9th July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales

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Wales was already sitting at the kitchen table when England went down for breakfast the next morning. He looked as though he hadn't had a wink of sleep: shadowy circles under his reddened eyes, and body gently swaying as though it was only precariously balanced on a razor-thin barrier between consciousness and sleep.

There was also, England noticed as he took the seat next to his brother with a much-needed cup of tea, a bruise darkening one of his cheeks. Clearly, Scotland had protested going to bed just as violently as he had being subjected to basic hygiene measures, and England felt a small pang of guilt for abandoning Wales to deal with Scotland on his own. It was only a very small pang of guilt, however – little more than a twinge, really – because he knew if he hadn't removed himself from the situation when he had, he might have done something he regretted.

Wales caught him looking, and smiled wanly. "Turns out he has always been a restless sleeper. I really don't know how Ffrainc copes with it. I'm surprised he doesn't insist on separate beds."

Some tiny, twisted part of England's brain insisted upon suggesting that perhaps the frog liked that sort of thing, but the rational majority quickly leapt on that traitorous stray thought and smothered it before it could turn his stomach more than it already had.

"You're up early," he said, to curtail any further speculation on Scotland's sleeping arrangements on either of their parts.

Wales exhaled a ragged breath that might have been laughter if he didn't clearly lack the energy for it. "Yeah, apparently that's never changed, either. He always has to try and beat the birds at their own game."

"And where is he now?" England asked, belatedly realising that he had neither seen nor heard any sign of Scotland since he got up. He didn't bother to ask whether or not the spell had worn off overnight because, if it had, his brother certainly wouldn't have allowed him the much-needed lie in he'd just enjoyed before exacting his revenge.

"He's out in the garden, poking around in my flower beds looking for bugs or stones or something. You know what he's like. I just had to get him out of the house for a while."

"Been having problems?" England felt that tiny twinge again, hitching at the base of his ribs, but it was still easy enough to ignore.

Wales groaned, long and heartfelt. "It took me almost an hour to find something he'd actually eat. The way he looked at everything I put in front of him, you'd think I was trying to persuade him to try and eat rocks or something. Cereal, apparently, is particularly suspect. Then when I tried to get him to change out of that damn T-shirt, he threw another paddy and went and hid behind my bookcases again. I can't remember him being this… temperamental before."

England rolled his eyes, thinking that Wales' memory was spectacularly selective. Scotland might not have 'thrown paddies' when he was a child the first time around, but that was probably because England and Wales were small enough then themselves for him to take his frustrations out on without fear of retribution. England, unlike Wales, it appeared, had carefully stored away every punch, slap, and cuff he'd ever received from his brother so that he could be sure to repay them in kind the moment he grew strong enough to do so. That day had come and gone centuries ago, but England had never forgotten; not a single detail.

Before England could correct Wales' misapprehensions, however, the doorbell rang.

Wales shrugged when England looked at him questioningly, and said, "I'm not expecting anyone." He frowned, and quickly glanced over his shoulder towards the window which overlooked his garden. "And it doesn't look like Scotland's off terrorising the neighbours or anything." The frown deepened. "Though he has uprooted my geraniums."

The doorbell rang again, and Wales started to rise to his feet with obvious reluctance. His movements were slow, unsteady, and England's twinge bypassed pang completely and headed straight on toward a sharp stab of pity mixed with a soupcon of self-recrimination.

"I'll answer it," England said, earning himself a grateful smile which lessened the sting somewhat.
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-
England tried to slam the front door closed as soon as he recognised their visitor, but France, sneaky bastard that he was, managed to slip one foot across the threshold, catching it before it could close completely.

"What the hell are you doing here?" England snarled. "Piss off before I break every bone in your foot."

"I merely want to see Scotland, Angleterre." France bestowed one of the most insipid, ingratiating smiles in his repertoire upon England through the narrow gap between door and jamb. "I heard he had an unusual accident."

England wondered if it was Ireland or Wales who told France, and whether or not they'd also informed him that said accident had been England's fault. That possibility added a certain amount of urgency to his reply. "He's fine. Go away."

"Irlande said it was quite serious," France insisted, still not moving.

Well, that was one mystery solved. "She was exaggerating. Goodbye, France, I'll be sure to let him know you called round."

"Ffrainc?" Wales' voice drifted along the hallway, closely followed by the tired shuffle of his footsteps.

"Cymru," France called back, voice smooth and over-sweet. England leant more of his weight against the door in response, and the rest of France's words came out a little strained-sounding. "I've come to visit your brother."

"That's…" The footsteps halted, and one of Wales' hands curled around the curve of England's shoulder. "For fuck's sake, let him come in, Lloegr."

England reluctantly relented, if only to prevent the tussle that the slow tightening of Wales' fingers was promising. It was, at the end of the day, Wales' house, and he had the right to invite whomever he wished into it, no matter how misguided his choices might be.

Apart from a few years back in the early eighteenth century when he somehow found the sense to give him as wide a berth as he deserved, Wales has always been unnaturally fond of France for reasons that England had never been able to fathom. That fondness seemed to have blossomed to ridiculous levels ever since Wales had fallen in love again, something which he attributed to France's matchmaking skills, even though, as far as England could tell, all France had done was throw random nations at Wales until one of them stuck.

France breezed in as soon England stepped back from the door, all sparkling eyes and gentle words now he'd got his own way, and immediately set about getting inappropriately handsy with Wales. It was sickening, really, and England couldn't bear to watch. Another cup of tea was probably in order.
-

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England was still staring into one of Wales' kitchen cupboards, struggling to make the difficult decision between Earl Grey and PG Tips, when he was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of overpoweringly flowery cologne and cigarette smoke. He sidestepped the hand he instinctually knew was headed in the direction of his waist, and spun around just in time to avoid the other which was making a beeline for his arse.

France chuckled, but didn't even try to make a second grab at England. He simply leant back against the counter a reasonable distance away, hands dropping to sit safely at his sides and eyes downcast.

It made England feel very uneasy. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

France's brow furrowed. "I'm worried about Scotland," he said, every word dripping with incredulity as though he couldn't believe that England could ever think otherwise. As though he hadn't spent centuries not giving two shits about Scotland's well-being when he wasn't directly in his line of sight. Scotland might insist things had changed on that score, but England remained unconvinced that the mindset of almost a millennium could be changed in less than two years.

Scotland had never appreciated England's concern about anything, however, especially when France was involved, so England said, "He's perfectly fine, you know; just smaller than usual," instead of even attempting a contradiction. "You needn't have bothered coming. There's nothing you can do to help."

"That may be so, but –"

"Sorry I took so long," Wales' voice rang out above France's, cutting short his reply. "Someone didn't like the idea of coming back inside the house."

France's head snapped up as Wales entered the kitchen, Scotland following at his heels and clearly not happy at the arrangement judging by the way he was dragging his feet and glaring sullenly at Wales' back.

"Alba," Wales said as they approached, "seo an Fhraing."

Scotland's steps slowed yet further until he came to a halt a few feet in front of France, and he eyed him with what England thought was exactly the right amount of suspicion, namely considerable.

The smile that France offered in response was not one of the ones England recognised: broad, soft and surprisingly honest-looking. "Halò, Alba," he said, crouching down so his eyes were level with Scotland's.

Scotland stared back, body drawn taut like a bow string; all hard straight lines and tension. When a couple of silent minutes had ticked slowly by and Scotland still hadn't fled, France cautiously raised one hand, its back facing Scotland, as though he were trying to approach a strange dog whose temperament he wasn't sure of and expecting it to sniff. England smirked, knowing that France would likely be soon rueing the gesture considering Scotland's current temperament.

Scotland ignored the hand, however, in favour of reaching out to grab a handful of France's hair and not, to England's disappointment, in order to yank it out by its roots. Instead, he ran it around and through his fingers, seeming absolutely absorbed with it as if he'd never seen anything as fascinating before in his life, even though France's hair was much the same colour as England's own and nothing special. Despite the fact Scotland was filthy from grubbing around in the garden and covering him with dried mud, France laughed, and, after a moment, Scotland joined him, high and piping.

Wales looked a little dewy-eyed and England suddenly remembered that he needed a drink.

He bypassed the tea cupboard and went straight for the one where Wales kept his spirits.
-

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Even though England would much rather have enjoyed his third glass of gin in the comfortable solitude of the living room, Wales insisted that he had to go out onto the patio and watch Scotland fawn over France, even going so far as to threaten to withhold further all further access to alcohol until he finally acquiesced.

Uncharacteristically heedless of his hitherto impeccably neat trousers and expensive-looking shoes, France had hunkered down next to Scotland on the bare soil, presumably to facilitate the delivery of the seemingly endless stream of gifts Scotland kept presenting him with. They were neatly arranged in a small pile beside him: shiny pebbles, crushed and wilting flowers, and snail shells alike. England made significant inroads into his gin with a single swallow.

"Your face'll get stuck like that if you're not careful," Wales said, nudging England's shoulder with his own.

"What the hell are you talking about?" England snapped, annoyed at the intrusion into the thoughts he very carefully wasn't having.

"I don't think you've stopped scowling since yesterday. I thought you'd be happy that Scotland's behaving himself now."

"I am, but…" England paused, uncertain of how to finish the statement without sounding completely petty.

"You're jealous," Wales supplied for him when his silence stretched a little too long, which was practically the last word England would have chosen to describe how he was feeling, albeit also, unfortunately, probably the most accurate. It had been a long time since England had openly cared about winning his brother's approval, and even longer since he'd sought it, and it was always unsettling to be reminded that some vestige of that ancient need seemed to cling on still, no matter how hard he tried to purge himself of it entirely.

"I am not," he said, nevertheless, because Wales could, and would, go about believing whatever he damn well liked, but so long as it remained unconfirmed, England still had plausible deniability on his side. "It's just… I don't understand what just happened. France waltzes in here, does absolutely sod all, and now he's Scotland's new best friend? It doesn't make any sense."

"You're hardly the best judge, are you? You can't understand why anyone likes Ffrainc."

"Had he met him already back then? Is that it? Do you think he recognised him?"

"Yr Alban thought Ffrainc was a girl for long enough when they were kids, so, no, I don't think he recognised him. Fucking hell, for all we know, he liked the smell of Ffrainc's shampoo or something," Wales said, half laughing the words. "It's just one of those things. Don't overthink it."

"But –"

"Just drink your gin, Lloegr."