To everyone who's reviewed so far, thank you! You've all been so nice, it's inspired me to write even more. I'm really starting to love these guys ^_^
A note for the chapter: 'Cymru' is pronounced 'KOOM-ree." It's Welsh for Wales.
"I," announced England, collapsing onto the couch, "am knackered. Give us the remote, Scotland."
"No!" Scotland hugged the remote tightly to his chest. "Braveheart is on in a minute!"
England groaned. "I hate that film. Do you ever watch anything else?"
"Ye only hate it 'cause ye're the bad guy. And I dae watch other things!"
"Fine, okay, you watch other things. Now can I have the remote? Top Gear's about to start."
"I'd actually kind of like to watch Doctor Who," said Wales quietly.
"I want to watch The Panel," said Northern Ireland, folding his arms.
"Well we're watchin' Braveheart, so ye can make dae," said Scotland.
"You like Top Gear! It has cars going fast in it!"
"I like Braveheart more."
Wales sighed. Centuries of living in this house had given him an acute argument detector, and right now it was going crazy. Someone was going to have to defuse this situation or all hell was going to break loose and, since he seemed to be the only sane nation here, it was going to have to be him. "Can't we just record Top Gear?" he pleaded. "You can watch it later."
"I don't want to watch it later. I want to watch it now."
It was at that point that Ireland, having snuck up behind Scotland while he was distracted with defending his channel-choosing rights, grabbed the remote and made a break for it. With an almighty roar, Scotland was on his feet and running after him. England followed and Wales, realising that all hope of peace and sanity was lost, was hot on his heels.
Ireland hurtled down the hallway with the remote clutched tightly to his chest, pursued closely by a particularly bloodthirsty Scotland. He reached the staircase and turned the sharp corner onto the stairs. When Scotland followed, he vaulted the banister, intending to race back to the living room... But, unfortunately for him, he landed right on top of England.
England recovered first and grabbed the remote right out of his hands with a cry of triumph. He set off running towards the kitchen, but Wales, caught up in the heat of battle, caught his legs in a flying tackle. England hit the ground and dropped the remote; Wales plucked it from the carpet and tore down the corridor towards the kitchen. He'd barely made it past the counter when something hard and round bounced off the side of his head. He spun around to see Scotland standing by the fruit bowl, arms full of apples. He ducked instinctively just as the small, dangerously hard fruit began to sail over his head, but all that did was let Ireland catch him off balance. Easily taking Wales to the ground, Ireland snatched the remote away and spun to assess his options for escaping. England was blocking the doorway to the corridor, Scotland was closing in and it wouldn't be long before Wales managed to pick himself back up. Ireland spun on his heel and shot towards the back door.
Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about the apples. His foot landed on one and he slipped over, hitting the ground with a jarring thump. He didn't have time to scramble to his feet before the remote was pulled from his hand by a whooping Scotland. He barely looked up in time to see the older nation disappear through the door to the corridor and slam it behind him.
"It's locked!" shouted Wales, wrestling with the handle.
"Then we'll just have to knock it down," said England grimly.
Ireland didn't have a chance to brace himself before the two of them hit the door like a steamroller, knocking it off its hinges with a distressingly loud noise. Ireland flinched, but they were gone before he could shout after them. Hands still shaking slightly, he climbed to his feet, stepped over the remains of the door and raced off after them.
Bursting into the living room, they saw a telltale mop of red hair sticking out from behind the couch. With battle cries that would've made the Celts turn tail and flee, the three nations charged the couch and hit it with a force that made the shelf ornaments wobble dangerously. Somewhere in the pandemonium, the couch managed to overbalance and topple backwards. In the most undignified manner possible, England scrambled over the top of the couch and, after a fierce wrestling match, managed to wrest the remote from Scotland. With a cry of triumph, he hurled himself out from behind the barrier that had once resembled a perfectly nice piece of furniture and hurtled back across the room.
He didn't know where he was going, but the coffee table certainly hadn't been the plan. The coffee table was, however, where he ended up when Ireland grabbed the rug and tugged it hard - England's feet shot out from under him and he caught some impressive air before landing on the wooden surface. He slid across, knocking all of their drinks onto the carpet, and managed to overturn the table as he dropped off the other side and landed in a crumpled heap. But all the brothers cared about was the remote as it left his hand and flew gracefully through the (closed) window.
Leaving England lying dazed next to the coffee table, Scotland, Ireland and Wales fought their way out of the room and raced for the back door. It was a cold winter's night and the rain was pouring down by the bucketful but the dark, wet and freezing cold barely registered with them as they ran for the remote lying in the grass. Scotland got there first; he scooped it up and held it above his head like a trophy before Wales slammed into him and attached himself to his back. Wales's forced piggy-back wasn't enough to bring him down, but it provided an opening for Ireland to go for his legs and bring them all crashing to the muddy grass. Over and over they rolled, squishing flowerbeds and splashing through puddles, desperately fighting for the remote. Ireland had it, then Wales, then Ireland again, then Scotland...
They were unaware of anything outside their three-way wrestling match before the remote was plucked almost casually from the fray by England, who had recovered from his mild concussion and come back to join the fight. He grinned at them before turning tail and running back across the garden towards the house, pursued by the outraged shouts of his brothers. The other three scrambled to their feet and followed - they burst back through the door and hurtled along the corridor, barely noticing the mud, leaves and dirty rainwater they were trekking through the house.
England was going to make it. He was going to get through the door to the living room and lock it and they weren't going to catch him in time. He was going to win and he was going to watch Top Gear while they sat in the corridor and commiserated. They all noticed this at the same time, but it was Wales who acted first. He pulled his shoe from his foot in mid-stride and hurled it as hard as he could. It soared across the corridor and hit the blond nation right on the back of the head. He went down like a sack of potatoes and Wales, shocked by his own brilliant aim, grabbed the remote. Without wasting a nanosecond, he hurled himself through the living room door, locked it behind him and leant against the wood as blows rained down on it from outside.
He'd won. He was the winner. He had done it! For once in his life, he had defeated his brothers fair and square! Wales felt pride rise in his chest and a huge grin broke out across his face as he skirted the remains of the coffee table, stepped over the spilt drinks, broken mugs and shards of glass and salvaged a cushion to sit on from what used to be their couch. As the noise from the corridor began to die down, he pointed the remote at the telly and triumphantly changed the channel to BBC Cymru.
Doctor Who was over.
Wales stared at the screen in disbelief. Over? He'd missed it! All that effort and he'd missed it!
Shoulders slumped, he dragged himself over to the door, turned the lock and opened it to see Scotland and Ireland reviving a half-conscious England. "It's over," he said, voice devoid of any emotion.
There were, of course, shouts of outrage and groans of disappointment. Ireland crossed his arms and glowered at them all in cold fury, Scotland complained loudly about not being able to watch a factually inaccurate but awesome recount of his own history for the five hundredth time and England didn't do anything much because he still wasn't fully awake. For once in his life, Wales couldn't muster much sympathy for any of them. Making him miss Doctor Who was crossing a line, after all.
It wasn't long before he mustered the energy to suggest that they all just go to bed. Ireland stomped up the stairs without saying a word and Scotland followed, carrying England over his shoulder. Wales was last, traipsing up the staircase without any enthusiasm to speak of.
They'd be alright, of course. Someone - most likely Ireland - would wake up early tomorrow and clean up the mess. Everyone would eat breakfast together and all would be forgotten, never to be mentioned again. He would catch Doctor Who on a rerun and England would have a headache but hopefully no long-term brain damage. All would be well.
He just wished this didn't have to happen every night.