1925; London, England
-
England has always been a creature of habit, but ever since they returned from France, he seems to need rather than simply want his days to be ordered with near mechanical precision.
Every hour is accounted for, filled with the same tasks today as they were yesterday and will be tomorrow, regular as a heartbeat or ticking clock.
Tick (rise at seven) Tock (breakfast at half past) Tick (paperwork until lunch) Tock (stroll around Regent's Park to aid digestion) Tick (dinner at six thirty) Tock (wireless until bedtime at eleven).
Even the slightest deviation from this well-trodden path of routine he has carved through his life can leave him irritable and out of sorts, and consequently Wales expects him to be ill-tempered when he returns from his Wednesday morning meeting with their Prime Minister almost an hour later than usual.
Wales braces himself for invectives when their paths pass in the hallway moments later, for complaints and criticisms or just plain insults, but England simply keeps his gaze fixed on own his shoes, and shuffles past Wales as though he hasn't even noticed him standing there.
England has never been shy about voicing his displeasure, only his fear and other such profound wounds, and thus Wales has always found his silence far more troubling than his anger. So, instead of being glad of his unanticipated reprieve and making himself scarce whilst his luck holds, Wales feels compelled to call out after his brother, "Are you all right?"
England's unsteady steps pause and he slowly raises his head, revealing a face whose skin is far too wan and eyes that are sparkling bright and over-wide. The sight shocks Wales into forgetting himself for just long enough that he can't check the urge to reach out towards his brother, instinctually wanting to offer some sort of comfort or reassurance.
Before his fumbling touch can connect, though, England draws his arms in close against his body and shies away from Wales' hand. "It's nothing," he says, though the quavering note of distress in his voice gives immediate lie to the words.
Fear grips Wales at the sound, tight and sudden and unexpected, because he can think of only one thing that the Prime Minister could have told England that morning that might unsettle him to this degree.
"Are we going to…?"
He left so much of himself behind in the trenches – they all did – that he still hasn't regained his strength sufficiently to compensate for its loss, and even contemplating the possibility means there's too much bile and not enough breath in his mouth to form the word.
"It's not that," England is quick to assure him, shaking his head emphatically.
Whatever it might actually be, however, England seems reluctant to share. He makes a few stuttering ventures towards speaking, but eventually just gives up on the enterprise entirely, throws up his hands and stalks away.
A moment later, Wales hears the door to the parlour slam shut.
-
-
At quarter past twelve, when England still hasn't reappeared, Wales prepares him an egg (soft boiled), toast (two slices, with butter and marmite) and a cup of tea (strong, one sugar); the same lunch that England would prepare for himself on any normal day.
When he knocks on the parlour door at exactly twelve thirty, however, England doesn't answer.
Nor does he when Wales tries again at twenty to one, or even quarter to.
The parlour has always been England's refuge – one that he and even Scotland respect by unspoken concord – but after the third attempt to rouse his brother fails, Wales feels emboldened enough by his concern to try turning the door handle.
It rattles uselessly, the door holding firm and clearly locked from the inside.
"I'll just leave the tray out here, then," Wales says, laying the tray of now-cold food on the floor. "In case you get peckish later."
England either doesn't hear him or still chooses not to, because he makes no reply.
-
-
The sound of a door opening downstairs gives Wales a moment of hope at a little after three, but it's doomed to be a fleeting one, because he's confronted with the wrong brother at the foot of the stairs after his frantic dash from his bedroom.
Scotland looks somewhat windswept, cheeks ruddy and hair and clothes both dishevelled by whatever activity has kept him away from the house for the best part of the day, and he's chewing on something that he doesn't seem to be enjoying a great deal, judging by the indignant scrunch of his eyebrows.
He swallows heavily and then glares up at Wales with not inconsiderable venom, as though blaming him for this epicurean disappointment he has been forced to suffer.
"Toast was cold," he says, inclining his head towards the tray which is still sitting outside the parlour, unchanged save for the absence of a single slice of purloined toast.
"I'm not surprised," Wales says, snatching the remaining crust from Scotland's hand before he has the chance to devour that, too. "It's been out there for hours."
Scotland looks towards the tray again, and then back towards Wales, his brows knotting ever closer. "And why did England leave his lunch on the floor to get cold, exactly?"
"He didn't leave it there, I did. I was trying to tempt him out, I suppose."
The mystery of the misplaced tray now solved, Scotland appears to lose interest in it entirely, turning on his heel before Wales has even finished explaining his reasoning.
"Well, I'm going to need a bit more than cold toast to eat, I'm fucking starving," he says – seemingly to himself because it certainly isn't directed towards Wales – as he heads towards the kitchen. "I must have walked halfway to sodding Kent and back this morning."
It's hardly surprising that Scotland doesn't seem to care about why England might need to be lured out of his parlour, but Wales still feels the need to try and impress at least some small measure of the seriousness of the situation upon him, if only because it's just as likely to affect him if England had received bad tidings from the Prime Minister, as Wales suspects he must have.
"England's been locked in there since he got back from his meeting, near enough," he says, when Scotland finally stops his determined march by opening the larder door, allowing Wales chance to catch up with him. "And he doesn't seem to want to come out."
Scotland greets this news with a disinterested-sounding grunt, giving the mustard far more of his attention than Wales.
"He looked like he'd seen a ghost when he came home." Sharing troubles with Scotland is rather akin to sharing them with a brick wall most of the time, and thus very unlikely to half them, but Wales hasn't any other options available to him and so will just have to forge on, regardless. Even the faintest of hopes is better than no hope at all. "I think the Prime Minister must have told him something dreadful, but he wouldn't say what it was."
Scotland stiffens instantly, his fingers digging so hard into the loaf he was in the process of picking up that the bread begins to tear.
"It's not another war," Wales says hurriedly, giving his brother an awkward pat on the shoulder. "He did tell me that much."
Scotland flinches away from Wales, and then grimaces. "And you've let him just hole himself up and sulk about whatever it is ever since? You're far too soft on him, Wales. Whatever that meeting was about, we have a right to know, too." He throws the bread back down with enough force that it makes the shelf rattle. "Jesus Christ, we're only the same country when it fucking suits him, aren't we?"
Scotland's either too angry to remember that he has his own copy of England's key hidden away, or else doesn't want to give away that secret even now, because he doesn't head for his bedroom but straight for the parlour, setting his shoulder to the door as soon as he reaches it.
"If you don't come out of there right the fuck now, I'm going to break in and fucking drag you out, Sasainn," he bellows.
Wales assumes England will shout his own threats back or else ignore Scotland entirely, but he does neither. Instead, Scotland barely has time to shift his weight in preparation for barging the door when it swings open, leaving Scotland scrabbling wildly to keep from pitching head first into the parlour.
England watches Scotland impassively as he reels back, eyes hooded and unblinking. He looks even paler than when Wales saw him last, and smells faintly of cigarette smoke, but far more overwhelmingly of gin.
His hands are trembling, ever so slightly.
Scotland draws himself up straight-backed and imposing once more as soon as he regains his balance. "Are you going to tell us what the fuck's got your knickers in a twist, then?" he snarls
England sighs, long and loud, and then nods his head with obvious reluctance. "They've found a baby," he says, "in Belfast."