August, 2008; London, England
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It was raining yesterday, and the forecasts have predicted even worse rain tomorrow, but today is a bright azure jewel suspended between the two. Temperatures have soared, Sun photographers are doubtless rushing to all points coastal to take the prerequisite pictures of screaming bikini clad women taking a dip in the still frigid sea, and Scotland, England and Wales have unearthed their shorts and decamped with Northern Ireland into England's back garden to dutifully make the most of the weather.
"I'm not built for this," Scotland grumbles, fanning himself with a concertinaed section of The Times. The rest of the paper had been clumsily fashioned into a reasonable facsimile of a hat by Northern Ireland earlier, which Scotland is now wearing (because his shame about such things tends to go the same way as his trousers in the heat nowadays), though it hasn't managed to prevent the slow grilling of either his nose or the back of his neck, both of which have turned a ruddy pink which promises extensive peeling by nightfall.
"You could always go back inside, Yr Alban," Wales points out, which earns him a look of derision from Scotland.
"Aye, and what a fucking waste of the day that would be."
Wales thinks the two day's worth of inactivity enforced by sunburn and heatstroke that will inevitably follow Scotland's refusal to find himself some shade will be more of a waste, but he understands his brother's decision all the same.
He, too, will likely be made lethargic by headaches and queasiness come morning, and he can almost feel the invasion of freckles beginning their slow march across his exposed skin, but nevertheless the compulsion remains to soak up every drop of sunshine this poor excuse for a summer deigns to give them before the monotony of grey skies sets in again, likely until the following Spring.
"I suppose it would," he therefore agrees, leaning back in his deckchair and stretching out his legs, the possibility of a freckle incursion into the thus far uncharted territory of his shins be damned.
Scotland nods, and then returns his attention to his can of Stella. Two deep gulps appear to drain it dry, given the disgruntled expression his face settles into once he lowers it from his lips.
"North," he barks towards their little brother, "go and get me another beer."
Northern Ireland doesn't move, presumably because he's liable to keel over from heat exhaustion if he exerts himself enough to stand up given that he's still clad in his usual uniform of hoodie and jeans.
"I'll give you a quid if you do," Scotland says, voice becoming slightly wheedling as he changes tack.
This offer does prompt Northern Ireland to look up from his DS, but only so that he can better sneer at it. "What the fuck would I do with a quid? Make it a tenner and I'll think about it."
"You cheeky wee bastard," Scotland says, but the retort is lacking its usual fervour, and it isn't backed up by the oft-repeated – but no longer actualised – threat of tanning Northern Ireland's hide, doubtless because he lacks the energy for either.
He does seem to consider Northern Ireland's proposal for a moment, but his habitual stinginess is far too deeply engrained to yield to the present's fleeting comfort, and he eventually rejects it with a curt, "Fuck off."
His head swivels then in England's direction. "En–" the name changes mid-syllable as Scotland raises his voice - "Wart, you're already up; go fetch me another can."
"Get off your lazy arse and get it yourself," England shouts back from the other end of the garden. "I'm busy, in case you haven't noticed."
Wales has noticed that England is giving every appearance of being busy, but despite all the clacking of secateurs that's happening in the vicinity of the rose bushes, no pruning actually seems to be occurring. Given that he and Scotland have nearly come to blows twice already this morning, Wales presumes England simply wanted an excuse to keep his distance for a little while.
Scotland sighs lustily before his gaze settles, pleadingly, on Wales.
"No," Wales tells him before he can ask. "I don't want to move any more than you do."
"I'll dehydrate," Scotland insists. "You wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?"
Attempting to profit from natural brotherly concern is a low blow, and thus something Wales feels no guilt in ignoring. "I'm sure I'll be able to live with myself."
Besides, it would take a bit more than the lack of lager on a sunny day to do his brother any real damage.
The lack of sun cream, however, is already looking like an entirely different story.