2012; Cardiff, Wales
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"Valerian has a very distinctive smell," Wales says, pressing his paring knife against the bundle of dried roots on his chopping board until small droplets of brownish oil begin to ooze from the skin. He wipes the flat of the blade against them, and then holds it up underneath Northern Ireland's nose.
Northern Ireland gags, and then pinches his nostrils shut. "Smells like arse," he says, twisting his head aside.
"It doesn't smell like arse," Wales says, frowning. "I believe the most common description of the scent is 'mature cheese'."
"If it was matured in someone's arse, maybe," Northern Ireland mutters.
The stubborn set of his jaw suggests that he has very firmly made up his mind on this point and is unlikely to be swayed otherwise, so it seems pointless to argue further. Ultimately, Wales supposes that it doesn't really matter if Northern Ireland thinks the herb smells like 'cheese', 'sweaty socks' or even, though Wales is still resistant to the idea, 'arse' as long as he remembers it distinctly enough that he can recognise it again in the future.
"The oil," Wales doggedly continues on, "is the active part, but there's not very much of it in a root and it's hard to extract, so they're generally prepared as teas, or tinctures by…"
He leaves the sentence hanging expectantly, and eventually Northern Ireland heaves a long, put upon-sounding sigh and supplies, "Soaking the herb in a solution of alcohol and water."
"Exactly," Wales says, beaming at him. It's good to have evidence that he hasn't just been talking to himself for the past hour – even though blankness of Northern Ireland's expression throughout has made him feel as though he was at times – and some measure of knowledge, no matter how slight, has been shared despite Northern Ireland's apparent efforts to resist the process. "Then you can use it to treat stress, insomnia, and –"
"Or," Northern Ireland says, drawing out the word, "I could just go to Tescos and buy some Nytol."
Wales' only surprise regarding the comment is its timing; he'd been expecting to hear something similar much sooner.
Its predictability does mean he knew to prepare himself for it, however, and so he can quickly reply, "What if you were nowhere near a Tescos?"
"Where the hell in this country isn't near a Tescos?" Northern Ireland's nostrils flare; clearly exasperated. "Jesus. I guess I'd just go to Boots or something then."
"What if there wasn't a Boots, either?" Wales presses on, uncomfortably aware that he sounds a little desperate now, and likely slightly ridiculous, too. "What if there wasn't a supermarket or chemist or anything else for miles around."
"The only time I'm ever that far from civilisation is when Scotland's forced me to go camping, and if I can't sleep then, it'd be because he was elbowing me in the face like he always does if he falls asleep first. Does valerian help with that?" Northern Ireland asks, arching one eyebrow.
"No," Wales has to admit, "but that's not the point…"
"What is the point, then? Why the fuck do I need to know about any of this?"
The muscles in Wales' temples tighten suddenly, sending a sharp bolt of pain shooting across his cheeks. It's only then that he realises how firmly his teeth have clenched. It's a bad sign.
He should probably heed it; take himself off to the kitchen to make an early start on their dinner so he can safely siphon off his growing irritation by being particularly vigorous in chopping potatoes.
But there's a distinct challenge in Northern Ireland's eyes as he glares across the dining table at him, and Wales finds it somehow impossible to back down from, despite his better judgement.
(He's long since learnt to ignore such looks from Scotland and England; he can only put this weakness down to not having centuries to work on achieving the same level of ambivalence towards Northern Ireland's.)
"I found herb lore very useful when I was your age," he grits out.
"Aye, it probably was back when people believed diseases were caused by fucking bad humours or something." Northern Ireland crosses his arms over his chest; a defensive gesture that is an exact mirror of Scotland's and which makes their resemblance even more striking than usual. "What use is it to me now?"
The spasm at Wales' temples is even stronger this time.
"No knowledge is ever wasted, Gogledd."
Wales can hear the faint, unintended growl in his own voice, and it horrifies him. He should really see about seeing to those potatoes pretty sharpish, or else just getting himself out on a nice relaxing stroll around the block if nothing else, because –
"Yes it is," Northern Ireland presses on relentlessly. "England said I had to learn Latin, but I've never had to use it, even though he told me it would be bloody 'essential'. Scotland made me learn how to use a sword, but, funnily enough, there's been a distinct lack of fucking duels in my life since then. Most of the stuff you guys insist on teaching me is completely fucking useless."
Normally, Wales would shrug off Northern Ireland's snub (writing it off as hormones, most likely, which a nice cup of tea and a bit of fresh air would doubtless settle down quite adequately), but it lands heavily upon a pile that's been steadily growing lately; built by all of his little brother's previous blunt dismissals of Wales' well-meaning advice, his recent surliness and uncharacteristically short temper.
Something within Wales that had already been creaking under the strain of that weight – which is usually as strong as steel; he's spent a lifetime diligently tempering it, after all – finally snaps.
Wales' anger is an unruly, all-consuming thing, which is why he has always been so careful about keeping it contained. When he was younger, it could be a valuable asset at times, carrying him unscathed through many battles, even when he had nothing more than his own teeth and nails to defend himself with.
Nowadays, it's nothing but a liability, because without an enemy at hand, he can only seem to channel it into foolish actions – most often, it seems, starting fist fights with Scotland or hurling things at England's head with a pinpoint accuracy honed by so many centuries' worth of practice with a bow – and even more foolish words.
"I just wanted to spend some time with you," he snarls. "Quality time, where we're not just sitting there both staring at the same screen."
Not usually that foolish, though.
Northern Ireland looks mortified. Wales feels mortified. Their combined embarrassment is so palpable it almost feels as though it's a third presence in the room, corpulent and jeering.
Which makes his righteous fury somewhat hard to maintain, and it largely burns away as a hot flush sears across his skin. Enough remains, however charred, that he nevertheless feels almost compelled to add, "We can always do something else if the herbs are that boring for you, though. Have a nice long chat. We never get to do that. You can tell me all about everything that's going on in your life. How your relationship with Iceland's going, perhaps?"
"I don't…" Northern swallows the rest of his words with an audible gulp, and then bows his head with what looks to Wales' to be a certain level of chastenment. When he looks up again, it's to offer Wales a (fairly feeble) smile and to reach for the second paring knife which he has heretofore ignored from the moment they sat down. "So," he says brightly, "apart from stress and insomnia, what else is valerian good for treating, then?"