"Aren't you going to go after your horrible boyfriend, then?" Northern Ireland asks when it starts to look like Wales has settled in for the long haul.
Wales' mouth tightens like he's sucking on a lemon. "I wish you and Scotland would stop calling him that."
"But that's what he is," Northern Ireland protests.
It doesn't make any sense. Wales might look like a geography teacher, but not a hideous geography teacher or anything, at least as far as Northern can tell, and he's a nice bloke, so surely he could do better?
Their whole relationship is weird, full stop, because Northern Ireland has seen Wales in love before, many times, and he's never acted like he does now. Wales in love is usually all poetry, starry eyes, and, given half the chance and sufficient booze, enough cloyingly sweet sentimentality to make even a card company blush and consider they might have gone a step too far.
Wales at the moment is just Wales, though with a bit less crying than had become common in recent years, and a few more trips to the continent.
It's something of a puzzle.
"He's not horrible, he's…" Here Wales' brow furrows, and Northern Ireland imagines he's frantically leafing through his mental thesaurus. "He's just a little difficult," he eventually says. "Challenging."
'Wales' challenging boyfriend' doesn't have the same ring to it, neither of truth nor acoustics, so Northern Ireland rejects the substitution. "Whatever," he says dismissively. "So, are you going to look for him or not?"
Wales' eyebrows twitch, as though he's unsure whether he wants to lower them into a frown, or lift them in surprise. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Yes," Northern Ireland says. When Wales' eyebrows decide on surprise, and his mouth opens with a sharp, indrawn breath, he quickly adds, "You're giving away my position."
The small gasp turns into a chuckle when Wales releases it. "Sorry, brawd. If it's any consolation, I didn't spot you myself; the fae showed me where you were."
"I might have known," Northern Ireland mutters, because it comes as no surprise that the fae are treacherous little bastards.
They haven't been too fond of him since he squashed one with a book back in the eighties. Although it had soon recovered, and the only long-term physical consequence of its flattening had been a slightly crooked wing, the grudge it nursed had proved far more enduring. It had even managed to get Wales, Scotland and England's fae on side somehow, despite their usual distrust of one another, and they all seemed eager to seize any opportunity to fuck with Northern Ireland's head, annoy him, and generally conspire to get him into trouble.
"I could always cast a glamour over the table," Wales suggests, waving his hands around in a theatrical fashion that makes him look rather more like a cheesy stage magician than someone attempting real magic. "Then nobody would be able to see us, not even the fae."
Northern Ireland raises an eyebrow sceptically. "You can do that?"
"I've always been very good at glamours," Wales says, then immediately cringes afterwards, presumably worried that it might sound as if he were boasting. He quickly downplays the admission with, "It was just useful to learn how to disappear, growing up with Scotland and England, so I worked hard at it. I could teach you, if you like."
Wales smiles encouragingly, no doubt hopeful that he's discovered the right hook to reel Northern Ireland into finally embracing their family's esoteric form of mystical claptrap. Northern Ireland sets him straight with a quick shake of his head, and a firm, "No, ta, Wales."
England had worried when Northern Ireland was younger that he had no connection to the fae because he never talked about seeing them, never showed even the faintest spark of magic. Northern Ireland had, in fact, been aware of the fae's existence for almost as long as he'd been aware of his own, he just chose to ignore them. They creeped him out, with their sharp teeth and inky, feral eyes, and their unabashed curiosity towards him; watching him all the bloody time, whatever he was doing, and no matter if it were something that any reasonable person might like to do without an uninvited audience, like taking a bath, or, in later years, having a wank.
It was the discovery that they wouldn't even let him do that with any expectation of privacy which had caused him to snap and slam one of England's weightier encyclopaedias down on top of the nosiest of the buggers. He'd washed his hands of them entirely then, and his brothers had failed to persuade him in the interim that they were anything other than nasty little voyeurs with a penchant for mean-spirited tricks if they felt they were wronged in any way.
He supposed they were probably useful back when his brothers were kids, in the days before guns, and tanks, and laser-guided fucking bombs, when a bit of fairy pyrotechnics bespoke some immense, unknowable power that might cow their enemies, but it all seemed a bit superfluous nowadays. Even magic seemed like a lot of work for very little reward, given that there didn't seem to be much it could do that modern technology couldn't, and without the time-consuming chanting, smelly herbs, and complicated sigils, at that.
Besides, he's seen the looks England gets whenever he chats away to something no-one else can see, and he has no desire for any of that wary concern to be directed his way.
-
-
Scotland evades the glamour by using the simple tactic of following Wales back to the table when he returns from the bar, which serves to prove just how shite magic is.
He greets Northern Ireland in his usual way: placing one of his huge, spade-like hands on top of Northern Ireland's head, and then mussing his hair until it sticks up in ridiculous tufts, much like Scotland's own hair does. Northern Ireland doesn't protest, because Scotland just ruffles harder if he does, and he can fix it easily enough, whereas Scotland has to go around looking like he's had an unfortunate encounter with garden shears every day, which makes Northern Ireland the winner in the long run, anyway.
"You missed the polka band," Scotland says, slapping Wales' back in a gesture which looks friendly on the surface, but Northern Ireland suspects is simply an excuse to wipe the hair gel from his hand onto Wales' shirt.
"That's a shame," Wales says with absolutely no inflection to his voice. "Were they any good?"
"No idea. I didn't really hear anything they played, because your horrible boyfriend was bending my ear the whole time about…" Scotland shrugs. "Well, I've no idea what he was saying, because I wasn't really listening to him, either, but he was definitely very vehement about whatever it was."
Wales' mouth goes all lemony again, but he doesn't bother to scold Scotland for his word choice, doubtless because he knows Scotland will take even less notice of him than Northern Ireland. "Won't France be missing you," he says, his voice as sour as his expression.
"Naw," Scotland says, slumping down in the chair between Northern Ireland's and Wales'. "He's helping set up lunch, and, apparently, I can't even be trusted to reheat food without ruining it."
He sounds quite cheerful about that, despite the inherent insult, which is probably due to a combination of his hatred of cooking, and being given the chance to sit around and drink beer for a while without being interrupted by random bursts of culture.
Northern Ireland's own spirits lift slightly at the mention of food. It's been almost three hours since his post-breakfast snack, and his stomach is beginning to protest at the neglect. "What time's that start, then?"
"Lost your schedule already?" Scotland asks, and Northern Ireland makes a noncommittal sound in response that he hopes doesn't sound too much like, 'I chucked it in the bin at the first opportunity because I didn't have any intention of doing any of the crap on it,' because Scotland will only give him grief if it does.
Scotland sighs his long-suffering, big-brotherly, 'I'm surrounded by idiots' sigh, and digs through his sporran for his own copy of the schedule. It's crumpled and lightly beer-stained, but apparently still readable, though Scotland does have to squint, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth as an aid to concentration. "We've got twenty minutes; best drink up," he says, nodding towards the beer Wales had bought Northern Ireland.
-
-
Unfortunately, they join the queue for lunch directly behind England, who wrinkles his nose and asks Northern Ireland if he's been drinking.
"Just the one, like you said," Northern Ireland says, catching Wales' eye and silently pleading with him to corroborate the story, instead of having one of the fits of dutiful honesty England occasionally inspires in him which cause him to throw his brothers to the wolves in order to salve his own conscience.
Wales seems distracted, however, ignoring Northern Ireland's fervent appeal in favour of staring at the food table again.
"I don't see anything Welsh on there," he says, scowling. "I thought this was meant to showcase all of our national dishes."
Every platter of food has a small card set in front of it – they're too far away for Northern Ireland to read them, but he guesses that they're displaying the name of the dish – and tiny flags on toothpicks have been planted in the centre of each. The Welsh flag is notably absent.
"Your national dish is cheese on toast," Scotland says, digging his elbow into Wales' ribs. "I'd be counting my blessings if I were you. Not exactly anything to boast about, is it."
Wales opens his mouth, presumably to protest that rarebit isn't just cheese on toast, nor is it his national dish, but France cuts in smoothly before he can speak.
"We will be serving cawl this evening, Cymru." The line doesn't sound particularly truthful to Northern Ireland's ears, a little too pat and a little too ingratiating, but Wales will doubtless be too drunk to notice if it's a lie come dinnertime, and it makes him smile gratefully now.
England, however, turns to glower at France, and snaps, "Hop it, Frog, and stop trying to cut in."
There's little that can raise England's hackles as quickly as someone trying to circumvent the orderly rules of queueing, and the fact that it's France makes the affront all the worse.
Scotland wraps an arm around France's waist and pulls him close against his side. "Lighten up, England," he says in a mocking tone, as though he thinks England is being unnecessarily stuffy, and as though his brothers haven't heard him complain about queue jumpers himself on too many occasions to accurately count. If they had, that tone clearly states, then they must have been suffering from some sort of collective hallucination at the time.
France clasps the back of Scotland's neck, and pulls him down into a kiss. England, Wales and Northern Ireland look elsewhere, and Northern Ireland can feel his cheeks begin to burn with a blush. He'd known about Scotland and France since he was a little kid, but they at least used to have the decency to pretend they weren't sleeping together. He'd never even seen them touch up until a couple of years ago, and now France can't seem to keep his hands to himself, though heaven only knows why, because Scotland always looks dishevelled, shaves about once a fortnight (if that), and dresses like he has only the most rudimentary knowledge about the function of clothes.
Northern Ireland much preferred it when they had tact, England was the world's oldest virgin, and Wales snuck around everyone's backs with humans he was too ashamed to introduce to the family, because at least then he could pretend none of them had sex lives. Quite apart from the thought being slightly nauseating, they'd had a sort of unspoken camaraderie before – a shared sense of suffering cultivated through hundreds of Friday nights and tens of Valentine's Days with only the telly and each other for company – which Northern Ireland hadn't recognised until it was destroyed, and now finds he misses. He puts up with their various significant others because he has to, but that doesn't mean he has to like the situation (even though he does like the nations involved, Wales' horrible boyfriend notwithstanding), and he can quietly seethe, glare at the floor, and wish France would piss off and leave his brother alone if he wants to. Which he does, and he proceeds to do all three.
Eventually, France grows tired of doing whatever unsavoury thing he'd been perpetrating upon Scotland's person, and finally seems to notice Northern Ireland's presence, acknowledging it with a warm, "It's not often we have the pleasure of your company at this type of event, Nord."
"England's trying to marry him off," Scotland says with a dry chuckle that makes Northern Ireland's blood run cold.
He might, admittedly, have one or two unresolved issues with England, Scotland and Wales not being single anymore, but he's quite happy being so himself. Nothing he's observed of his brothers' experiences has managed to persuade him that romantic relationships aren't far more trouble than they're worth.
England, however, dismisses Scotland's words with a curt, "I most certainly am not. He's here to make friends, not…" His face screws up in obvious disgust. "He's too young for that sort of thing, so you'd best put it right out of your head, France."
Northern Ireland is more than old enough – his earliest memories are extremely fuzzy, but he's he knows he's at least ninety, for fuck's sake, and everything appears to work the way it should, even if he's only ever tested it on solo flights – but for once, he's glad for England's insistence on treating him as though the last few decades and couple of feet of growth never happened. There's no way on earth he wants France to have any encouragement in playing matchmaker for him.
France makes all the right noises in response – 'Of course,' and 'I wouldn't dream of such a thing, Angleterre.' – but Northern Ireland doesn't think they sound at all convincing, and resolves to make himself even more scarce than before the moment he finishes his lunch.