Hi there! Just a short off-shot from Rising, taking place in the modern day. I wrote this just to get away from all the angsty drama in Rising for a moment, and I'm sure some readers will appreciate that too... (meaning, some things mentioned will probably only be fully understood where that came from if you've read Rising, but not much, I promise)
So, inspired by Danny Bhoy's show on drinking in Scotland and Christy Moore's song Delerium Tremens, here's a short one-shot of the UK brothers getting drunk together.
Warning: some foul language in here, but not much.
I hope you like it, and I do not own Hetalia!
"But why can't I come with you?" Northern Ireland asked, whined more like it, for the tenth or more time that evening. His four older brothers, now at the point where there answer had been rehearsed more than enough that they could speak it in turns, one sentence each, answered, "Because there's a minimum age for alcohol," Scotland said, to which Wales added, "and you have not yet reached that age." England was the next to speak, "So we will go for a few hours now," and Ireland finished, "and you stay here without breaking down the house."
"So I am mature enough to be home alone all night?" Northern Ireland asked with an angry huff. "Thanks, guys, really." Ireland rolled his eyes, getting annoyed with his youngest brother. "Well, so you always say! Now be a good lil' lad, and listen to your big brothers." Scotland grinned, ruffling the kid's hair before quickly taking off his glasses. He never wanted to wear them in public, feeling embarassed that, after centuries of perfect sight, he now needed glasses to not see blurry shapes. At least he saw again after those years of being blind. "Now don't smash 'em this time, laddie," the Scot said to Northern Ireland, remembering very well the last time the older four of the siblings went out. The young nation could be a right demon, apparently. He just crossed his arms over his chest and huffed again. "I'm over ninety years old!" he protested. "You still thank that's too young for alcohol?"
"It is," Wales answered calmly as he put on his coat, "if your body is still that of a fifteen-year-old. Now stop complaining, we've gone over this a million times."
"No, I won't!" Northern Ireland yelled, clearly losing his temper more with the second now. "I'm older than most humans, I'm a nation so the alcohol won't damage me, you four always have a lot of fun at the pub and I don't like being alone and I'm coming with you!" He earned a stare from all four elder brothers for this, and after a long and rather uncomfortable silence, England asked, "Quite done with your rant yet, Coineach?"
"No! I'm fucking coming with you guys and you can't bloody stop me!" Now, North began talking so fast, he was almost incomprehensible. "Ifyouhonestlythinkyoucankeepmeherewhileyougooutdrinkingandhavingfunthenyourbarkingmadbecauseyoufuckingcan'tandI'mcomingwithyou!"
"All right, all right!" Ireland quickly said, trying to ease his little brother's temper. The demon inside was beginning to show... "You can come with us. But since this will be your first time drinking, go easy on yourself, lad. Alcohol is a mysterious drug that can do all sorts of things to you. You never know what kind of drunk you are until you experience it." At this, North just raised an eyebrow, though his eyes began twinkling in joy. "What kind of drunk? Well, what kinds are you?" Scotland just grinned, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "You'll see laddie. You'll see."
"Cearul, can I just say you're one of the most irresponsible brothers the world has ever seen?" England muttered to his oldest brother as they all sat at the bar, drinks in their hands. For starters tonight, they had beer. Soon enough, surely, they would be going for the stronger drinks. Ireland downed his pint in one go, then looked at the Englishman with one eyebrow raised. "Irresponsible? It would've been irresponsible to leave the lad at home. Last time he wrecked it, next time he'll burn it down!"
"That was on my list, yes," North mumbled softly, grinning, though the grin faded as he sniffed his glass curiously, unsure wether he should actually drink it. Scotland gave him a strong pat on the back and urged him, "Well, laddie? You wanted to come along, then drink! We finally managed to convince the bartender that you're one of us, don't let our efforts be in vain now." The young Irish shot his brother a glare, then drank his first beer in his near-century. He swallowed it quickly, then coughed, one hand on his chest. "Bloody hell, that burns!"
"That's alcohol for you, Coin," Wales giggled, ordering his second pint, followed closely by Ireland and Scotland. England just patted his little brother on the back, saying comfortingly, "You'll get used to it eventually. And, since you share our blood, you will grow to love it soon enough. There's more alcohol in our veins than blood, after all."
Northern Ireland stared at him doubtfully as he, too, ordered a second pint. More slowly than his brothers, the teenage nation finished his beer, then followed suit.
An hour passed, and the brothers just talked and drank. And then got drunk. All except for Northern Ireland, who, at this point, had only finished three pints and apparently had a high alcohol tolerance. Higher than England, who sat slumped against the bar, sniffling and muttering about the 'f'kin' 'Muric'n Rev'lution'. North just assumed he meant to say 'fucking American Revolution', but then again, he couldn't be sure. He made a mental note of that: England was the sentimental and depressed drunk. "An' you!" the Englishman eventually said, pointing at Ireland. "You were no help, not at all!" Ireland grinned at this, staring his younger brother in the eyes as he answered, "I know. Was'na me intention t'be of any help then!" With a smirk he added more silently, "Still ain't."
Northern Ireland sighed and looked over to his other side, where Scotland and Wales sat. The Scot was giggling at everything England and Ireland said, which was starting the freak his youngest brother out if he had to be honest. He was almost always cheerful, but not this cheerful. And he most definitely wasn't the giggly type. So, Northern Ireland concluded, this was Scotland's way of being drunk: constantly laughing about everything. He hadn't quite figured out his oldest brother yet, though Ireland was a lot more talkative than usual. When his eyes fell on Wales, he gulped nervously. Usually the Welshman wasn't that grumpy...
Wales was glaring at his drink with unhidden hatred in his mossy green eyes, cursing it under his breath, and North began to wonder what the drink had done to piss his older brother off like that. He was usually the calmer one of the family, after all. Stubborn as bloody hell, and rather determined to get his right sometimes, but calm. North almost choked on his beer as the bartender approached Wales tentatively, asking him, "You all right, sir?" Wales just shot him the same murderous glare he'd given his drink, and hissed from inbetween clenched jaws, "Wha', doh Ah lok loike Ahm noh ohlroight to ya? Pish off!" North immediately made a mental note of this: Wales was the angry drunk that couldn't speak properly. Best to be avoided.
Meanwhile, Scotland had crashed his head onto the bar, much like England had done, only he was laughing his ass off at his younger brother's antics when drunk. Just looking at it, North almost joined in. His brother's laughter was contagious, that was for sure. Suddenly, on his other side, England began yelling at Ireland, startling his younger brother. "Would ya not run your mouth for one night at t'bar, Cear'l? Hon'stly, your ins... unb... in... oh, screw it!" Addition to the note on England: 'butchers' his language as much as 'that f'kin' 'Muric'n does!' when drunk. Ireland noticed this too, though he was the one to say it out loud. "Yer losin' yer English again, Sasana~!" Especially the sing-song voice at the end made Northern Ireland's skin crawl.
Suddenly another human came in from the back of the pub, walking up to the bartender, who was staring at the five nations with a rather desperate expression. Somehow, North could only think of this new human as the owner of the pub, which turned out to be right. "Boss, should we... kick them out?" the young bartender asked, but the older man shook his head. "No, just let 'em be. These fellas here come once every two weeks, and they don't react well to being kicked out. Especially the Welsh one," he added, nodding at Wales who had gone back to cursing his now empty glass for being empty. "They haven't hurt so much as a fly in all the months they've come here, despite all the alcohol, so it's all right." With a mischievous smile, he added, "Just hang in there, lad. The night won't be long anymore." Then he left again to walk through the pub, having small talks with customers, leaving the bartender to stand there, not knowing what to do. It was only then that North realised this must be the human's first time dealing with the nations, and he felt rather sorry for him. But then he just went to inspect the oldest of his brothers again, trying to figure out what kind of drunk he was.
He soon found out: the type that loses all sense of discretion, and was highly annoying in doing so. "Allistair, ye should really consider doin' some'in 'bout that scar on yer cheek!" He eventually said to his younger brother, giving him a disargeeing stare. "Things such as 'battlescars' ain't really hot anymore, ye know? Yer fuckin' ugly like that." That wasn't all true, Northern Ireland had to admit: just for fun, the teenager had taken pictures of his brothers with him and asked any random girl he met on the streets which was one of them was, according to the female youth these days, the most 'hot'. Scotland, depsite that scar, scored first place, with Ireland on a close second together with North himself, since they looked so much alike. Same went for England and Wales, who also looked very much alike and shared third place. Ofcourse Northern Ireland had never told his brothers about it, they would've killed him for it.
Suddenly a bell sounded, and the bartender called "Last call, people!" The majority of the people suddenly swarmed around the bar, ordering their last drink while they still could. But no one was as bad as North's four big brothers, who all seemed to go nuts at this. Well, three. England was too depressed to look up from the wooden bar at this point. "Oi, hih meh wiv 'nother one!" Wales ordered, growling a second later as it took too long to his liking. Scotland didn't finish his order as he began laughing when Wales said this, choking out sounds that North could only just make out. He was trying to say "Ye sound like bloody shit when ye talk like that, lad!" but failed miserably. But he was given a last beer, anyway. Ireland calmly ordered his last beer, and instantly asked for one for England as well, who protested whiny, "Nah! Not havin' 'nother one!"
"Oh, yes y'are," Ireland just said, emptying his last pint in one gulp. When the glass was set in front of him, England sniffed at it, then did the same anyway, despite his protests earlier. Once the alcoholic drink was down his throat, he just went back to moping. Northern Ireland just sighed and ordered two more beers for himself, one to just join in with his brothers, the other to forget they were even his brothers.
The following morning, Northern Ireland awoke with the worst headache he'd ever had, and was soon puking his guts out in the toilet. His four older brothers just stood and watched, comforting him from time to time as they all agreed on one thing.
Of all the types of drunks there were, first-time-drunks were by far the cutest things ever.
Well, I hoped you liked it, and I promise I'll get back to writing Rising now. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review on your way out!