8th March, 2012; Cardiff, Wales
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He might have said it once or twice in the midst of arguments (not something he's particularly proud of in retrospect), but Northern Ireland has never actually hated any of his brothers.
Especially not Wales, who is generally pretty inoffensive, and doesn't threaten (and sometimes deliver) bodily harm for minor infractions like Scotland, or nag, scold and lecture endlessly like England. No, Wales usually restricts himself to gentle chiding and, for more egregious offences, the penning of a particularly passive aggressive Christmas poem to gift to the transgressor.
This, however, is a crueller and more unjust punishment than any England has ever dreamt up, all perpetrated under the guise of helping Northern Ireland, who now hates Wales more than anything or anyone he has ever hated before.
He hates that Wales deceived him, pretending that they were only popping into Boots to pick up some toothpaste, but then making a detour via the skincare aisle so sudden that Northern Ireland hadn't noticed where they were heading until after they arrived. He hates that Wales' has no fucking shame, because surely this sort of thing should be private, not happening here under bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights (it's why the internet was invented, after all). He hates that Wales has no doubt got a whole sodding speech prepared for this moment, which he'll doggedly follow far past the point that they're both so embarrassed they'd rather pull out all their nails with pliers than continue, just as he had following that incident with the chest. He hates Wales' faint, encouraging smile, and Wales' entire stupid face for good measure, too.
"So, there are obviously a lot of brands to choose from for a start," Wales says, in the clipped tones of someone determined to speak despite their reluctance to tackle the subject matter at hand.
"So there are," Northern Ireland says, careful to not look directly at the colourful boxes on display in case Wales mistakes it as interest and an encouragement to continue. "Well, thanks for that, Dylan. Can we go now?"
"No, we can't go," Wales says sharply. "Look, Michael, I'd prefer not to have to do this, either, but I know damn well that Arthur and Alasdair never will, so I'm afraid I have to."
"There's nothing to stop me from just leaving," Northern Ireland says, taking a step back from his brother to show the threat is a serious one. "I'm faster than you; you'll never catch me before I reach the door."
"That's true, and you certainly could." Wales shrugs loosely, obviously unconcerned. "Just as I could tell France that he's better qualified to do this than me, and he'd better take over."
"You wouldn't," Northern Ireland says, confident that he's calling Wales' bluff, because there's no way he could ever be that callous or devious. He doesn't have it in him.
"I would." There's nothing in either Wales' voice or expression, both of which are impressively resolute, to suggest that he's lying. Northern Ireland's heart sinks, heavy with resignation. "This is important enough that I would, if that's what it takes."
It takes Northern Ireland a moment to parse that, distracted as he is by Wales handing him various boxes and commenting awkwardly on their contents.
"Why is it important?" he asks, when he finally works out what had seemed jarring about the statement.
Wales puts down the packet he's holding ('I've never thought ribs added all that much to the experience, but some people seem to like them.'; Jesus, the things Northern Ireland's discovered recently that he'd prefer not to know could fill a book by now), and frowns at him.
"What do you mean?"
"I just don't understand why I would even need…" Northern Ireland drops his voice in deference to the old lady who has just wandered down the aisle, browsing the hair care products on the shelves opposite them. "These. I mean, we can't catch anything, or get pregnant –"
It suddenly strikes Northern Ireland that he actually has no idea if they can get pregnant or not. His siblings do occasionally talk about having had a mother, but Northern Ireland has never been able to work out whether she'd actually given birth to them physically, or it was all a bit more… metaphorical. However it had worked then, she'd been dead for thousands of years by the time Northern Ireland turned up, so he'd definitely come about by different means. England always told him that he'd just appeared one day, which Northern Ireland has long thought has more than a whiff of the bollocks human parents tell their kids about babies being brought by the stork or growing in cabbage patches.
It makes very little sense, because he must be related to them all by blood somehow or other, because he has England's eyes, and his ugly knees, and… And… Fucking hell, is that why all this is so bloody important?
"We can't get pregnant, can we, Wales?" It's difficult to keep his voice hushed, and to fight the desperate urge to grab his brother by the front of his coat and shake him, because, Jesus, he knows that none of them are fond of talking about personal stuff, but it would have been nice to have had a hint or two before he got to ninety-fucking-years-old. "I can't get pregnant, can I?"
Wales laughs explosively, startling the poor old woman into almost dropping her bottle of medicated shampoo. "Christ, Gogledd, whatever gave you that idea?" he manages to wheeze through the resulting coughs in the aftermath of it. "No, you can't. None of us can, and we can't get anyone else pregnant, either. Well, not anymore, anyway. No-one really knows for sure about the ancients, except maybe for China, and he's always been very vague about the whole thing."
Which is all very comforting, and makes it easier for Northern Ireland to catch his breath again, but it renders the question of why on earth they're here even more puzzling. "So what's the point in…?" He waves his hand towards the boxes.
"Well." Wales draws the word out, as though he's trying to avoid voicing whatever he's to say next for as long as possible. Northern Ireland suspects he hadn't expected to have his advice questioned, and therefore hadn't prepared himself for the prospect of having to elaborate on it.
"With humans," he eventually continues, "a lot of them wouldn't feel comfortable if you weren't using some form of protection, and they're very unlikely to be reassured if you tell them it's not necessary because you're an anthropomorphic personification of national identity and thus completely sterile, in both senses of the word. And even with nations…" Wales' eyes flutter shut, and his words become even more laboured, "They might not like to… Things can get a little messy sometimes, so they might like everything to stay, um, contained, and..."
"I get the picture," Northern Ireland assures him, because the flush that has spread from the top of Wales' collar all the way up to his hairline is growing deep enough that it almost looks painful, and it seems like a kindness to cut him short before it gets any worse.
Wales smiles gratefully. "Anyway, I just thought it's something you should start considering, now you've got yourself a beau."
"I don't have a beau," Northern Ireland glowers at his brother, "because one, it's not the fucking nineteenth century, and two, we're just having dinner together. You and your horrible boyfriend have just blown the whole thing completely out of proportion. I really don't need to be thinking about… mess."
"Of course," Wales says in an infuriatingly vague way which suggests that his opinions on Northern Ireland's completely platonic meal haven't been swayed at all, and he's going to continue forcing Northern Ireland to think about mess (and to have those threatened cooking lessons with his horrible boyfriend) regardless.
He returns his attention to the shelves, and his hand hovers momentarily over the next box in line, before moving on to the last one. Northern Ireland glances at the box Wales had skipped, notes that it's marked XL, and counts his blessings that there are apparently some conversations left that Wales still isn't willing to instigate.
"A variety pack's probably your best bet to start with," Wales picks up the final box and tosses it into his basket, "until you work what suits you best."
"Sounds great," Northern Ireland says, grinning in relief and thankful that the whole ordeal's finally over. It probably only lasted all of five minutes, but it feels a lot longer. "Now, did you actually need toothpaste, or was that –"
Wales grabs hold of the back of Northern Ireland's hoody as he starts to walk away.
"Not so fast," he says. "We still need to talk about lube..."