1st November, 2011; London, England
-
Neither Wales nor Scotland had been particularly concerned when England disappeared suddenly and without explanation immediately following their meeting with the PM that morning. It certainly hadn't been one of their worst joint meetings – there was no call for a subsequent trip to A&E, after all – but neither had it been one of their best, and it came as no surprise that England might want a little time alone afterwards to kick inanimate objects, or scream obscenities at some unsuspecting junior civil servants as he tended to do when he felt he couldn't do either of those things to his brothers instead.
They also weren't concerned when they returned to England's house a couple of hours later to discover that its owner wasn't in residence, and simply took the opportunity to raid England's drinks cabinet and help themselves to the expensive brandy that they never usually got to sample because their brother was a stingy bastard.
Wales did begin to get a little anxious when the start times for The Archers and EastEnders both came and went with no sign of England's return, but the judicious application of brandy soon soothed the feeling away.
It also soothed him into a light doze during DIY SOS, which was rudely and abruptly interrupted mid-News at Ten by the horrible, discordant jumble of notes Northern Ireland had set his mobile's ringtone to the last time they met up. (He'd tried in vain to change it back to his old one, but beyond the ability to make calls and add new numbers to his contact list, his phone was an unfathomable mystery to him.)
"Are you going to answer that or not?" Scotland asked, reaching across the sofa to shake Wales' shoulder roughly as though in an effort to wake him up, despite the fact that Wales was certain it was obvious his eyes were now open. "That's the third time it's gone off, and that fucking tune's doing my head in. I would have answered it myself, but I didn't want to go fishing around in your trouser pockets. Wouldn't want to give you the wrong idea."
Wales was beginning to fear that Scotland was never going to let him live down that one tiny lapse of judgment brought about by a brain-liquefying mix of painkillers, desperation, and alcohol. It was annoying enough that Wales sometimes wished the three of them would return to their old habit of sweeping everything personal they accidentally discovered about one another under the rug and ignoring its existence; a return which Scotland was the greatest proponent of otherwise. He didn't dignify the jab with either a retort or a rebuttal, however, because it only seemed to encourage his brother.
The number on the mobile's display was unfamiliar, but the voice that replied to Wales' tentative greeting certainly wasn't. It was, Jim, the landlord of England's current local, and the clipped tone he employed was one Wales had heard many times over the past few years when chucking out time rolled around.
"Am I speaking to Arthur Kirkland's brother?"
"One of them. It's Dylan," Wales said, desperately hoping that Jim didn't associate the name with Wales' nasty habit of passing out in his establishment's toilets at the end of a night's heavy drinking, and having to be carried out by one of the bar staff.
"Thank God." Jim's relief seemed sufficient enough that all toilet-related incidents would have been forgiven, regardless. "The last two numbers he gave me turned out to be for take-aways. You need to come and pick him up, because I don't think he's going to make it home on his own. I called a taxi, but he threw up all over the back seat and they refused to take him."
"Fucking hell," Wales groaned. If England had been drinking since he stormed off from Number 10, then Jim had probably had to deal with far worse than puking in taxis over the course of the evening. It was a wonder he hadn't just turfed him out to sleep on the street. "Alasdair and I'll be straight round."
-
-
England was sitting slumped on the edge of the pavement outside the Crown and Anchor, his head hanging down between his knees and missing one of his shoes.
He looked up groggily when Wales tapped his shoulder, but seemed to be having some difficulty either recognising him or focusing on his face, because it took him quite some time to spit out something which approximated Wales' name (and only then if one were being extremely charitable).
"Yeah, it's me," Wales said, hunkering down in front of his brother. As his viewpoint changed, he noticed several things that hadn't been evident at a distance under the diffuse glow of the street lights: England's eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and his entire face had the soft puffiness which suggested a lengthy bout of weeping. His next touch was more gentle as a consequence, hand shaping softly around the curve of one of England's calves. "Are you okay?"
"'m fine," England said, voice thick and nasal. "All fine now."
"Now?" Wales tightened his fingers fractionally. "Lloegr… England, what the hell happened earlier?"
"Fuckin' phone call's wha' happened." England's eyes shone as fresh tears welled up in them, and he rubbed at them almost brutally with his knuckles. "Fuckin' phone."
He remained silent after that pronouncement, and it seemed likely that he wouldn't elaborate further without prompting, but Scotland asked, "So, what was the call about?" before Wales was able to.
To the untrained ear, he'd no doubt sound nothing but frustrated, but Wales could detect a faint thread of worry weaving its way through his words. It wasn't much, but compared to how tightly he would have reined himself in just a couple of years ago, held his tongue in order to prevent even such a small slip because he knew it would not go unnoticed by Wales, it was still progress.
England's shoulders lifted in a loose, sloppy shrug.
"Was it something to do with work?" Wales asked.
England shook his head.
"One of the weans?"
Another shake.
Wales didn't really want to ask, but there was really only one person who could consistently drive England to both drink far more than he should, and cry in public, drunk or sober. "Was it… Is everything going all right with America?"
Horrifyingly, England's expression took on the indulgent, dreamy cast it tended towards recently whenever he was reminded of the still novel fact that he had a sex life that didn't solely involve his right hand nowadays. "Everything's jus' great with America. Fantastic. He's wonderfully flexible, you know."
Scotland started coughing very loudly; Wales presumed it was either caused by choking down laughter or one of the typical paroxysms of embarrassment Scotland was sent into whenever he was reminded that England did, in fact, possess a dick, no matter how hard Scotland tried to pretend otherwise.
So it fell to Wales to ask the equally distressing, but nevertheless necessary, question that arose naturally from the answer to the first. He and Scotland were well aware that there was some sort of Arrangement going on, although, thankfully, one whose exact nature England had heretofore kept obscured from them. "And Portugal?"
England's expression didn't change. "Also fantastic. She's very –"
"Right," Wales said hurriedly, having no desire hear an endorsement of whichever of Portugal's charms England found particularly noteworthy, "that's… good to hear. We really don't need the details, though."
England pouted - actually pouted; Wales didn't think he'd seen him do so since he was a very small child being refused piggy-back rides by Scotland - and then said,"You're just jealous." The petulance in his expression was mirrored in his voice. "Probably because your boyfriend is a complete wanker."
"He's got you there," Scotland interjected before Wales could protest. "Not even I can argue with that."
Wales sat back on his heels so he could glare at both of his brothers at the same time. "Yes, you've both made your thoughts very clear on that matter, thank you."
"And yours is no better," England added, obviously on a roll with this particular topic, jabbing a finger in Scotland's general direction. "He's a disgusting, perverted –"
Wales slapped one hand over England's mouth, grabbed his wrist with the other, and dragged him to his feet. "Come on," he said briskly, "if you're far enough gone to have this much of a death wish, I really think it's safer all round if we get you to bed as soon as possible, don't you?"
-
-
England was also far enough gone that 'unable to walk in a straight line' didn't mean that he occasionally lost his footing, but that he veered between walking pressed up against garden walls at the side of the pavement one minute, to staggering down the middle of the road the next.
As yet another car swung around England, loudly sounding its horn, Wales suggested that maybe it might also be safer if Scotland were to carry England the rest of the way, if he couldn't be trusted to stay out of the traffic on his own.
"No fucking way," Scotland said. "Last time I tried that, he was sick all down my back. And then all over my trousers when I put him down again."
"He could cause a crash," Wales pointed out. "He'd be okay, sure, but there's no guarantee that the poor driver would be."
"All right," Scotland said, looking a little guilty, no doubt for not having considered that possibility himself, "I'll carry him. But if he does it again, you'll be cleaning my clothes, not me, okay?"
-
-
Despite all the jostling, England did manage to restrain himself from throwing up on Scotland. He seemed incapable, however, of restraining his spirited, but off-key, one-man version of the Last Night of the Proms, which continued no matter how many times Wales shushed him, begged him to stay quiet, and, even, in desperation, attempted to gag him with his scarf.
Eventually, Wales just let him sing on, even though it meant that their passage along England's street was accompanied by the familiar ripple of curtain twitches to mark their progress.
Nevertheless, they managed to remain unchallenged until the moment they stepped foot on England's driveway, whereupon England's neighbour, Mr Featherstonehaugh – whom Wales was half-convinced sometimes slept in his front garden in the hope that he might catch England doing something he disapproved of outside it – appeared at the fence to scold them.
"It's almost midnight, Messrs Kirkland, and some people around here have work in the morning," he snapped, full of righteous indignation, despite having been retired himself for as long as Wales had known him.
As Mr Featherstonehaugh had called the police on them for far lesser offences in the past, Wales started stammering out an apology, instead of telling him to piss off as he always wanted to but would never dare.
England, who had hitherto also stepped delicately around Mr Featherstonehaugh's stormy moods throughout the decade they'd been neighbours, seemed to have no such compunction tonight. His singing stopped abruptly, his fists clenched against Scotland's back, and he barked out, "You should show me some bloody respect. I'm the United Kingdom of –"
Wales hurriedly stuffed the scarf back in England's mouth, and told the scandalised-looking Mr Featherstonehaugh that his brother often got very strange ideas in his head when he'd been on the whiskey.
-
-
Thankfully, England's tendency towards shedding his clothes along with most of his other inhibitions when he was drunk didn't kick in until he was safely back inside the house.
Wales didn't know how he always accomplished it so quickly – though he hadn't yet ruled out the involvement of magic – but somehow they were all discarded in the brief snatch of time between Wales turning away to lock the front door and Scotland's strangled cry of: "Jesus Christ, England, nobody here wants to see your fucking bollocks."
It made steering England to bed an even more Herculean task, because Wales couldn't bring himself to lay more than the very tips of his fingers against the tops of his brother's shoulders, which didn't give him much leverage to counteract all the zigzagging and swaying. Still, he eventually managed to get him tucked up in bed – single-handedly, no less, as Scotland had disappeared without a trace, no doubt to spare himself any further accidental glimpses of England's nakedness – with a glass of water and bucket close at hand; prepared for all eventualities.
"You know what, Wales," England said through a yawn, as Wales retreated towards the bedroom door. "I have no fucking idea what that bloody phone call was about."
Wales smirked. "Probably for the best, Lloegr. I presume that's what you were aiming for, anyway."