Chapter 1:
England is having a wonderful day. In fact, today has been so exceptionally nice, that he has decided to enjoy the afternoon with a cup of Twinings on the porch and Shakespeare's Macbeth. And the reason of his unusually and rare jovial mood is due to several factors.
There has not been a word from his boss demanding his presence at Parliament, nor has there been any complaint from his neighbors on the continent or his brothers; not even a word from his ex-colonies. As for the weather, the sun is shining just so, and after this morning's shower, the outside gleamed beautifully. There is a cool breeze interlacing with the sun's gentle rays, and a few fluffy white clouds float up above, sent on their way to rain on Scotland.
This last thought causes Arthur to chuckle. Undoubtedly, his brothers (and some parts of him, though not many) were receiving horrid weather these days, with this day being no exception. However, as a result of living for near two millennia (half of which was lost in dark foliage and confusion and fear, the last half and until today is in greed, power, and shifting loyalties), England could not shake off the inane feeling of suspicion.
But suspicion is good. It makes you careful. It makes you think. And there is not nearly enough thinking as there used to be. Humans today are so careless, so stupid and nonsensical. They do not understand value and have not known since the last thousand years.
(Albion, he was called in those first, clueless years. It means the white shores of Dover, his pure, beautiful cliffs of chalk, marred only by streaks of black flint. They were, according to historians and geologists alike, once connected France before the Ice Age and floods divided them. But England knows his land best, and they are certainly, and never will be, French.)
Instead of fruitlessly trying to expel this feeling of suspicion, Arthur instead shoves it away into the back of his mind to be dug out later, when needed. He changes his position as well, uncrossing his legs and bending them backwards, underneath and clinging to the support of his chair. Arthur is considerably much more comfortable, leaning into his seat's cushion and resting his elbows on the arms, and holds open his book.
Compelled by the events of his novel, England does not take notice of the hour, but most importantly, he doesn't heed that someone is knocking angrily upon his door.
That someone is his brother Scotland, and he is accompanied by his good friend, and England's long-term enemy, France. The two were infamous "back in the day" for their Auld Alliance against the Kingdom of England, who posed a dangerous threat against both nations. But the alliance began to sputter out in the 16th century as its main cause was eventually obliterated by the reduction of the English stability after the Hundred Years War and the War of the Roses and, later during the Scottish Reformation, the two Protestant brother-countries became allies.
But all politics and religion aside, Francis and Alisdair (not France and Scotland) are generally close friends, and even in this era, enjoy infuriating the stately, aristocratic, Arthur Kirkland, who remains oblivious on his porch, reading Macbeth.
And so he did not notice his door being kicked down by Alisdair who is furious (and terrified that something horrible and unspeakable has victimized his dear brother. But he does not admit such things. After all, he is Scottish). Francis follows through, right at his heels, and the two companions glance briefly into each room as they move swiftly through the house. They find their way to the back door, which slides open and hits the frame loudly with a "Snap!"
Arthur jumps in his seat at the abrupt noise and swings around in his seat wildly, only to be confronted by a pair of hairy, crossed arms. He looks up and gazes into narrowed, green eyes and a curled back lip. Arthur sighs and stands up.
"What?"
Scotland growls in the back of his throat, like that of a lion, about to face off against another dominant male. England sneers, as expected, and straightens, puffing out his chest, and draws himself up to his tallest. The Kirkland's are feral, Francis has long since noticed, which is quite appropriate. They are all querulous, unpredictable, and hot-blooded, yearning for vengeance of their wounded egos. Even Wales, the Country of Song, who is the most tranquil and placid of the isles, can turn perilously feisty if someone was to hit a weak spot.
So, knowing the youngest especially well, Francis steps forward, stealing the two brothers' attention, if only for a moment.
"Bon après-midi, en Angleterre," he greets, giving him a winning smile. Arthur, on seeing his rival, bares his teeth in a feline scowl.
"What is he doing here?" Arthur demands from his brother, who in turn, frowns and clucks his tongue.
"Nae need tae be so rude, Art." Alisdair brushes past his little brother and takes a seat across from him. He pulls out a cigarette box and lighter. "He's aer guest." Scotland lights a cigarette and places it in his mouth, something both France and England had witnessed countless times before.
"'Our'?" England snarls, his back turned to Francis and all attention again on his oldest sibling. "This is my house. Not 'ours.'"
My. Mine. Me. Oh if France had a Euro for every time he had heard the Englishman even uttered those words.
(His. Him. He.)
"Aye. But this is aer land, right? After all, we are one country. So that makes France our guest." Alisdair grins wickedly and Francis musters a rueful smile.
"Per'aps Arthur is not in the mood-"
"Damn right," England grumbles.
"-and we are interrupting 'is quiet time, oui?"
Scotland snorts, one leg propped on the small tea-table and an elbow on the arm of the chair. He places his chin on his knuckles with one arm hung lazily by his side and his other leg outstretched, just touching Arthur's calf.
"Arthur is joost bein' a snot-nosed brat as always." Alisdair flicks some ash onto the ground.
"Well that 'snot-nosed brat' is right here," Arthur grinds out. "And the least you could have done is call- how did you even get in here?"
France and Scotland stare at one another, coaxing the other to either make up a reasonable explanation, or tell the truth and suffer the wrath of an Englishman (which compared to a Scot, wouldn't be that bad, but alas, that'd mean France would be the one abused).
"We used the spare key," Francis says coolly as he joins the two Britons at the table and takes a seat. He purposely sits facing Arthur's meticulously nurtured garden between the bickering brothers. At least he could enjoy the view.
"I don't have a spare key," Arthur's voice cuts like a knife to Francis' ears.
"Wot d'ye mean by that?" Scotland asks, coming to his (read their) rescue. "You feeling okay, Artie?"
England chuckles coldly. "Are you okay, brother? I'm positively sure I don't have a spare key, and that you'd never ask me such a question." He smirks and takes a sip out of his cuppa, but his face twists into a look of disgust at the taste of the lukewarm tea. He pours the remains into a nearby potted plant.
Francis turns his head so that he is looking only at Scotland and glares at him, who, unsurprisingly, just shrugs and smokes his cig.
"To tell the truth, Angleterre," Scotland kicks Francis to shut him up, "we kicked down your door because you wouldn't answer it."
The two older men wait silently for the Englishman to combust in an explosion of threats and profanity before literally kicking the two out the door (way).
Astonishingly, he nods, smiling, and quips, "I thought that was the case," before picking up his tea set and entering his house. He doesn't spare the two a glance even as he shoulders the sliding door closed.
As soon as England is gone from sight, France kicks Scotland as payback for his own aching leg. He then gets up as well and follows him inside. He finds him fixing another pot of tea in the kitchen.
"I'll be in my study. You know where the toolbox is." England says curtly, sifting through his cupboard in search of teabags. "And get that lazy brother of mine to help!"
"Absolute prick," Scotland grumbles under his breath as he aligns the door with its frame. "He kens how tae fix a damn door!"
"There, there," France says soothingly as he inspects his friend's work. "But you did kick down his front door."
Alisdair scowls and takes a step back, dusting his shirt off. "And you?"
"I just followed you."
Scotland opens his mouth to retort, but someone else beats him to it.
"Hey, ginger!"
Alisdair clenches his fist before looking up where Arthur stood on his second floor balcony. The blonde leaned against the ebony metal railing, a saucer and teacup held delicately in his hands. He watches them with his lips set in a bemused smile and a spark of annoyance in his eyes.
"Aye, brat?"
"The door is upside down."
By the time Scotland had finished (re)fixing the door and he has headed inside for a drink, he couldn't help but overhear Arthur and Francis talking in the parlor- alone. He quickly steps aside and, pressing his back to the wall, listens quietly to their conversation.
"...always been a pain in the arse! He's rude, barbaric…"
Scotland scowls at the remarks. 'And you're spoilt, power-hungry, selfish, and wimpy, ye damn bastard!'
"Even still, he's your oldest brother!"
"That's easy for you to say," England grumbles. "You only have two younger brothers."
"Even so, Romano and I aren't exactly on the best of terms, but we're not at each other's throats, Lapin."
"That's because he's scared of you, Frog."
Francis is lounging on the sofa opposite of Arthur, who sat poised with his hands folded neatly atop his knee. On the glass table before them was England's best china along with a bottle of newly opened wine. A glass of the red liquid was held elegantly in France's right palm.
"No he isn't. In public he seems so, but in all actuality, he isn't."
"Is that so?" England doesn't sound interested in the slightest, though.
"Well, why do you think he hasn't backed down after all these years?"
Arthur pauses to think, a teacup raised half-way to his mouth. "…Pride?"
This appears to be the answer France was looking for because he nods and gives a knowing smile. He continues to stare at the Brit who silently sips his tea as his smiles slowly dissipates.
"Well?" the Frenchman asks.
"Well what?" Arthur frowns at his company over his cup who sighs in exasperation.
"Pride, Arthur. It's both you and your brother's problem- the others as well, but mostly you and Écosse. So maybe if you could stop-"
"I am not proud," snarls England, jumping to his feet. Francis raises a skeptical eyebrow and Arthur's face turns pink. He then turns around, holding his tray of china close to him. "I just… like to do things my way."
When Alisdair realizes that his brother is heading his way, he silently retreats and hurries outside, to Arthur's back yard. He pretends to have been smoking and interests himself in the fae, who flitter anxiously among the flowers.
"You know, you're more than welcome to head home," Arthur's voice floats from above. Again, he is on the balcony, but instead, he is drying a crystal wine glass (the same one Francis used).
Arthur is always doing something with his hands- embroidering a complicated design, writing notes for the upcoming meeting, turning a page in a book, or tapping out a rhythm on the English oak furniture. When he was a child, though, England (defenseless, naïve, weak, Albion) was a chatter box. He sang, cried, screamed, and laughed with his brothers ("Alba, where's Mummy? I miss her. What if she's lonely? I don't want her to be sad. Alba, do you miss Mummy, too?" "Aye, bairn, Ah dae.").
"Nae, Ah think Ah'll keep Franny company fer now."
England studies his older brother for a moment before going back inside. Scotland doesn't look up from the fairies who were now playing hide-n-seek. But he hears the door being slid shut and watches through the reflection of a water puddle on the patio tiles. In Arthur's face (not England's, Arthur's), however, he sees a flicker of frustration. Did he want him to leave so badly?
Yet why should Alisdair be surprised? Why should he feel even a twinge of resentment for that? They've been quarreling for the past thousand years (and much more, but both brothers can barely recount them) and have never regretted it.
Scotland eventually returns back inside when storm clouds begin to gather and deposit their tear-shaped burdens. As he does, he feels a light tug and turns, surprised, to see a group of fairies clinging onto his sleeve and ducking around him for cover from the rain. Feeling pity for the magical creatures, he lets them into the house, before setting off to search for France.