1952; London, England

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"We need champagne," England announces, clapping his hands together as he gets to his feet, "to wet the babies' heads."

Wales can't help but laugh at the suggestion, and England's broad grin. He looks no less delighted than any proud new father might be, poised and ready to burst in to song at a moment's notice or distribute cigars to all and sundry.

"I'm not sure you do that with kittens, England."

"Nonsense!" England says, seemingly unconcerned by the intimation that he's perhaps behaving a little foolishly. "Why shouldn't we celebrate the miracle of life?"

Because you were still cursing that particular miracle not even an hour ago, Wales thinks but can't bring himself to say, because it's been far too long since his brother last looked genuinely happy. It's a rare enough occurrence at the best of times, but lately it's become a practically mythical sight.

England nods, likely interpreting Wales' lack of rebuttal as tacit agreement, and then swivels on his heel, turning the beam of his smile on to Northern Ireland. "You can even have a small glass of it if you like, North."

Northern Ireland is apparently too engrossed by the kittens to notice he's being addressed – an impoliteness that, for once, England lets pass without correction – eyes avidly fixed on them as he edges ever nearer their basket, squirming across the kitchen floor on his stomach like a snake. A very dusty snake, by the looks of it; judging by the state of his short trousers, the front panels of his once brilliant white shirt are doubtless almost black by now. This, too, England fails to admonish him for, despite his ongoing crusade to nurture a greater respect for the state of his clothing in Northern Ireland.

"You shouldn't touch them yet," Wales says anxiously when he sees Northern Ireland tentatively reach out his hand. "Bonnie might be a sweetheart usually, but she'll be really protective of them right now. You don't want to get bitten."

Northern Ireland huffs out an irritated sigh, but nevertheless drops first his hand and then his head, which he pillows against his arms after crossing them. Wales is unconvinced that the warning will prove a dire enough threat to overcome further temptation, and so moves a step closer to his little brother in order to better keep a careful eye on him and his curious fingers. Bonnie watches his approach leerily, her large copper eyes wide and unblinking.

"I think we have a bottle left over from New Year's in the cellar," England muses, before bustling away on what is likely a Snark hunt, as Wales has a vague recollection of Scotland using that very champagne to toast the momentous event of a Wednesday falling between a Tuesday and Thursday.

England is gone to quickly for Wales to point that out, however, and as soon as the kitchen door slams shut behind his back, Northern Ireland asks, "Where do babies come from?" which puts paid to any thoughts of calling out after him, too.

Wales suspects the timing of that question may well have been deliberate.

"You know where they come from, bach. You just saw five kittens being born," he says, thankful now that England had insisted that Northern Ireland be present for the birth, which was probably intended to teach him exactly this lesson so that none of them actually had to deliver it verbally. It was how they had all learnt it, after all.

"They were all in her tummy," Northern Ireland says, his voice firm and assured. "And then they came out of her other bum."

"Her…" Wales automatically starts to correct Northern Ireland, but the word sticks hard at the back of his throat and refuses to be dislodged, even by a series of sharp coughs. "Yes. Quite," he finishes, hoarse and a little ashamed that his discomfort has lost him an opportunity to improve his brother's vocabulary.

Northern Ireland's eyes and mouth both narrow as he studies Bonnie's grey furred side. "But how did they get in there?"

Really, Wales should have expected that follow-up, yet it still surprises him sufficiently that he finds himself incapable of speech for a while. He desperately casts his mind back through the centuries, trying to dredge up what Scotland had told him when he first inquired about this very subject, but all he manages to net in the end is the entirely unhelpful 'you'll find out when you're older', which had remained the default reply he received for many, many years thereafter, as well.

England's approach with the weans was little better, because he enclosed each factual grain inside such a thick layer of metaphor that they'd all come away from the experience even less enlightened than before.

Wales will just have to find his own way, it seems.

A moment's careful consideration leads him to, "The daddy cat put them inside her." He underscores the words with a brisk nod, pleased that he seems to have happened across an answer that is ambiguous enough that he's not too embarrassed to voice it, yet still truthful.

Northern Ireland's brows dip a little lower. "How?"

Wales is severely tempted to say magic, but Northern Ireland was unconvinced by that as an explanation for how Father Christmas might negotiate their newly installed electric fire, never mind how telephones work, birds fly, or any other such difficult questions he seems to revel in springing on them precisely at times when they're unable to access a library.

"Well, he… He holds her very tightly, and…"

Wales' words and inspiration both dry up simultaneously. Surely, he thinks, there must be a book for this sort of thing? It would make things so much easier, because then the appropriate knowledge could be transferred in private, without the need for anyone to speak to or look at anyone else as they cogitated upon such delicate matters.

To Wales' surprise, Northern Ireland nods vigorously at his aborted sentence. "I saw Felix do that to Bonnie. England threw a shoe at him and yelled, 'fuck off, you mangy little shit'."

Wales has no doubts about that, given how angry their brother had been that his pedigree British Blue had been impregnated by a one-eared tom with a face like an old boot, but still: "I imagine he did, North, but that doesn't mean you should repeat it. When you're as old and ugly as England, you can use language like that, but not before, okay?"

Northern Ireland scowls at the admonishment, but concedes a somewhat sullen sounding agreement, nevertheless.

Wales pats the top of Northern Ireland's bowed head encouragingly before picking up the thread of their conversation again. "So, yes, that's how Felix and Bonnie made their kittens. It's much the same sort of thing with humans, too, except they don't tend to do it on top of fences and shed roofs."

Much to Wales' relief, Northern Ireland seems to have lost interest in the topic entirely, however, greeting the statement with little more than a dispassionate grunt. He stays silent then for so long that Wales starts to withdraw, thinking that his brother might prefer to be left on his own for a while.

The movement seems to startle Northern Ireland out of whatever thoughts he was lost in, though, and he asks, "Where did I come from, then? I can't have come from Mum's tummy because she was already in heaven. And you said that I don't have a dad..."

Wales wonders whether Northern Ireland has been gnawing on this for the past fifteen years, or if the birth of Bonnie's litter has simply brought it to the forefront of his thoughts again. Unfortunately, whichever it is, Wales is sure he's no more able to set Northern mind at ease now than he was then.

"I don't know," he has to reluctantly admit. "You just… appeared one day."

Northern Ireland pouts slightly. "That's what England said."

When they found him, Northern Ireland had been smaller than any of the weans had been when they were first discovered, but he wasn't newborn, either. He had clearly been growing somewhere – as someone – though where (and who) that might have been is something they have never been able to ascertain.

At first, they thought he must have been ripped from Ireland somehow, but as he aged, it became clear that they bear little resemblance to one another. They do share the colour of their hair, yet he has England's eyes and scrawny build, and, judging by the length of his legs, he might eventually have Scotland's height to go along with his strong chin. All of which suggests that they each played their own part in his creation somehow – Wales can see nothing of himself in the lad, but then again, he's often thought that there's probably not enough left of him nowadays that he could afford anything to give – but all of his other features are entirely his own. Whose they once were remains a mystery, however.

"Sorry, brawd," Wales says, shaking his head, "but there's nothing else I can tell you, either."