5th February, 2011; Edinburgh, Scotland

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"Valentine's Day's a load of shite," Wales said as he and Scotland neared the shelves filled with mawkishly sentimental cards and overpriced boxes of chocolates that Tescos had thoughtfully set up between the newspapers and stationery.

"Hmm," Scotland replied noncommittally, quickening his pace.

He should have listened to his head not his stomach, and sodded the fact that the magazine aisle was the shortest route betwixt the booze and freezer sections. Wales was clearly not in the right frame of mind to be confronted with immediate evidence of the upcoming holiday, something which had already been made apparent by the way he had scuttled past both Card Factory and Clinton Cards with his head bowed on their way to the supermarket.

Wales, however, did not keep step with him, instead coming to a halt in front of the gaudy display to stare morosely down at a fluffy white teddy clutching a heart which announced to its future recipient that they were loved 'beary much'.

"Just an excuse to sell cards, really," he said, loudly enough that he distracted the bloke next to him from his perusal of 'What Car?''s Ford Focus article. He and Wales shared a wry smile.

Scotland backtracked swiftly, intending to drag his brother away before he could start bending the poor bloke's ear about whatever it was that had got his knickers in a twist, but Wales ignored him when he tugged on his sleeve.

"I mean, what's the point of all this crap?" he continued undeterred, tapping the teddy on the end of its shiny black nose with the tip of one finger. "It'd no doubt end up getting shoved to the back of a drawer on the fifteenth, you're out a tenner, and why? It's all bloody pointless."

"It's just a gesture, isn't it," Scotland said, eyeing the array of gifts over Wales' shoulder and suddenly wondering if he maybe should have bought France a pointless teddy bear or, oh, a faintly risqué mug he'd never use. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind before, but now he was faced with the full brunt of Valentine's commercialism, the idea seemed oddly compelling. "And I thought you liked all this crap."

Wales shrugged. "I've not been single for Valentine's for a hell of a long time. I guess you don't realise what a load of bollocks it is when you've got someone to share the delusion with."

Scotland was tempted to remind Wales of the many, many fourteenth of Februarys past when he'd swanned off to spend the night with someone he loved, or at least enjoyed the company of, whilst Scotland and England had to content themselves with a take-away, telly, and silent resentment, but that was likely to earn him nothing more than a swift elbow to the ribs. Or even worse. Tears were an ever-present danger when the subject of Wales' love-life arose, so it was best to tread delicately.

"I thought you were, you know, seeing someone at the moment?" France had, Scotland thought, been hinting at that possibility recently, given how he'd started boasting about his match-making skills again.

Judging by the way Wales scowled, however, France's bragging was either premature, or wholly unconnected to his little 'project' with Wales and Scotland had completely misread the situation. "There is someone who…" Wales' eyebrows knotted even tighter together above his nose. "Well, he's definitely interested – too interested – but I'm not. I'm really, really not. Other than him, there's nobody."

"Oh," Scotland said, mildly curious as to which of the male nations France had set Wales up with recently it might be, though not curious enough to actually ask his brother. He just hoped for Wales' sake that it wasn't New Zealand. "Look, like you said, it's all a bunch of crap made up by the card companies to make money, it doesn't really mean anything. Just… Just go out to the pub with your mates and make sure you get so wankered that you don't give a shit what day it is. You'll be fine."

Wales didn't look particularly convinced, nor did his grunt of acknowledgement sound it. He gave the teddy one last pat on the nose, hard enough that it fell onto its back, heart-shaped paws waving in the air.
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8th February, 2011; Edinburgh, Scotland

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Instead of immediately putting Wales' latest bout of romantic wretchedness out of his mind like he usually did, it continued to niggle at Scotland. Rather more than he was even aware of, apparently, because France managed to pick up on it during their next phone call.

"It's sweet that you're so worried about your brother," he said, which was a complete misreading of the situation, because Scotland wasn't worried or even concerned, he was just… Annoyed.

Yes, annoyed was probably the closest he could come to describing his feelings about the matter.

"I'm not," he was therefore quick to point out. "It's just that he gets himself so worked up about this sort of thing, and no doubt he'll be turning up at my house bawling about it on Tuesday. Then I won't be able to get rid of him for days." It was still, strictly speaking, Ireland's turn next on the Wales rota, but as Wales was much more likely to hop onto a train than a ferry if he were upset, Scotland or England were usually his first port of call, regardless. "It's just self-preservation, you ken."

"If you say so." France sounded sceptical, and also slightly amused; not exactly the tone of someone who was taking Scotland's words at face value. He had recently concocted some utterly bizarre ideas about the condition of Scotland's current relationship with his brothers, and Scotland wouldn't be surprised if France half believed that he was secretly worrying himself sleepless over Wales and just too embarrassed to admit to it.

"I do," Scotland said firmly. "I just don't want to have to deal with him, is all; he's a real pain in the arse when he gets like that."

Wales was probably one of the calmest, most level-headed people Scotland knew for the most part, but he seemed to pay for that composure double-fold with his inability to keep from crumpling like a wet tissue at the faintest hint of romantic difficulty. Then, it seemed, the pressure that had built up from months and months of taking the high road in arguments, and not shouting at England as was the most sensible option, suddenly exploded in an unstoppable geyser of tears and self pity.

"I don't suppose you know anyone who might fancy going out for a date with him that night?" Scotland asked. He'd lost track quite some time ago as to how many nations Wales had been on dates with, but he'd last seen the list of potential candidates France had drawn up only a couple of weeks ago, there had still seemed to be a fair number that his brother hadn't already blown his chances with.

"I'm afraid not," France said. "I have made some inquiries, but it seems that everyone already has plans."

Or, as Scotland suspected might be the case, word had started getting around about what a crap date Wales was. "He mentioned there was someone who was interested…"

"And I'm under strict instructions not to mention anything to him." France laughed ruefully. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help, mon coeur."

"That's okay," Scotland said, sighing. "I'm sure I'll think of something eventually."
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10th February, 2011; Edinburgh, Scotland

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Scotland might not have France's connections, but he did have a large family who were, by and large, generally unattached come Valentine's Day. However, even Northern Ireland and Isle of Man were busy on the fourteenth, or at least claimed to be.

England, although a long shot nowadays, was his last hope.

His answer to Scotland's inquiry about his plans was a surprising, and vehement, "Absolutely bugger all," however.

"I thought you'd be off doing something with America," Scotland said.

"I was supposed to be," England grumbled, "but there's to be 'no unessential travel', apparently. Budget cuts and all that."

Scotland had also received that email, but ignored it as he was paying his own way to Paris. England was more than capable of funding his own flight, too, but no doubt felt duty bound to obey the letter of the law rather than the spirit so that he could 'set a good example'. Exactly whom his good example was intended to instruct was unclear, but he'd probably get a lot of mileage out of reminding Scotland about his noble sacrifice over the coming months.

"That's a shame," Scotland said stiffly, pre-emptively irritated at the prospect and finding himself unable to summon up much sympathy for his brother. "Wales is going to be at a loose end, as well, you know. Maybe you two could go out somewhere together?"

"Spend Valentine's Day with Wales?" England said cautiously, as though expecting Scotland to leap in any moment and reassure him that he'd misunderstood the question.

"Beats getting pissed on your own and then crying yourself to sleep, doesn't it?"

England made spluttering, choked noise of protest, but it quickly subsided, doubtless because that was exactly what he'd been meaning to do and thus knew any objection would sound thoroughly unconvincing. "I suppose so," he admitted, somewhat reluctantly, after a moment's silence.
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14th February, 2011; London, England

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When England had proposed that they spend the evening of Valentine's Day together, Wales had presumed they'd just get a few beers in, maybe watch a film, and moan about how crappy it was to be alone on what was, supposedly, the most romantic night of the year.

He wasn't expecting to be told to dress smartly and meet his brother at a restaurant, or that England would thrust a small box into his hands before they went inside.

"What's this in aid of?" Wales asked, easing off the ribbon bestrewed lid. There were six dark chocolate Belgian truffles inside, each nestled in its own individual gold-edged paper cup. "Jesus Christ, you are aware this isn't actually a date, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," England snapped, his cheeks flushing. "They were intended for someone else but it seems I won't get chance to gift them any time soon. It seemed a shame for them to go to waste, so…" He trailed off with a frown, and then grabbed at the chocolates. "Look, if you're going to be a twat about it, I'll have them back."

"Sorry, Lloegr," Wales said, holding the box out of reach. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, you just surprised me. Thank you, really."

England's frown didn't abate, but he was apparently somewhat mollified, because he didn't make another attempt to retake his present. "That's okay," he said.

"It does make me feel a little guilty, though," Wales couldn't help but add.

"How so?"

"Well, I didn't buy you anything."

"Fuck off, Wales."
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England and Wales' table seemed like an afterthought, tucked against the wall between the bathroom and kitchen doors, nudged into rocking every time someone had to squeeze past to use either one. Nevertheless, Wales was still surprised that England managed to get them a table at all at such short notice.

"We've got Scotland to thank for that, apparently," England said. "The head chef's his mate's cousin. Or his mate's wife's cousin." He shrugged. "Someone's cousin, anyhow. I can't quite recall whose."

Judging by the price of the food, Wales suspected that Scotland had never eaten in the restaurant himself unless whoever-it-was's cousin was particularly generous with friend's discounts. "I would have been happy enough staying in at yours, you know," Wales said, flicking through the menu in the desperate search for a single course that didn't cost more than he usually paid for an entire meal.

"No point in hiding ourselves away just because we've found ourselves with limited options for company this evening." There was an acerbic note to England's voice which suggested to Wales that his brother's choice of entertainment was probably motivated in part by a certain amount of defiance, and, if he were to ask, he'd likely discover that America had decided that he wasn't going to spend his own Valentine's Day simply moping around alone despite England's cancelled trip. "Might as well make the most of it."
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Wales ended up ordering the salad followed by the fish, but what he might have saved on the food, they more than made up for in wine.

England had discovered a sudden interest in the stuff, and was adamant that Wales had to try this white, and that red, and how about this dessert wine? There were supposedly all sorts of notes and subtleties that England was learning how to discern, and he tutted at Wales when he insisted that all he could taste was alcohol and varying degrees of acidity, as though he'd been a connoisseur all his life and not completely incapable of telling a Merlot from a Cabernet Sauvignon not even six months ago.
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Wales didn't know whether to blame the Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, or even the postprandial brandies for the fact that he and England found themselves stumbling into a club after the meal.

Whatever it was, it was clearly having an extremely detrimental effect on his thought processes, because he didn't dance. He never danced anymore, and had in fact gone out of his way to avoid it even when it was just about the only acceptable method of public socialisation beyond card games.

"What the hell are we doing here?" he yelled into England's ear as they pushed through the crush of bodies on their way towards the bar.

"I came here with Scotland a couple of years ago," England shouted back. "I think we had a good time, though I must admit my memories of that night are a little hazy."

Very hazy, Wales suspected, as England usually couldn't bring himself to set foot on a dance floor for anything more energetic than a waltz nowadays. "I don't know why we couldn't just go back to yours. The booze here's bound to be a bloody extortionate –"

"Nonsense," England said sharply. "Nothing better to cap a wonderful meal than a nice dance."

"Fucking hell, Lloegr, we are not on a date."
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There may, Wales admitted, perhaps have been a little bit of dancing later – dancing with England, even – but that was definitely all the vodka's fault.
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As was the fact that he later caught himself thinking that this probably wasn't the worst Valentine's he'd ever had, either.