5th July, 2010; Washington, D.C., USA
(The morning following a very eventful birthday party; America's house)

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England's first thought upon waking isn't about America, or the night they just shared, or even the deep, unfamiliar ache of his muscles which twinge as he shifts his position.

England's first thought is about the fae, and his first words, hushed and rough with sleep, are ancient ones. An incantation he has used since he had voice to speak it in order to call them to him.

They do not appear.

He repeats it little louder; loud enough that the arm he hadn't even noticed was draped across his chest tightens around him, and America mumbles something that might be his name.

They still do not appear.

But perhaps, perhaps, they can't hear him even now.

(They have always come before, whether he spoke in a whisper, or little more than a breath gasped out when he was in fear for his life, but the alternative is… England doesn't allow himself to contemplate it.)

He disentangles himself from America, and gets out of the bed, ignoring the question directed towards him.

(He doesn't even register the exact words, just that America sounds concerned. And well he might be, because England's hands are trembling so badly that he can barely keep hold of his clothes as he gathers them up from where they lay scattered across the floor; almost tears them when he yanks them on. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers simply zipped because his fingers are too clumsy for more.)

America's voice follows him as he leaves the bedroom, but he slams the door on it; on his concern. In the hallway outside, he tries the incantation again. Shouts it as loudly as he has breath for.

Nothing. Not even the distant flutter of wings.

(But his breath is short, and his lungs burn with the effort if he tries to draw in even a little more air. It's not enough. Clearly, it's still not enough. He should go outside; the fae have never liked being constrained between four walls, and perhaps they will not come if he's close to America. Although it never has before, perhaps America's lack of belief in them is keeping them away, and if England only puts enough distance between them, then…)

He vaguely registers Wales' presence as he stumbles out into America's backyard, but ignores the hand raised to him in greeting, and his brother's cheery, "Morning, Lloegr," is lost to the rush of blood in his ears. England looks up into the morning-pinked sky and screams the incantation to the heavens. Again and again, until it tears at his throat like blades, and the pain brings tears to his eyes.

(Every call goes unanswered. His fucking bastard brothers lied to him; must have wanted to drag him down to their level because they couldn't bear the thought of…)

England doesn't hear Wales' approach, but a hand suddenly drops onto his shoulder, and the smell of fresh cigarette smoke surrounds him. "Jesus Christ, what the hell's wrong with you?"

England swings a punch on instinct, but it doesn't connect, and Wales catches his clenched fist before he can try again.

"Lloegr, you're –"

"You lied to me," England says, wrenching his hand free. His voice is nothing more than a exhausted croak, weak and ragged. "I've lost them. Why the fuck did you tell me I wouldn't? Do you both hate me that much even now?"

"What the…? The fae? Is that what you were screeching about?" Wales' face looks indistinct and out-of-focus, but England thinks he may have the sheer, unmitigated gall to be smiling. "I couldn't even tell what you were supposed to be saying, so they sure as hell won't be able to. Your pronunciation was completely off."

The pressure at England's breast eases slightly, lightening with a tentative swell of hope. "My pronunciation?"

Wales nods. "It's appalling. And your inflection's completely screwed, probably because your voice is so fucking hoarse. Were you back on the fags again last night? Or did you…" Wales' words cut off abruptly, and the chuckle that replaces them sounds distinctly embarrassed. "It doesn't really matter why it happened. Look, just... Just leave it to me, okay?"

Wales' voice as he intones the spell is strong and resonant, imbuing it with all the necessary concentrated power that England realises his recitation had lacked. It has been centuries since England last heard his brother use magic, and he'd forgotten in the interim how beautiful it had always sounded, almost as though he were singing rather than chanting.

It's been centuries, too, since he last saw his brother's fae. They're nothing more than dancing points of bright light until he rubs at his eyes, and then they resolve themselves into tiny figures that look much like England's own fae, except their similarly pointed features form faces he does not recognise.

He finds himself reaching for the closest – perched on Wales' shoulder, lacy wings folded tightly against her back – without thinking.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Wales says, stepping back quickly. "Sorry to say, but they still don't really like you very much. Just like yours have never liked me, remember? You know, I accidentally stumbled across one of them at your house a few years back, and I think I surprised it so much that it forgot it could just dematerialise, or whatever it is they do. Vicious little bugger went for me." Wales claws his fingers in demonstration. "Nearly had my bloody hand off."

"Oh," England says, dropping his own hand back down to his side. "Sorry about that, I suppose."

"Wasn't your fault." Wales shrugs, and the fairy on his shoulder squeaks in indignation, grabbing on to Wales' shirt collar to stop herself from falling. "Evil looking bastard, it was. A gnome, I think. Red hat, blue coat, teeth like a fucking piranha."

The description's familiar.

"That would be George," England tells his brother. "He does tend to be a bit grumpy."

One of Wales' eyebrows arches upwards. "George?" he says, smirking. "Why on earth do you call him George?"

The gnome's perpetually disgruntled expression reminds him very strongly of one of their old kings of the same name, but that fancy seems so ridiculous that England can't bring himself to admit to it. In fact, he feels slightly ridiculous, full stop, and when Wales starts laughing, England can't help but join in. His laughter is buoyed along by the giddiness of fast-spreading relief – he's not lost them; he can't have, not if they still come to Wales, whom England has long suspected could give even the frog a run for his money when it comes to shagging – and continues until his stomach starts to ache so much that he fears he might be sick from it.

"Breathe," Wales says, taking hold of one of England's arms and shaking him lightly. "And wipe your face."

England tries to match the rhythm of his breathing to his brother's – slow in, slow out – and his laughter does eventually subside sufficiently that he can gasp out, "Wipe my face?" through the last few hitching spasms of it.

"I'm going to do something you probably won't like very much in a minute, but, for my sake, I'd rather you cleaned yourself up first. You're looking a little… sticky."

England swipes his free arm quickly across his face, and is surprised to see that his sleeve is sticky and wet afterwards. "I was crying," he says.

He hadn't noticed.

"Absolutely bawling," Wales clarifies. "Right, that's better. Now please don't punch me for this."

Before England has even had chance to ponder exactly what 'this' might entail, Wales pulls him forward into a hug.

England attempts to flinch away from the contact – it's is an ingrained reaction, subconscious, and so hard-wired into him by now that he can't even begin to fight it – but Wales' arms lock tight against his back, holding him in place.

"Fucking hell, England, neither of us hates you." Although Wales' voice is quiet, a low rumble against England's ear, the words are still forceful somehow; heartfelt, England would like so much to believe. "We've never hated you. Well, at least not all the way down to where it really matters. And we are sorry about all this crap you've had to go through. I know you don't believe him, but Yr Alban really did think he was doing you a favour. He just never used to think his plans through very well."

He still doesn't think things through, otherwise he would have told England that he lied a decade ago, not three weeks ago. And he would have found a better way of breaking that news than in a crowded fucking pub when England had been far too drunk to process it properly at first, and then had had no hope of being able to temper the intensity his reaction when he finally did.

Still, with the lightness of his earlier joy still effervescing through his body, it's hard for the moment to feel the full ferocity of his anger, completely justified though it may be. And the hug is also disarming in its own way; Wales is much more likely to offer comfort by way of a shoulder or knee clasp, and England doesn't think they've embraced one another since VE day.

Both of those facts combine to make him feel magnanimous enough to loop his own arms around Wales' waist and briefly draw him closer.

"Don't think this means you're forgiven," he makes sure to point out, nevertheless, because he knows the feeling will doubtless be extremely short-lived.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Wales says.
-

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Notes: The very eventful birthday party itself will be covered in Do It Anyway (part 50 of the series).