1736; London, England
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Deare
Wales pauses partway through forming an s, wondering whether or not 'dearest' might perhaps be a little premature, given that he and France have spent but two nights together. Nights which were extremely satisfying for – he hopes – both parties, but still only two all the same.
The quill makes the decision for him unequivocally; he's paused for too long, and it has spilled a puddle of ink onto the paper, turning his half-formed letter into a bloated, malformed full stop. He sighs, crumpling the sheet into a loose ball, and then replaces it with another from the pile at the side of his desk.
Somewhere beyond his closed door, one of the maids screams, sounding a little scared but mostly just surprised, judging by the pitch. The deep rumble of Scotland's voice swells into the silence left as the sound fades, quickly followed by England's, harsh and cutting.
Wales stares at the blank page, running the tip of the quill's vane back and forth across his bottom lip, ruffling the barbs. Even once he solves the thorny issue of a suitable opening, he is unsure how he will proceed. Beyond perhaps a comment on the current weather conditions (unseasonably warm and consequently quite uncomfortable), and his hopes that his missive will find France well, he is at a loss as to what to write. He knows what he wants to write – that he's already beginning to guiltily hope for another war because he fears Scotland and England will rip each other apart in peacetime; that two nights were not enough, that he longs for more and does France want that, too? – but that doesn't mean he can.
A door slams downstairs, forcefully enough to make the paintings on Wales' walls rattle on their chains, and his inkpot wobbles as the desk judders along with the resounding impact. Wales reaches out one hand without looking up, steadying it before it can overbalance.
As inspiration seems to be slow in coming, Wales puts aside the letter in favour of the poem he's already started. Writing that is easier, at least, because he does not have to make himself plain. He can shape rhythm and texture to speak for his feelings where he cannot find the bare words to explain them. France may not understand what he creates, but Wales finds that England's language is too heavy to work with, weighed down as though each word has been dipped in lead, whereas his own soars. France might still appreciate the illustrations and scrollwork, however.
Scotland's footsteps on the stairs are quick and heavy, and England's voice drifts up after them. It's largely an angry, incomprehensible growl, but Wales thinks he can make out, "stubborn fucking idiot," somewhere in the midst of it. Scotland's reply is a long string of extremely inventive blasphemies in a muddled mixture of Scots, Gàidhlig, and English.
A distant, brittle-sounding crash suggests that yet another of England's vases, or perhaps one of his prized porcelain figurines, has met the fate of so many of its unfortunate forebears, and then the door to Wales' chambers slams open so suddenly that Wales does not have the chance to hide the poem again. Instead, he simply rests one elbow on top of it as he turns to greet Scotland's agitated entrance.
His attempt at a smile is met by a thunderous scowl, so he strives to keep his expression completely neutral afterwards whilst his brother paces around the small room and loudly impugns England's intelligence, honour, and even his parentage, despite the fact there's every chance that that is something they all share.
Eventually, Scotland runs out of either words, breath or both, and he comes to a halt by Wales' desk, leaning all of his not inconsiderable weight against it and nearly upsetting the inkpot again.
"All done?" Wales asks.
Scotland smiles faintly. "Think so."
"And do you feel any better for it?"
"A little." Scotland chuckles. "He chucked that horrible little cross-eyed dog at me this time. If nothing else, at least the décor's been marginally improved."
Wales' own laughter sticks fast in his throat when Scotland's eyes fix on the sheet of paper beneath his arm. Glancing down, Wales realises with slow-creeping horror that one of the verses upon it is still visible, and Scotland's mouth moves silently around the words, clearly trying to make sense out of them. Scotland's Welsh has deteriorated quite badly over the years since Wales stopped using it in conversation, and he has never been able to read it fluently, but he remembers enough that he will no doubt puzzle out the meaning soon enough.
The guilt that Wales has fought against acknowledging rises again his chest, bringing with it a numbing coldness to his lungs and paradoxical flush to his cheeks. Whenever Scotland speaks of France, which is very seldom indeed, he insists that he no longer cares for him as he once did. Wales doesn't believe him, has never believed him, and yet he still allowed himself to be seduced because he's weak, apparently, and a dreadful bro–
"Are you writing a poem about cakes?" Scotland asks, sounding baffled and also perhaps a little concerned.
Wales' laughter dislodges itself in a sudden rush. "Yes," he wheezes in between deep gulps of air. "Yes, I am."