3rd October, 2000; London, England

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There are some things that, when dropped into a conversation, shatter it completely, leaving the affected participants blinking dazedly in the wreckage afterwards, wondering how the hell they were supposed to go about rebuilding it.

England's offhand pronouncement was one of those things.

After uttering it, he goes back to polishing off the remnants of his pint, as blithe and unconcerned as if he'd simply confessed to something as inconsequential as preferring white bread over brown.

A minute or so later, Wales still hasn't progressed beyond the dazed blinking, his mind stuck replaying England's words over and over and seeming unable to move past them. On the other side of the table, Scotland is examining his own pint suspiciously, as though checking to make sure no one's replaced the lager with something more potent whilst he wasn't looking.

Eventually, when he finds no answers at the bottom of his glass, Scotland's eyes flick towards England again, and he asks, "What, never?"

"Never ever." England shakes his head so vigorously that he almost loses his balance, and he has to catch hold of the edge of the table to keep himself from sliding off his stool. "I am so pissed," he says, sniggering, as he struggles upright again.

He must be, Wales thinks, to have lost control of the tight grip he usually keeps on his tongue, but Wales is far, far too pissed to nudge his thoughts from the deep groove they've settled into – still endlessly circling round and around a slightly shocked 'Did Lloegr really just say that?' – and formulate a rational response to the slip. They've been drinking solidly and heavily for six hours now, for reasons he can no longer recall. He thinks they might have been celebrating something. Or perhaps attempting to drown their sorrows about it. If it's the latter, then they've definitely been successful, because everything between their meeting this morning and round number ten has been smothered in a thick, impenetrable fog.

Scotland isn't quite so drunk seemingly because his thoughts at least appear to have travelled beyond the initial point of impact. "But, Portugal –"

"Never," England says, shaking his head a little more conservatively.

Scotland's eyebrows draw close together, gathering creases between them. "And India…?" he asks tentatively.

"Never, Scotland," England snarls, slamming his palms down hard against the beer-sticky tabletop. "Byth. Nior. Fucking hell, is it really that difficult to understand?"

The creases deepen. "Why?"

England leans even closer to Scotland, his lips curving into a very self-satisfied-looking smile. "Because, unlike some people, I'm capable of restraining myself. I'd rather keep my magic than –"

"I'm going for a piss," Scotland announces loudly, shooting to his feet so abruptly that he sends his stool clattering to the floor behind him.

He gives Wales a significant look as he stalks towards him, and jerks his head towards the pub's front door. What exactly the look signifies, however, is unclear. As well-versed in his brother's moods and expressions as Wales is, he still can't add up the exact set of his jaw, jut of his chin, and cast of his eyes in a way that elucidates whatever message it is that Scotland is trying to convey.

So all he can do is shrug.

Scotland's expression morphs into something much more recognisable: quickly rising irritation with an undercurrent of potential violence. He grabs hold of the back of Wales' shirt collar, hauling him to his feet, and when Wales' ear draws level with his mouth, he whispers, "We need to talk. Now."
-


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Outside in the pub's car park, the air is cold enough, the wind brisk enough, that sobriety and understanding both start to percolate through Wales' brain.

"Oh," he says as realisation hits, and then, "shit."

"My thoughts exactly," Scotland says. "Except there were a few more 'fuck's and a couple of 'bollocks' in there, too."

Wales joins his brother in leaning against the bonnet of his Ford Escort, which groans a little under their combined weight. "I never thought he actually believed us."

"I did, but only back when we first told him. The fae might not have been able to tell him it was bollocks themselves, but I figured he would've got to the point where he couldn't help but work that out himself some time over the last eight hundred fucking years."

Wales can't even remember now why they told England what basically amounted to, 'no shagging or the fae will fuck off and leave you on your own', but he suspects that the lie's genesis probably lay in the fact that Scotland had been worried that England was far too reliant on the fae back then. When they were children, Scotland's concern for both England and Wales had rarely manifested itself as anything other than random cruelties perpetrated in the name of 'toughening them up'.

"I guess he didn't dare risk that it might be true, and there was no one else he could have asked save us. You know as well as I do that he'd never have gone to Iwerddon about something like this."

"I know," Scotland says, smiling ruefully. "Not really one of my best plans, was it?"

"I hate to break it to you, Yr Alban, but, in retrospect, most of them were pretty shite." Wales sighs heavily. "So, now we do know, what are we going to do about it?"

"I haven't got a fucking clue." Scotland hunkers down lower, and the Ford's axles squeal in protest. "Maybe… Maybe we don't have to do anything. He could be perfectly happy the way things are. Fucking hell, I'd gone without for over a century before the Great War, and after a while, I just got used to it and it didn't really bother me anymore. It is possible, you know."

"Nevertheless," Wales says, striving to move past that revelation as quickly as possible so that Scotland doesn't feel compelled to elaborate; with one sentence, he probably now knows more details about his brother's sex life than he has in the couple of millennia or so preceding it. "At least you could decide yourself whether or not you wanted to… do that. You had the choice. Apparently, England never has.

"And I know you saw the way he used to look at Portiwgal, at India -" at America since the Second World War, Wales' brain supplies, but he's been trying to ignore that particular observation for the past fifty-odd years, so he doesn't give it the credence of voicing it – "otherwise you wouldn't have said what you did earlier. You can't tell me that you don't think he might have wanted something more if he'd thought he could have it."

"So, let me get this straight, you're suggesting we just march back inside and tell him?" Scotland sounds completely unconvinced by the idea; like he considers it so outlandish that he can't quite believe that Wales even suggested it. "'We're sorry for maybe screwing up your entire life, England, but we couldn't have known you were that fucking gullible'?"

"Well, perhaps something slightly more subtle," Wales says, imagining the explosive reaction they would no doubt face if they said that to England's face.

In fact, he can't imagine England's reaction to be anything other than catastrophic, no matter how carefully they chose their words. He has every right to it, and Wales and Scotland probably deserve every speck of ire that might be directed their way, but the other patrons of the pub definitely don't deserve to be caught in the blast radius of England's anger.

"We should probably wait, though, until he's sober and somewhere more private. It's just a matter of picking the right moment."