"Come on, Canada, let's take this further."
"Not in public, Wales! I don't care how drunk you are, this is our brothers' wedding."
"Aw, come on... They did it in public before..."
"We're not like them! We may look like them, but that's it!"
"Come on, Canada, nobody ever notices us anyway..."
"Wales, stop that! No! I'm going to keep my shirt on, thank you! Wales!"
This was the exchange that occurred at the Anglo-American wedding. Right before America pulled Wales away from Canada and Canada gave Wales a punch that sent him into one of the food tables. But they loved each other, and had forgiven each other.
Presently, they were walking through the grounds of the Britons' house together. Wales had a small section to himself where he grew daffodils. He picked one and gave it to Canada, who went slightly pink and kissed him on the cheek. They sat down together on the grass and Canada rested his head on Wales's shoulder, and Wales whispered sweet, relaxing nothings in Welsh that made Canada feel like the most important country in the world.
He took Wales's hand. It was cool to the touch and when Canada kissed him he tasted of rain and roast lamb, a combination that was interesting but quite nice. He had told Canada once that Canada tasted like ice-cream and sweet maple syrup, and Canada as delighted that Wales always went back for more. He went back for more now, and kissed along Canada's arm, his neck, his cheeks, his lips, everything he could reach.
And Canada kissed him back, and whispered sweet, relaxing nothings in French, the language of love, and Wales wrapped his arms around him and never wanted to let go.
Such is the idyllic, unnoticed relationship of Canada and Wales.