17th September, 2011; Cardiff, Wales
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When drinking with Scotland, Wales has found the probability of certain events occurring increases exponentially once they reach the point where their eyesight begins to blur.
For example, deciding to have 'just one more' despite the aforementioned blurred vision, loss of fine motor control and any other plans they might have had for their evening.
Or the development a particular sort of hunger that can only be satisfied by visiting dubious-looking take-aways to purchase even more dubious-looking food.
Or Scotland taking fresh offence to centuries-old insults; chief amongst them, the theft of his unicorn by England.
Normally, the rancour would fade along with the alcohol in his bloodstream, and come morning, it would have been buried once more beneath far more recent indignities their brother had perpetrated against Scotland.
Normally, he didn't make plans.
This morning, however, he slides a sheet of paper across the kitchen table towards Wales and then looks at him expectantly.
Wales ignores both the look and the paper, as they seem to demand far more concentration than he is currently capable of. All he needs is a little food and a lot tea to wash away the cobwebs his hangover has strewn liberally around the inside of his skull, but Scotland only allows him three shaky spoonfuls of cereal before his patience runs out.
He picks up the paper again and slams it down on top of Wales' bowl. "What do you think of that?"
Wales tries to flick the paper away, but Scotland just holds it down more firmly in response. Faced with the prospect of worsening his eyestrain on one hand, and a joint-cracking, stomach-jostling, pride-destroying attempt to wrestle his brother aside on the other, Wales reluctantly takes the path of least resistance and forces his eyes to focus on Scotland's note.
Carefully inscribed in Scotland's neatest hand, it reads:
'One: Go to England's house.
Two: If England is there, proceed to Step Four. If England is not there, proceed to Step Three.
Three: Locate England. Proceed to Step Four.
Four: Wales distracts England with long, boring story.
Five: Whilst England losing will to live, Scotland locates and then retrieves unicorn.
Six: Scotland, Wales and Scotland's rightful property flee scene before England any the wiser.'
"As you can see," Scotland says, "you're absolutely integral to the whole thing. I couldn't ask for a better person for the job even if I did have any choice in the matter."
Wales supposes he should feel irritated by that remark, but finds he's too tired to care. He's also far too tired to contemplate taking a trip into London, which, he suspects, will be Scotland's intention for how they should spend the rest of their day. Once his brother has convinced himself of the necessity of a course of action, speed, it seems, is always of the essence.
"What if I refuse to come with you?" Wales asks, his apprehensions mostly centred on the potential of his missing out on the lazy day of doing sod all interspersed by regular naps that he had prepared for. Any qualms he might have over deceiving England register shamefully low on his list of concerns, but he is quick to reassure himself with the knowledge that Scotland's scheme would be very unlikely to succeed in any case.
Scotland looks surprised enough by the question for Wales to conclude that the possibility had never even crossed his mind. "Why would you? Last night, you agreed that it's fucking shitty that he's got away with stealing from me all these years, and said you'd do anything you could to help me set things right."
"Maybe so," Wales allows diplomatically, as it does seem like the sort of thing he might say whilst held tight in the twin grips of alcohol-fuelled bravado and brotherly unity. Freed from them by queasy sobriety, however, the promise sounds rash and a little mean-spirited. "But having slept on it, I've started leaning towards just leaving things well alone. He's had that unicorn for so long that it feels like it's his now, never mind how he got it in the first place. We'd just be stealing from him then, and, well, you know what they say. Two wrongs don't make a right, and all that."
Wales braces himself for accusations of favouritism and spinelessness, Scotland merely gives him a rueful smile. His disappointment is plain, but there isn't even the slightest hint of anger in evidence.
"You know what's even shittier?" Scotland says after a long pause and an even longer sigh. "He never really paid for what he did to your poor dragon, either, did he?"
As attempts at coercion go, it's unsubtle. Almost insultingly crude, in fact.
Wales would be a fool to allow himself to rise to it.
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17th September, 2011; London, England
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The wings of righteous fury carry Wales all the way to England's house, but they disappear in a puff of confusion and guilt the instant his brother answers the door to Wales' urgent knocking.
Because England looks neither suspicious nor indignant at Scotland and Wales' unannounced appearance, as is his wont typically. Instead, he's positively glowing.
"I was just thinking about you," England says, nodding his head towards Scotland. "I decided it was high time I started on that whisky you brought me back from that distillery tour you and the frog went on. Given your usual taste in spirits, it's surprisingly good."
"Oh," Scotland breathes out slowly, obviously slightly taken aback by the unprecedented compliment on his taste and at a loss for words for a moment. "Glad you like it."
England's eyebrows shoot upwards as a delighted expression suddenly dawns on his face. "You should have a glass!" He doesn't even pause long enough for Wales to finish drawing breath to give answer before so he grabs hold of Wales' wrist and drags him over the door's threshold and into the hallway. "Or there might even be sufficient left for two, if we're lucky."
Judging by the crimson sheen of England's face and the paint-stripping quality of his breath up close, Wales doubts that. "How much have you drunk already today, Lloegr?" he asks.
"Just a little." England holds the thumb and forefinger of his left hand as far apart as they will go. "Come on, then," he adds, turning to beam at Scotland. "Don't stand on ceremony; go and make yourselves comfortable. I'll go and pour you some whisky."
"Just because he's not being a twat right now doesn't excuse the million and one times he has been in the past," Scotland says as soon as England has bustled off out of earshot.
"I know, but –"
"But nothing, Wales. He'll be back to his old self tomorrow, no doubt, if not sooner, but your dragon will still be dead, regardless. We're going to go ahead with our plan; nothing's changed. Except," Scotland says, expression turning ruminative, "I think we could probably delay starting for a little while so we can have some of that whisky first. It really is fucking good stuff."
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Many years ago, when Wales was little more than a boy and a slightly different person besides, he used to struggle with silences. They always felt heavy, crushing, and he would pour out every word in his head into them in the hopes that he could wash them away.
During the long, lonely days following the merging of his house with England's, he learnt to keep his words between himself and his pen, because they didn't bring him comfort anymore. They couldn't, not when England scorned each one that he spoke aloud; trying to taint Wales' own language even though it had been the only thing he'd been able to keep of his own lands.
He lies somewhere between the two extremes now, his erstwhile bad habit turned, he likes to think, into a skill. Under enough of his control that he can mostly use it only to his advantage: to distract his brothers attentions when he needs to keep them from arguing, or fighting, or going outside when there is attempted unicorn-napping afoot.
"And then Kevin… You remember Kevin, right? Married to Chloe, Janice's youngest? The one who lives in Swansea. Works at the Halifax."
England nods vaguely. His eyes had gone glassy three anecdotes back; now, he looks almost comatose. Thankfully, though, he's either too drunk or too comfortably ensconced in his luxuriously upholstered armchair to flee as he would so clearly prefer.
"Well, his job's being transferred to Cardiff, so they've been looking for a house round by me. They're thinking of buying Mrs Lewis' old place. The one with the ugly green porch? By the park? You know the one I mean, Lloegr."
England simply groans, passing a flat and trembling hand across his eyes.
Wales feels a little cruel, but as Scotland has yet to return, the torture must, unfortunately, continue, despite the obvious toll on England's nerves.
"Did I tell you that Mrs Lewis had to move into a nursing home?"
"Yes," England hisses, sounding desperate and pained.
Wales takes enough pity on his brother to keep from filling him in on exactly how Mrs Lewis is settling in and how seldom her son is visiting her, which has been a prime topic of gossip at the Hart for the past couple of months.
It doesn't stop him, however, from launching into a lengthy digression on the subject of house prices instead.
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England's stamina gives out long before Wales' voice does, and half an hour later, he's sleeping so deeply that he doesn't even stir when Wales sneaks out of the living room in search of Scotland.
He had assumed he had bought Scotland plenty of time to lead the unicorn away, but when he reaches the back garden, it's still there, munching on England's azaleas.
Scotland is sitting on one of the patio chairs nearby, watching it gloomily, arms tightly crossed over his chest.
"No luck yet?" Wales asks as he draws near.
"It doesn't trust me at all; won't budge an inch," Scotland says, scowling. "I should have known England would have poisoned it against me entirely."
Wales pats his brother's shoulder sympathetically. Scotland's dejection must run deep, as he makes no attempt to shrug the invading hand away. "Maybe a binding spell would –"
Scotland rolls up his shirt sleeve, revealing a semicircle of bruises darkening his forearm. "Tried that already. Fucker bit me."
"We could just take hold of its mane and –"
"Tried that, too. I don't want to show you where it bit me then," Scotland says. "It's always been a cantankerous little shit, but I think all this time spent with England has made it worse."
"And you still want to take it home with you?" Wales asks, struggling to see that there's any attraction left in the idea, given the circumstances.
"In principle, yes. But in reality?" Scotland chuckles without humour. "Jesus Christ, no. Even before, it'd try and boot me as soon as look at me, and the ùruisg could never stand it. If I ever feel like I honestly can't cope without having a unicorn again, there a still a few herds of them roaming around the Highlands, if needs be. But this one? It and England are welcome to each other."
Scotland looks no happier for having made the decision, and thus saving himself from what sounded like nothing but a future full of domestic disharmony and injury, though Wales' supposes that the issue of thwarted vengeance must be weighing heavily on his mind as a consequence.
"England's passed out. We could always go and break into the parlour, if you like," Wales offers. It's not much, admittedly, but it's the best alternative he can offer in relatively good conscience. "Empty his drinks cabinet; move all his ornaments around again. He was out of sorts for weeks after the last time we did that."
"Aye, he was," Scotland says, grinning at the memory. "Doesn't really add up to a unicorn, does it." Nevertheless, he springs eagerly to his feet. "Though I suppose it might eventually, if we do it often enough. And it might actually be enjoyable that way, to boot."