4th July, 2010; Washington, D.C., USA
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A week ago, when Wales had first seen the small parcel, it had been wrapped in shiny blue paper and topped with a silver bow.
The next day, the bow had disappeared and been replaced with a simple white tag bearing America's name, written with such a forceful hand that the dot above the 'i' had punched clear through the card. In turn, the tag vanished the following day and in its place, as if in an act of contrition, sat a twist of red, blue and white ribbon, wrapped around a sprig of dried lavender.
Since then, both paper and ribbons changed colour, quality and texture so many times that Wales ceased trying to keep track of them. Today's combination is deep burgundy and gold: one that is quite pleasing to Wales' eye, but England is evidently still unsure of, judging by how reluctant he seems to be to simply pick up the gift and get moving.
Wales can sympathise with his brother's indecision to a degree, but they're already running almost an hour late for America's party as it is and can't really spare the time for England's prolonged aesthetic evaluation and repeated deep sighs, never mind yet another one of his fastidiously exact rewrappings.
"It looks fine," Wales says. "Lovely, even."
England reaches out for the parcel, but stops himself at the last moment yet again, his hands resting uncertainly in the air just above it. "Maybe, though I…" He takes a deep breath, but when he resumes speaking, his voice still sounds small and strained. "Do you think he'll like it? The present itself, I mean, not just the wrapping."
All Wales has been able to glean is that whatever England had eventually bought for America after a fortnight of fruitless daily shopping excursions is that it is heavier than it looks as though it should be and rattles slightly when it's moved. England has been very careful that he never sees it unwrapped, and he has refused to either confirm or deny any of Scotland's increasingly preposterous speculations about it.
"I'm sure he will," he says, though, as they definitely don't have the time for a desperate last-minute dash to buy something else.
"I thought so too, but now it's time to give it to him? I'm becoming less and less convinced." His fingers twitch a little, but don't come any closer to touching the parcel. "What did you buy him in the end?"
"Socks. No-one can ever have too many of them, right?" says Wales, who actually thinks nothing of the sort, he simply doesn't want to risk having one of his poems mockingly performed to a wider audience. It's bad enough when it's just family.
England doesn't appear in the least bit heartened by this admission of unimaginative gifting, so Wales digs a little deeper. "Yr Alban's just bought him some of that whisky he always gets you for Christmas, which I'm pretty sure he intends on drinking himself, and Gogledd hasn't bought him anything at all. So, compared to the rest of us, nothing you give him would be a disappointment."
"I suppose you're right," England says, and though he doesn't sound particularly persuaded of the truth of his own words, he does finally summon up sufficient conviction to pick up the damn present and tuck it under his arm.
He doesn't seem willing to start moving, even when Wales takes a couple of encouraging steps towards the hotel room door himself, though. Instead, his hands, now freed from their diffident hovering, are lifted towards his neck and he begins fiddling with his collar.
"You don't think… You don't think I'm a little overdressed, do you?" he asks.
The last birthday party of America's Wales had attended had been over sixty years back, and so he can't be entirely confident about the precise level of formality expected at them nowadays, but his immediate and instinctive answer would still be an unequivocal yes, all the same. Even all those decades ago, he can't remember being required to wear a cravat, and yet England has dug one out from somewhere, and the faint scent of dust and mothballs lingers around him as a consequence, even despite the valiant efforts of what smells to be about a litre of his most expensive cologne.
Wales cannot bring himself to say yes, because everything about his brother – from the rough order he's managed to fight his hair into down to the mirrored shine on his shoes – bespeaks such an intensity of attention to his appearance that it feels cruel to disparage his efforts in any way.
England hasn't breathed a word of his intentions for the night to Wales, but he presumes they involve America, anyway. He'd obviously been working up the nerve to approach him with some important aim in mind at Canada's own party three days ago before Scotland thoughtlessly jumped in with his size 14s and ruined everything.
It's impossible to say whether America will be impressed by conscientiously wrapped presents and cravats by themselves, but hopefully that the thought and care that went into their choosing is just as clear to him as it to Wales.
"You look fine, too, Lloegr," Wales says. "Come on, we'd better get moving or the party's going to be over before we even arrive."
After one last quick check of his reflection and refolding of his pocket handkerchief, England is ready to oblige.
They only manage to make it as far as Northern Ireland's hotel room, however, because the first words out of their brother's mouth when he opens the door to Wales' knock are: "What the fuck have you got around your neck, England?"
The next half hour is spent helping England decide between a tie and bowtie to replace his cravat.
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By the time they reach America's house, there's little evidence of England's nervousness remaining.
Wales can see traces of it lingering in the faint lines scored across his forehead, but every other aspect of his expression and stiff posture suggests nothing else but annoyance, just as every word out of his mouth has since they left the hotel.
Their journey was accompanied by a non-stop list of complaints about the traffic, reckless drivers, having to drive on the right, and how badly the hire car handled compared to England's own Bentley, Land Rover, and Mini. And after they arrived at their destination without incident in good time despite his relentless pessimism, he saw fit to pour scorn on the decorations America has put up around his door, and, thereafter, bemoan their host's failure to answer it the second after England rang the bell.
In a way, it's comforting, as Wales is far more used to his brother expressing his anxieties as snappish irritation about anything and everything rather than admit to even a hint of them aloud, but only in the very smallest of ways. Mostly, it's as exhausting as it always is which makes America's eventual appearance such a relief that Wales is almost tempted to hug him in greeting.
He restrains himself, because despite the displaced joy at seeing him and the celebratory nature of the day, it just isn't something he and America do.
Wales had tried to embrace him a few times, back when America was much younger, but the other nation had always wriggled away and gone in search of England's awkward affection, instead. It had seemed pointless to keep trying after that, and even now, holding his hand out to be shaken seems almost like too much of an imposition, somehow.
America takes it eagerly enough that Wales feels foolish afterwards for having worried and also guilty about the package tucked into his jacket pocket. America's wide grin and readily expressed happiness at seeing him there after so many years absence from his birthday celebrations seems to demand something far more meaningful in return than socks.
Wales resolves to find time to scribble down a verse or two in honour of the day before it ends.
Northern Ireland is treated to one of the bone-crushing, back-slapping hugs of the sort America tends to bestow on Australia – he looks to be simultaneously both pleased and taken aback by the unexpectedly close encroachment into his personal space; emotions conflicting enough that they seemingly serve to render him incapable of responding to either of them and thus also immobile – and a promise to take him on a tour of the house, which he hasn't visited since he was too small to have any real memory of it.
It's only when he turns towards England that America's smile falters and his glib tongue stills. His arms rise and then fall again, he takes a small step forward and then back; plainly undecided whether a handshake, hug, or no physical contact at all would be appropriate.
England's face gives no clues, even to Wales. He thinks he can discern a small spark of something that may be a challenge in the sharpness of his brother's gaze as he watches America flounder, but nothing more.
Eventually, England snorts loudly and, perhaps, dismissively, and simply shoulders his way past America and into the house.
Seemingly as an afterthought, he shoves his gift into America's hands; so roughly that the beautiful gold bow is torn clean off and falls to the floor.