3rd December, 2009; London, England
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"There's definitely something going on with him," England said, his narrowed eyes following Scotland's movements closely as their brother walked across the pub, heading towards the bar.
"What makes you think that?" Wales asked.
"One, he's laughed at three of my jokes; two, I've seen him smile at least five times; three –"
"Jesus, Lloegr, you mean you actually keep a count of that sort of thing?" Wales said, chuckling.
England scowled at him briefly, but continued ticking off the points on his fingers without remonstrating further. "Three, he hasn't complained once today. About anything. And most importantly, four: he offered to buy a round. Without any prompting whatsoever."
England presented this last proof as though it were damning evidence in a trial, and then leant back in his chair, the combative gleam in his eye obviously daring Wales to dispute it.
Wales couldn't; he'd noted exactly the same oddities in Scotland's behaviour as England, but unlike England, he was fairly certain he knew exactly what had caused them. Three hundred years of living in close proximity with Scotland had taught Wales to be something of an expert on reading his brother's body language; an essential survival skill, he had discovered, when dealing with someone who was as short tempered as he was taciturn regarding his emotions. By now, he could tell where Scotland's mood fell on a scale of 'mildly irritated' to 'imminent explosion with a chance of broken limbs' simply by the observing the exact angle of his eyebrows.
Even though it had been many, many years since he'd last witnessed them, Wales had discovered that it was still just as easy to recognise the signs which pointed towards Scotland having had some sort of romantic success recently. It wasn't knowledge he cherished and never had been, but it was impossible to ignore, nevertheless.
It was also impossible to draw that knowledge to its natural conclusion, though Wales had initially made a valiant effort to do exactly that. His advice had worked. Whether it was the poems, or the whisky, or simply dogged persistence on France's part, Scotland had finally caved in and taken him back. Although he had eventually accepted that inevitable truth, Wales was still torn on how he felt about it.
Relieved, of course, and happy for his brother, but there was an ugly stain of jealousy there, too. One which had muddied his feelings for nigh on five hundred years, and, despite his best efforts, had proved impossible to scrub away entirely.
He wasn't in love with France, and never had been. Or, rather, had never let himself be, save for that one year in the eighteenth century when he'd let his heart strive further than his head, when he'd forgotten in the shock of unexpected reciprocation and the heat of passion that he would and must always love Scotland more, but that had been long buried, on both his and France's parts. The guilt remained, though, all the stronger because Wales sometimes found himself idly wondering what might have been if only he'd been a little older when they first met, or a little bolder and more determined.
Soon, the initial sting (the ridiculous sting; he'd wanted this for Scotland, after all) will wear off and he'll feel glad for his brother, but for now, he really doesn't want to think about it, never mind discuss it.
Wales shrugged. "I guess he's just happy. He's not incapable, you know."
England's eyes narrowed down to thin slits again. "He's hooked up with the Frog again, hasn't he. I fucking knew it was too good to last."
Wales was slightly taken aback by England's sudden leap of logic before realising that despite England's inability, or more likely, stubborn refusal to intuit Scotland's state of mind, Wales was probably an open book to him, as Scotland was to Wales.
"Whatever Scotland said over the past few months, I think he never stopped wanting to go back to him." Wales rocked his pint glass, watching the last dregs of lager swirl around the bottom so he didn't have to look at England. He didn't think anyone had ever guessed he liked France rather more than he should, but if England could read him that easily at the moment? I'm glad they worked things out, Wales told himself firmly. Nothing but glad.
"Well, he should have done," England said, forceful and angry. "He's never caused him anything but..." Heartache, Wales supplied internally when England paused, because he knew his brother would never say it aloud, even though he most likely believed it. Sure enough, England cleared his throat with a rough cough then finished with, "Trouble. What the hell's he thinking?"
That he loves him. Wales wouldn't say that aloud either for both their sakes, so he simply shook his head.
"Probably not thinking at all, at least not with his head. Fucking idiot." England's voice dropped low on the final word, again unintentionally betraying something of the concern he had been exhibiting over the past few months regarding Scotland's situation - manifesting, as it always did, in brusque attempts at distraction that Scotland invariably interpreted as nagging - albeit transmuted to a new form now. "And I'm going to tell him just that, as soon as he gets back."
Of course he will. And Scotland will no doubt tell him to mind his own business and fuck off, which will get England's back up, and sooner or later, a punch will be thrown, or a drink poured over someone's head. It's as inevitable as sunrise, as the ebb and flow of the tide, but, for once, Wales was guiltily glad for it.
No one will expect him to be pleased - he never is when they fight - and during the cold shoulder Scotland will doubtless give him for a few days afterwards for not immediately turning on England, he can work through the pettiness of his faint envy, and smile with honesty when Scotland formally announces his news.