18th June, 1940; London, England
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'Whatever happens, the flame of the French resistance must not be extinguished and will not be extinguished. Tomorrow, as today, I will speak on the radio from London.'
In some strange detached corner of his mind that hardly seems part of him, England thinks, very calmly, 'Well, that's that then. The beginning of the end.'
General de Gaulle's address contained no new information, no great revelations, but hearing it made things seem real in a way that no dry war report ever could. Paris has been taken, France has fallen, and the nation himself is lost to them until such day as they have strength enough to wrest him back from his captors.
De Gaulle is right, of course, they do have allies. England has the might of his Empire behind him, he has thousands of Poland's men to call upon, and thousands of France's who managed to escape before the jaws of Germany's trap sprang shut. Even so, in this moment, England feels very alone. The enemy is almost at his door now, and the Channel does not feel to be the sturdy gate it always has in the past.
Although England hadn't consciously noticed that an announcer had started speaking after de Gaulle, when his voice cuts out abruptly, the sudden silence is startling enough to make him lift his head from its tired bow.
He sees Wales standing by the radio, his fingers gripped, white-jointed, around the dial. Their gazes catch and hold for an instant. Wales' eyes are unnaturally bright, tear-sheened, and England supposes his own look the same.
"I'll just go and check on North." Wales turns his head away quickly, addressing his next words towards the door. "He's been oddly quiet, even for him. Maybe I could get us all something to drink whilst I'm at it."
It's not really a question, so England doesn't give him an answer, nor does he offer to lend his brother a hand. He suspects Wales wants to be by himself for a while, and England understands the impulse. He shares it, and when Wales has left for the kitchen, his own wish to be alone might as well have been granted.
Scotland is barely a presence in the room, for all that his body is occupying the armchair next to England's.
Though Scotland can be quiet, he cannot usually be still. Even when there is call for it, his fingers will start drumming, or his feet will start tapping; as though, like a shark, his very survival depends on his remaining in constant motion.
Yet England has not seen him as much as blink from the moment they all sat down to listen to de Gaulle's broadcast. His hands are clasped together loosely, resting in his lap, and his face is blank to the point of vacancy.
When they were told of Paris' surrender four days ago, Scotland had been like a wild animal, smashing anything he could get his hands on and blindly throwing punches around with little apparent care for where they might connect. England had only just managed to save the Prime Minister from having his nose broken, and it had taken not only his and Wales' efforts, but those of two burly civil servants besides, to wrestle their brother into submission and then escort him back home from the Palace of Westminster.
England had expected that reaction, had braced himself for it, but he does not know what to do with this. His brother has always fought against everything to the bitter end – past the possibility of victory, even past the point of pride – but now he looks as though he has already accepted defeat.
It's unprecedented, and thus England has no idea what he should do or say, or even whether he should ignore the situation entirely: go, shut the door firmly behind him, and forget he saw anything at all.
Leaving does seem safest, even if it might not necessarily the best thing to do, and England starts to get to his feet.
The movement seems to serve as some sort of catalyst to Scotland and, all of a sudden, his body shudders into to life once again. His shoulders heave upwards and he takes a deep, hiccoughing gulp of air. And then another, and another, and England doesn't recognise what is happening for a shamefully long stretch of time, because despite all the wounds and losses Scotland's suffered, despite all the wars, and sickness and death, England has never once seen his brother cry.
And indeed he cries like someone unused to it, someone who's never had to learn fight back tears until it's safe to let them fall. He just lets the sobs come unchecked, so loud and so violent that they make his back arch and his face turn crimson from the force of them.
England should still leave, as he has no way of knowing how Scotland might react once he wrestles back enough control over himself to comprehend what he has unwittingly allowed England to bear witness to.
His thoughts are such a jumble that England cannot tell if it's pity that drives him, or compassion, but when he does begin to move again, he finds himself approaching his brother instead of drawing away.
Scotland looks up at him when he nears – his eyes are already bloodshot, red-rimmed – and his breathing evens out a little as he struggles to speak. "I shouldn't have left him," he manages to gasp out eventually, the words phlegmy and ill-formed. "I promised him, England. I promised I'd always protect him, but as soon as things got a bit difficult, I just turned tail and ran with the rest of you."
Scotland's lifts his right hand as though he might want to reach out for England, but it stops inches short of making contact with his arm. As he seems so uncertain, England makes the decision for both of them and closes the gap himself. Scotland latches onto him immediately, weaving their fingers together so tightly that England's knuckles creak under the strain.
"Things weren't 'a bit difficult'," England says firmly. "They were disastrous. We were outgunned, outflanked, and if we hadn't left when we did? Well, then you could have stayed right there with him in whatever dark hole they've likely thrown him in now. But what good would that do? This is something you can't fight alone.
"Besides, your people need you to be here, Scotland. That's far more important than any promises you might have made, surely."
"Aye, it is, but…" Scotland sighs shakily. "I know you're right, but I still feel like a coward, you ken. If I could split myself in two, I would do, so one half of me could rot alongside him if needs be, just so he wasn't on his own with it."
England isn't sure what to say to that, because they don't really speak about France, not like this, and Scotland has never once been this candid about his feelings for the other nation. With his defences down in a way they never have been before, though, it doesn't seem surprising that all manner of things that they usually protect might come spilling out.
"It won't come to that," England says, with a certainty he doesn't really feel. "Even if it takes us fucking decades, we'll help him fight his way free again somehow."
Scotland manages a small smile, lopsided and tremulous. "Never thought I'd hear you say anything like that, England. I thought you hated him."
England has never been entirely sure how he feels about France, but he knows he doesn't hate him, despite having every reason to. He has been almost as much of a constant in England's life as his siblings and, as with them, England cannot imagine a world without him in it, never mind how often he might make claims to the contrary.
It is fortunate, then, that their kind so very rarely die quickly. France may well rot in his captivity, but they still have time on their sides, no matter how dire things may currently look.
"He's been a better neighbour of late than the one we have at the moment, if nothing else," England says, which raises a weak chuckle from Scotland.
His face has lost its angry flush even if his eyes are not yet dry, and the improvement makes England feel awkward to be clutching at his hand; an imposition Scotland would never allow under normal circumstances.
Scotland breaks their clasp before England has chance to, however, and then pushes gently at England's shoulder with his knuckles, easing him away. "Wales has been a long time getting those drinks," he says. "Go and let him know he should bring me a whisky, not fucking tea."
It's as much of a request for Wales' company as it is a dismissal, and usually England would resent the implication that his own has been found wanting in comparison to their brother's. Just this once, though, he thinks he can forgive Scotland for the snub.
"I'll make sure the glass is filled to the brim," he says.
-
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Wales had expected his tears to start falling from the moment he walked out of the living room, but they do not. They still pool against his lower lids, prickling and blood hot, but do not grow heavy enough to overflow.
He feels some guilt about the lack – he has cried so many times over far more frivolous things, after all – but at the same time, he is glad of it, because he already feels as though he is misappropriating some portion of a grief that does not really belong to him.
Which is ridiculous, because, no matter what else he may feel for France, he has known him for over a millennium and they've been friends for most of that time, albeit somewhat estranged ones as of late. Of course he fears for France's safety, and of course he mourns what has happened to him, and he's sure his brothers would anticipate no less, but even so, he can't help but think it would seem a little unkind to give into his need to weep when it is so very clear to him that Scotland needs to but cannot.
Wales has only seen his brother cry once before, not long after their mother died and he thought himself alone, and even that may not be a true memory as so very few of them from that time are. Crying is a catharsis Scotland has never allowed himself, and his sorrow has always been spent in anger and violence instead.
His devastation is evident in every harsh line of his expression, but he seems to be holding himself back from expressing it, judging by how rigidly he's keeping himself still. Doubtless the explosion is merely delayed, and eventually he and England will have to step in to help keep it contained, just as they had in the Palace of Westminster, but Wales will not begrudge having to do so.
It's no matter to him if his brother needs to work through his despair with his fists, because anything is better, surely, than forcing it down unacknowledged to where it might become a poison that will eat him from the inside out.
-
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Northern Ireland is still sitting at the kitchen table exactly where Wales had left him when he went to listen to de Gaulle's broadcast, scribbling with his crayons on a scrap of butcher's paper.
Wales swipes his eyes dry with his shirt sleeve, forces his lips into something he hopes will pass as a smile, and then goes to pretend admiration for his little brother's endeavours.
Northern Ireland's drawing consists of several seemingly unconnected brown blobs that Wales supposes are meant to represent an animal of some kind, solely on the evidence of the four, similarly unconnected, straightish lines hovering below the largest blob at the bottom of the page.
"That's wonderful, North," he says, because no matter what Scotland may believe, Wales is sure Northern Ireland's strength of character will develop well enough without scathing critiques on his art at such a tender age. "It's a lovely…"
Wales' imagination fails him, but Northern Ireland steps helpfully into the breach to supply, "Horse." He squints down at the paper, nose wrinkling. "Or dog."
"You don't know which?"
Northern Ireland shrugs, as though dismissing the distinction as wholly unimportant, which, Wales supposes, it is, just so long as he's enjoying himself in the process.
Wales doesn't want to disrupt that enjoyment, disturb Northern Ireland's peace, but he thinks it unwise to not let him know at least a little of what's been going on, if only to prepare him for the possibility that Scotland may well come rampaging through the house at any moment, working out his anger on anything breakable he can get his hands on.
He takes a seat next to Northern Ireland, and then very tentatively rests his palm against the top of his brother's head. Northern Ireland frowns and his back stiffens, but he makes no attempt to move away from the contact. He does shoot Wales a glare that implies he finds the intrusion distinctly annoying, however.
Wales briefly runs his fingers through Northern Ireland's fine, soft hair before acceding to his brother's unvoiced request and taking his hand away again. He opens his mouth but the words he meant to say seem inadequate to him at the very last second, and he pauses to reconsider them.
France may not visit them more than once a year, but he is so generous to Northern Ireland when he does – gifting him with expensive toys and clothes that England invariably hides away with the excuse that they're too fine to be played with or worn – that Northern Ireland is bound to miss him. It does not seem right to allow him to keep hoping that France might call by anytime soon.
Still, he's too young to know any of the specifics, so Wales simply tells him, "France has been captured, so we're probably not going to be able to see him for a bit. We're all really upset about it, but Scotland especially, and, well, you know how Scotland can get when he's upset."
Northern Ireland gives a sharp nod, as he's seen Scotland smash plenty of England's ornaments in the few short years he's lived with them, and for reasons far pettier than this. His rapidly paling face suggests that he expects to see far worse now, however.
"There's no need for you to worry about it, though," Wales says. "England and I will look after him, and make sure he doesn't do too much damage."
Northern Ireland nods again, but it appears he was worried about far more than Scotland, as he then quickly adds, "Are you going to go fighting again to save France?"
He seems far too young to be thinking about war, too, but then again Wales was training with the sling and the sword himself when he was no bigger than Northern Ireland, and he'd seen plenty of blood shed in his name. War, Wales is sure, will be part of his reality once more soon enough, so it's no real kindness to try and shelter him from the likelihood of it now.
"We will," he says, "and not just for France's sake. We just don't know when we'll have to leave yet."
Northern Ireland's head slumps down, and though Wales waits in silence, expecting to field more questions, none are forthcoming. Eventually, he decides that his brother likely needs some space and time to get his head around this new information first, gives his knee a reassuring squeeze, and then says briskly, "Well, I'd best get the kettle on and –"
"I wouldn't bother," England says, and Wales glances over to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning his weight against the jamb. He looks in desperate need of the support it offers him; wan and exhausted. "Scotland has demanded you take him some whisky, and I think that sounds like a splendid idea all round, don't you?"
-
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England has poured Scotland a far more generous measure than usual, and Wales struggles to hold the glass steady so that it doesn't overflow as he shoulders open the living room door. He doesn't quite succeed, and a sizeable portion of whisky splashes over the rim and then trickles down his wrist to soak into his shirt cuff.
He's so preoccupied with cursing his own clumsiness and the unpleasant sensation of wet cloth pressing against his skin that he doesn't really look at Scotland until he draws close enough to his chair that he can hand him his glass.
What he sees makes his breath catch hard, because he can think of no explanation for the puffy redness around Scotland's eyes and the glistening dampness of the skin beneath them other than the normally unthinkable one.
Even after all the slaps he's been given over the centuries for trying, and all the jeering and mockery besides, Wales' first instinct is still to embrace his brother. He fights against the urge as best he can, but his arms still lift slightly and that small, involuntary movement is sufficient, it seems, to betray his intentions.
"Don't even think about it," Scotland says predictably in response. "You've wasted enough whisky as it is already. Go and put the glasses down."
Wales obeys unthinkingly and mechanically, setting the whisky down on the nearest occasional table to hand. When he turns back around again, some useless platitude or other on his lips, his heart gives a shocked lurch in his chest because Scotland had somehow managed to step up close behind him without his noticing. For such a big man, he can move near silently when he wants to.
Scotland appears to look straight through him, unseeing, and his own arms begin to rise. Wales shuffles his feet outwards, widening his stance a little to steady himself against the blow he's sure is soon to come. It isn't the first time his brother has worked out his frustrations by provoking him into a fight and it likely won't be the last. The situation is dire enough that Wales doesn't even consider attempting to talk him down as he usually would.
Scotland's outstretched hands don't form fists, however, nor do they go for Wales' throat. Instead, they're hooked around Wales' shoulders and then Scotland pulls him closer, into the hug he hadn't allowed Wales to give.
The tears that Wales had hitherto managed to suppress spring to his eyes once more, and a sob is loosed from his throat before he has chance to bite it back.
"Don't fucking start, Cymru," he says gruffly, cupping one huge hand around the back of Wales' head and pressing down gently until Wales' cheek is pillowed against his shoulder. "You'll probably set me off again if you do."
Wales forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly, and the need to cry gradually ebbs away from him again. Scotland holds him for a little longer, and then drops his arms as suddenly as he had raised them. He seems determined not to look at Wales afterwards, and his cheeks are flushed with colour, but Wales suspects both reactions are due to embarrassment rather than having been caused by the resurgence of any other emotion.
"I don't want you to tell me it's not my fault," Scotland says, his eyes fixed steadily on the room's far wall. "Or that he'll be all right. Or we'll do everything we can to help him. I know all that; I don't need to hear it."
"What do you need, then?" Wales asks although he doesn't really expect Scotland to answer. It's not often he deigns to give any pointers on that score.
To his surprise, Scotland doesn't ignore the question outright, though his voice does waver with uncertainty as he says, "I want… I want you to drink whisky with me, tell me one of your long, pointless stories." He shrugs helplessly. "I just need to pretend that things are normal for a while. We can work out the rest later."