18th December, 1997; London, England
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England finds himself distracted for a moment by studying his reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door instead of concentrating on picking a shirt.
His hair still somewhat resembles a startled blond hedgehog perched atop his head despite the ten minutes of determined effort he'd spent with a brush, comb and even a small amount of the sticky, foul-smelling goo that Northern Ireland uses to carefully style his own hair every morning so that it remains looking like he's just got out of bed throughout the day. And, he notes with some alarm, he seems to be a little softer around the middle than usual, something which is no doubt attributable to the large number of Christmas functions and festive liquid lunches he's attended recently. It would perhaps behoove him to join Scotland on one or two of his hikes in the new year as his brother is always suggesting, even though it will probably result in one of them pushing the other down a ravine at some point.
The extra weight doesn't seem to have affected either his arms or his legs, however, which are as scrawny as ever, and – he turns a little to check – he still has no arse to speak of. All in all, it's a slightly disheartening sight.
And completely irrelevant to his evening's plans, he reminds himself firmly, grabbing hold of a random selection of shirts.
He eventually decides on a light blue shirt – starched and impeccably pressed – and a dark grey tie which perfectly matches his Savile Row suit. Over that, he shrugs his heavy black cashmere overcoat, and thus armoured, quickly jogs out of his bedroom and downstairs towards the front door.
Not quickly enough, it appears, as Scotland calls out to him as he passes the living room. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"None of your business," England calls back, fumbling desperately through his voluminous coat pockets in search of his key, and turning up nothing but handkerchiefs, lint, and the odd little snips of paper and receipts which always seem to accumulate in his pockets despite him never having any recollection of having put them there. If he'd only got around to replacing his ancient lock with a Yale as he'd been meaning to for the past few years, then he'd be halfway to his car by now and out of range of the argument that Scotland's no doubt already busily constructing in his head.
The angry response he expects is not forthcoming, however, and it's Wales who speaks up next: "If you're off to see America," he shouts, "he rang this morning to say he's going to be running about an hour late."
England's jaw clenches so abruptly and so hard that he half-fears he may later discover he's sprained something. "And you didn't think to tell me this earlier because…?"
"Bloody hell, England," Wales shoots back, "I'm not your fucking secretary. If it's that important to you, you can make sure you answer the damn phone yourself in future."
England could set off now and kill the extra time he's suddenly found himself with wandering aimlessly through London on his own or in a pub, but it's cold and dark outside, and he's completely overdressed for any of his favourite haunts. Reluctantly, he decides that joining his brothers in the living room is the best of the woeful set of choices available to him, temporarily deferred arguments notwithstanding.
Wales is sprawled facedown on one sofa, arms and legs flung wide, but he looks up as England walks past him, heading towards his favourite armchair, and cocks one eyebrow.
"You're looking smart," he observes before letting his head slump back down once more.
England had not intended to dress any differently than he usually would for an evening out with a friend, and the fact that he had failed to notice that he had apparently done so anyway makes him feel oddly embarrassed, which, in turn, irritates him. That particular mix of emotions always puts him on the defensive, and so he snaps, "At least I don't go out dressed like I fell in the reject pile at a charity shop, unlike some people."
Wales' shoulders lift slightly in as near to a shrug as he can manage in his current position, apparently unconcerned by the observation, but Scotland glares at England from the other sofa, arms folded tightly across his chest.
England matches his glare with one of equal intensity. "I can't imagine you give a shit about my opinion of your dress sense, or lack thereof, Scotland, so, come on. Out with it. What exactly is your problem?"
"Well, it might have been nice if you'd let us know that one of our weans was in the country," Scotland says, his tone snappish. "Maybe we would have liked the chance to meet up with him, too."
"Look, he's flying out again at five tomorrow, so we're not planning on doing anything particularly exciting. Just some last minute Christmas shopping, perhaps, then a few drinks." England strives to kept his voice flat and toneless in an effort to make the prospect sound as dull as possible. As though he were only going himself out of the goodness of his heart and foresees gaining absolutely no pleasure in it. "You won't be missing anything."
Wales scrambles up into a sitting position. "I still need to get a present for Jane."
"And I'm always in need of a few drinks," Scotland says.
Beyond their mutual antipathy towards spending more time together than is strictly necessary, England can't think of a single good reason why they shouldn't accompany him. There are plenty of bad reasons, the ones that England does not allow his mind to linger on, but he'd much rather subject himself to any amount of his brothers' company than admit them aloud.
"Fucking hell, I suppose you can come, then," he says, exasperated and cursing himself for not thinking of sneaking out by way of the garage in the first place.
Scotland, smug bastard that he is, smiles triumphantly. "I'll go and tell Northern Ireland. I'm sure he won't want to miss out, either."
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If America is even a little disappointed that England isn't alone, it certainly doesn't show in his expression. Quite the contrary, in fact, given the way he launches himself at Scotland to enfold him in a hug that's far too exuberant for a public space.
Scotland doesn't flinch, or try to struggle free as he normally would when he was sober and had physical contact inflicted upon him unexpectedly; instead he returns the embrace with seemingly equal enthusiasm, and says, "It's good to see you, lad."
After he's broken free, America thumps Northern Ireland's shoulder playfully and ruffles his hair, completely destroying its carefully cultivated untidiness and rendering it simply messy, and then, and only then, does he acknowledge England's presence.
England prepares himself to dodge the hug which he's concerned is forthcoming because he has no desire to be manhandled in a hotel lobby, but it doesn't come. America simply nods and says, "Hey, England." His eyes then flit towards Wales, and there's a small but noticeable pause before he adds, "Wales."
Wales definitely notices. "Hello, America," he says curtly, pressing his lips into a thin, unhappy line afterwards.
America, oblivious as ever, grins at him, and then asks, "So, what's the plan for tonight?"
The question's directed towards England, but Scotland jumps in with all of his usual disregard for the rules of civil conversation.
"We," he says, draping an arm around America's shoulders, "are going to get so pissed that they'll have to pour you into your seat when you get onto that aeroplane tomorrow morning."
Which wasn't even close to the plan at all, but Scotland has started dragging America towards the hotel bar before he has chance to argue otherwise. Their heads bend close together as they walk, apparently already caught up in a conversation.
England has to force down a searing-hot swell of anger which threatens to engulf him as he watches their fast-disappearing backs. He has always resented the way his brothers –Scotland in particular – monopolise America's time when they get together. It's been that way since America was a boy, and Scotland was forever tempting the lad away from his lessons to go hunting, exploring, or playing puerile pranks on poor Canada, or, more often than not, England himself.
It's one of his bad reasons; although not even close to approaching his worst.
