscious level, the repeated exposure must have slowly seeped deep into his subconscious because a fortnight later, he found himself caught in the throes of feverish inspiration which sent him racing from his bed at three in the morning to start a birthday poem for his brother.

It hadn't been his best work, but he had been quite proud of it, even so. Proud enough that he was able to overcome his forebodings of humiliation and ridicule for long enough to fold up the pages, pop them inside the card once he'd amended it, and then post both to Scotland. They were, as he had presumed they would be, denounced as shite when his brother rang the following day, and his assumed motivations for sending them derided as pathetically mawkish.

(The next time they met, Scotland had hugged Wales hard enough to bruise and told him that what he'd written was beautiful, but then he often said things he didn't really mean when he was drunk, and Wales had learnt not to take them to heart.)

Thankfully, it seems that England has remained oblivious of Wales' blunder, as he simply scoffs and says, "Well, of course," in a disdainful tone which suggests that he regards the suggestion of any other possibilities preposterous. His voice softens in increments then, so much so that it eventually fades into silence. "Though I thought we might perhaps…"

"Perhaps what?" Wales prompts when he grows tired of listening to his brother repeatedly clear his throat instead of finishing his sentence.

The interruption jolts England out of the conversational rut he's worked himself into. "Well," he says briskly, "seeing as though he bought us both pints on our birthdays, he might be expecting us to reciprocate. He hasn't mentioned anything to you, then?"

There is a hint of accusation in the question, as though England suspects them of colluding to… Actually, Wales cannot even begin to imagine what his brother might think their aims might be, but England does appear to believe that all Scotland and Wales ever discuss with one another is new ways in which they can wreak havoc in his life.

(When, in fact, Wales is wise enough to avoid even mentioning England's name when he's not there, because he does actually prefer talking to Scotland than listening to him complain without pause for hours on end.)

"I'm afraid not." Wales considers adding, 'Perhaps he was just being nice,' but it's pointless to even suggest such a thing to England, and might be a lie besides, as the drink Scotland had bought Wales could well have been, to his mind, simply a repayment of the debt he had unwillingly incurred by accepting the card from Wales the previous year. Although, that doesn't quite add up as an explanation either, seeing as though England was accorded the same.

England hums thoughtfully, offers Wales a, "Thank you," just as curt as his 'Hello' had been, and then ends the call without saying goodbye.
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28th November, 2011; London, England

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England pats his lips with his napkin, refolds it neatly, and then leans across the table towards Northern Ireland and Wales. "I suspect you're wondering why I asked you to meet me here today," he says in an exaggeratedly hushed tone that actually seems to carry further than his normal voice, despite the clear attempt at clandestinity.

Northern Ireland freezes, forkful of cheesecake half-raised to his mouth. "I thought you just wanted to treat us to lunch."

"You should know by now that there's no such thing as a free meal, Michael," England says with a self-satisfied looking smirk of the sort he always wears whenever he imparts what he believes to be a valuable life lesson to Northern Ireland.

"Fucking hell." Northern Ireland hurriedly drops his fork, which scatters biscuit crumbs far and wide across the green checkered tablecloth before it lands with a clatter against his plate. "I've only got a tenner on me. You said I didn't need to bring my card, and –"

"I'll pay," England says, waving away Northern Ireland's concerns with a nonchalant flap of his hand, "but I'm afraid I did bring you here under false pretences, nevertheless."

Northern Ireland's expression tightens with obvious anxiety, but Wales finds himself unable to share it, because the way England's eyes dart furtively as he speaks looks so ridiculous that he can't help but laugh, instead. "What's with all the cloak and dagger nonsense?" he asks.

England frowns at him, and then crosses his arms defensively across his chest. "I simply thought you would refuse to come if I told you what I really wanted."

"Which is?"

"I wanted to…" A faint blush bleeds across England's cheeks as his voice falters, and he suddenly seems unwilling to meet Wales' gaze. He pauses to drag in a couple of long, deep breaths as if in an effort to steel himself before continuing: "As you know, it's our brother's birthday in two days, and… Well, we never did decide what we were going to do for it."

"I wasn't aware there was a we involved," Wales says, wondering, and not for the first time, w hether England ever actually listens to him when they talk, or simply fills in the other side of their conversations with what he believes Wales should be saying. "You hung up on me before I had chance to tell you that I wasn't planning on getting him anything."

"But he bought us both pints," England says again; emphatically, as though nothing more than that needs to be said on the matter, and Wales is simply being obstinate by not acknowledging the import of his words.

Those instances of generosity on Scotland's part had been slightly unusual, admittedly, but Wales had assumed them to be nothing more than impulsive acts, and he doubts Scotland has given them a second thought since. He suspects, however, that they might have caused England to think himself indebted to their brother, and as he has always seemed to hate feeling as though he owes Scotland anything, he likely believes that he needs to redress the balance somehow.

Though it still doesn't explain why England seems to consider the means by which he could repay his imagined debt some formidable conundrum, because the solution appears perfectly simple to Wales. "Just get him one yourself next time we're in the pub. Then we're all square, right?"

England shakes his head. "We always buy him drinks. He wouldn't even notice."

"Then say 'Happy Birthday' first. For fuck's sake, Art, it's not that –"

"I don't understand what the big deal is," Northern Ireland pipes up. "I mean, you always give me a present for my birthday."

"That's different," England says, and then follows the vague justification with a curt, "It just is," when Northern Ireland inevitably questions his logic.

What England is apparently unwilling to admit is that Northern Ireland's annual birthday parties are simply an attempt on his brothers' part to bring some normality into a life that is anything but.

Wales has often thought their efforts are somewhat lacking, however, given their collective lack of experience with hosting such celebrations. More often than not, the 'parties' simply consist of the four of them eating a meal together on May the third, with one of England's rock-hard fruit cakes for dessert rather than something more appetising, after which Northern Ireland opens his gifts and pretends some measure of gratitude for the books he invariably receives instead of the video games he asks for.

Many years ago, England hired a clown in an effort to make the proceedings a little livelier, but after Northern Ireland cried so hard upon its appearance that he threw up his rock-hard cake all over the sofa (and an impressive stretch of the stairs following, whilst Scotland carried him to the bathroom), they'd decided that low-key was obviously the better option, and their routine has remained relatively unchanged ever since.

"Jesus," Northern Ireland hisses, clearly exasperated by what must seem to him to be deliberate obtuseness on England's part. "If you don't want to buy him anything, why don't you just bake him a fucking cake or something?"

England smiles expansively. "Funny you should say that…"