All Wales' fretting had been for naught, because despite their unconscionably late arrival, they are far from the last to arrive.
In fact, when America finishes giving Northern Ireland and Wales the grand tour of his house and he ushers them into his living room, there appear to be no more than a dozen or so nations already in attendance, huddled in tight little knots of twos and threes.
Even so, there are far too many for Wales' liking. Nations bear down so much more heavily on the earth than humans do that they distort the natural rhythms of its ambient magic. Wales learnt long ago to tune out the particular discordant notes his family stir with their presence, but he's so unused to being around his own kind any sort of significant numbers nowadays that he has lost the knack for doing the same amongst those who are relative strangers to him.
The dizzying eddies of displaced magic swirling through the air make Wales' eyes water, and crackle like static electricity across his skin, raising the fine hairs on his arms in prickling waves. It feels as though there's a storm brewing, and Wales' temples throb in the same way they always do when the pressure drops in the quiet moments before it thunders.
His headache only increases when the inevitable questions begin.
'Could you get me another drink?', or ' direct me to the bathroom?', or 'fetch me this, that, or the other?', on and exasperatingly on until Wales finally grows sick enough of hearing them and offering gentle corrections thereafter that he gives up on all attempts at being sociable and retreats to the quiet spot Northern Ireland has already claimed for his own in a secluded corner of the room.
"I think I should start wearing some sort of badge when I come to these sorts of things," he grumbles to his brother. "Not one with 'Wales' on it, of course, because most of them look just as blank after I've said that as they did before, but something more like... Like, 'Hello, whilst you may not recognise me, I'm not actually staff. I'm England's brother. No, not the one dating France, the one with the male voice choirs, and rugby, and—"
"Sheep," Northern Ireland puts in.
"Christ, no, it wouldn't say anything about sheep. It's amazing how many nations have heard the sheep-shagger jokes even if they know sod all else about me. I wouldn't want to even risk strengthening the association."
Northern Ireland nods philosophically, and then says, "It'd have to be a pretty big badge. You'd probably be better off handing out pamphlets or something."
His expression is completely blank, his tone neutral, so Wales cannot tell whether he's offering honest commiseration, being obtuse, or simply taking the piss. Whichever it is, it's just as aggravating as every other interaction Wales has suffered through thus far this evening.
"I know they do exactly the same thing with you," he says. "Doesn't it bother you at all?"
Northern Ireland shakes his head, and then digs an exceedingly crumpled five dollar bill out of one of the pockets of his jeans, which he holds up, triumphant, under Wales' nose. "Someone gave me a tip."
"And you're planning on keeping it?!" Wales says, horrified. "You should find whoever it was and hand it straight back to them."
"No, I fucking shouldn't." The bill is hurriedly snatched away again. "I went and fetched them a glass of wine like they asked for. I earned this."
Northern Ireland would doubtless consider that his night had been well spent if he came out of it five dollars or more richer, even if he continued to be misidentified or otherwise ignored throughout. He seems to be just as indifferent to other nations' company as he is to that of humans or the fae.
Wales doesn't normally feel that he is lacking for it in any way, save for occasions such as these, when his relative isolation from the rest of the world is brought into such stark relief.
Here, amongst his fellow nations, he should be able to relax, let down his guard, because there's no need for the countless little lies and evasions that govern the vast majority of his days. There's no need to be 'Dylan', or remember the fine details of the fake history he has invented and reinvented for himself every decade of his existence for the past five hundred years or more.
He feels more like a trespasser here, more out of place, than he ever has whilst pretending to be a mortal amongst his people.
And England knows this, and still he had insisted that Wales had to accompany him tonight. Practically prostrated himself at Wales' feet and begged him to come.
Assuming he would be required as the moral support his brother couldn't quite bring himself to ask for outright, Wales had eventually relented, if only because England struggles to summon up the strength of will to drag himself through this day even when he's at a remove of thousands of miles from America. It would seem only logical that he would want a pair of helping hands – or three, as it turned out – to keep him from flying apart entirely when they were both under the same roof.
Now they are here, however, England's motives seem even more opaque. By the time Wales stepped through America's front door, England had vanished from the hallway beyond, and he hadn't seen a single trace of him anywhere in the house, even though America had shown off near every inch of it during his tour.
"Do you think we should go and look for England?" he asks Northern Ireland, somewhat reluctantly, as he has no real desire to actually find their brother. No doubt he will be wretchedly upset, angry enough to lash out at anyone foolish to venture within striking range, and sobbing hard enough to do himself an injury, and Wales has no more idea of how best to comfort him at such times than he did when first confronted with such behaviour more than two centuries ago.
"I reckon he just saw himself in a mirror and decided to get changed somewhere." Northern Ireland shrugs. "I would too, if I'd been stupid enough come out wearing that bowtie. He looks like a twat."
Northern Ireland's reasoning is flimsier than damp tissue paper, but Wales is glad to – carefully – grasp hold of it all the same. It's not much of an excuse, but it eases his sense of guilt far more efficiently than the nothing he'd been able to come up with on his own.
"You're probably right," he says, smiling at Northern Ireland in relief and gratitude. "He'll show up again soon enough, I imagine."
-
-
When England does re-emerge, his bowtie is still very definitely, if not firmly, in place. It's set slightly askew, one corner poking against the underside of his chin, and the opposite one drooping to rest against the hollow of his throat, bared by the two buttons left atypically undone at his collar.
He greets both Northern Ireland and Wales with equally uncharacteristic exuberance, and then thrusts one of the bottles of beer his is carrying into each of their hands.
Northern Ireland tries to pass his bottle back, likely fearing that it's a trap of some kind as England would never usually encourage him to drink, especially where other people might see and judge him for his parenting skills accordingly, but England refuses to take it.
"Get it down your neck," he says, flinging one arm up and over Northern Ireland's scrawny shoulders. He pulls him close against his side, and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "You're going to need it. Scotland and the frog have just arrived."
Northern Ireland wrinkles his nose. "How many have you had, England?" he asks, his voice a little wheezy from holding his breath. "You smell like a pub drip tray."
"Just a couple," England says. He pats his free hand against the side of his jacket, which sloshes faintly, and then gives Northern Ireland a sloppy wink. "And a nip or three of whisky."
Judging by the pronounced list of his body, the slight slur of his words, and the floridness of his cheeks, Wales thinks it more likely that the real answer to that question is closer to 'four or five' and 'near half a bottle'. He's not even been gone an hour. If he carries on at the same rate, he'll be down for the count within two.
"Don't you think you should slow down, Lloegr?" Wales asks.
England's head bobs a mite unsteadily as he turns it towards Wales, but his gaze is both forthright and challenging when their eyes meet. England's are red-rimmed and feverishly bright, but completely and utterly dry.
Wales finds the sight more unsettling than reassuring. His brother's occasional crying jags may be excruciating and awkward to deal with, but they are at least familiar. This, he has no frame of reference for and thus no idea what it portends. His stomach tenses anxiously.
England's lips twist into sneer. "This is a party, isn't it?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you should relax. Enjoy yourself. I certainly intend to," England says, but the words don't sound anticipatory or even hopeful.
He grinds them out so forcefully through his gritted teeth that he sounds as though he's steeling himself to go into battle, instead.