3rd July, 1976; Margate, England

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Scotland returns from the ice cream van bearing two 99s and a disgruntled expression, but absent England.

"Where's Arthur?" Wales asks, marking his place in his book with a ribbon of desiccated seaweed (scavenged from the high tide line by Northern Ireland, and then presented to him with the instruction it should be used for just that purpose) before setting it aside.

Scotland throws himself back down into his deckchair so heavily that Wales is surprised that its already frayed fabric and thin metal frame don't both give out entirely beneath him. "I clubbed him over the head with a rock and buried him in a sand dune," he says matter-of-factly.

The undamaged state of Scotland's knuckles, face and clothing all suggest that if he and England had had a disagreement, it hadn't turned physical, however. More than likely, they simply exchanged some harsh words – what on earth they might have found to argue about during the simple purchase of ice cream doesn't even warrant consideration, because there's nothing England does that Scotland can't find a way to take exception to, and vice versa – and England has stormed off to rant to himself and throw things into the sea until he calms down sufficiently so as to be something approaching tolerable company again.

Still, as it's no worse than might happen on any Saturday they hadn't been emotionally manipulated into spending as a family on Margate Sands instead of unsuccessfully trying to avoid one another in London, Wales simply remarks, "That's a shame," and reaches out to take his ice cream.

Scotland holds it a little closer to his chest, seemingly reluctant to hand it over. "These weren't free, you know. You owe me 15p."

Wales has to stand up in order to dig through the pockets of his shorts for the coins – although they're big enough to hold a couple of quid's worth of shrapnel, they don't also appear to have been designed with the easy admission of hands in mind – an awkward manoeuvre which prompts Scotland to turn his attention towards the struggles of a rather ambitious but somewhat misguided seagull who has alighted nearby and is trying to carry off a discarded sandwich almost half its size. Bare legs, Scotland seems to believe, are only to be permitted beneath kilts, and the level of offence he demonstrated upon first seeing Wales' choice of outfit that morning was far better suited to a decision to go naked for the day. Even in the stifling midst of what is apparently the hottest British summer since records began, both Scotland and England are still clad in shirts and trousers. England has at least rolled up his sleeves in deference to the weather, but Scotland hasn't even undone the button at his collar.

Wales' efforts eventually net him a couple of clammy ten pence pieces, which he presses into his brother's free hand, receiving his ice cream and a faintly disgusted look in return. His change is not forthcoming.

The cone is already sticky with rivulets of melted ice cream and strawberry sauce, and the Flake is listing at a precarious angle, in danger of losing its mooring completely. So he doesn't risk forfeiting it to an opportunistic seagull, Wales plucks the chocolate bar out and rests it on the arm of his deckchair for later. (Though not too much later, as it too is quickly surrendering both shape and consistency to the heat.)

"What the hell's the bairn up to?" Scotland asks, his gaze wandering a little further down the beach as Wales settles himself back into his seat.

"Trying to dig to Australia, apparently."

Slightly concerned that his brother might be disappointed when he learnt that such an undertaking was impossible, Wales had tried to gently disabuse him of the notion, citing the vast distances involved and inherent difficulties in attempting to breach the earth's crust armed only with a small plastic spade. Northern Ireland had looked at him somewhat incredulously, and then said, "It's just a game, Dylan," in a measured way that suggested he thought Wales may have some trouble understanding the concept if it wasn't explained to him slowly. Wales had ended the conversation unsure which of the two of them was more embarrassed for him.

Scotland gives a soft snort. "He's not doing a very good job of it."

Having carefully noted his brother's position earlier, Wales spots him easily despite the crowds of other children running, playing and digging their own tunnels to far-flung locales around him. He seems to have given up on his own excavation project, however, and is sitting on the edge of the hole, occasionally flicking at the sand desultorily, whilst his eyes are fixed on some point a little to the right of Wales and Scotland, amongst the ranks of sunbathers settled in front of the seawall.

Wales doesn't know whether to laugh or groan when he realises exactly where the precise angle of Northern Ireland's head suggests he is looking. The sound that finally emerges from his throat is a confused, slightly strangled mixture of both, which causes Scotland to glance towards him with what appears to be some concern.

There is none evident in his voice, though, when he barks, "What the fuck's the matter with you?"

"Haven't you noticed what Micheal's gawping at?" Wales asks, thinking he'd best go and distract Northern Ireland somehow before anyone gets uncomfortable, if they haven't already.

Scotland's gaze flits to Northern Ireland, and then follows his line of sight for a moment before drifting back to Wales once more. He shrugs one huge shoulder and then shakes his head, his expression one of complete bafflement.

Wales' body somehow finds even more heat to direct towards his face, despite the fact that it had already felt to be about the same temperature as the surface of the sun. "It seems to be…" Wales pauses to take a fortifying nibble of his ice cream before finishing in a rush: "Those three young ladies who passed us a little while ago."

Scotland's eyebrows concertina into even thicker knots of confusion. "Which young ladies? There are quite a few of them."

"The, um, very statuesque ones," Wales clarifies weakly, wishing now that he hadn't even tried to explain himself. Over two millennia old, and it's still embarrassing to admit to his brother that he notices such things. His only consolation is that Scotland is likely just as embarrassed, having displayed on many occasions his discomfort at being reminded of that very same fact. "With the… The rather, erm, rather small bikinis."

There's not even a scintilla of recognition in Scotland's eyes, but then again, Wales has always suspected that there are some things about which he is blinkered to the point of tunnel vision.

"Isn't he a bit too young to be interested in that sort of thing," Scotland ventures after mulling Wales' information over for a time.

It's always difficult to judge what age a nation might be if they were a human – especially one as tall and spindly as Northern Ireland – but Wales reckons him to have reached the development of a nine or ten-year-old by now; eleven at a stretch. It's even more difficult to remember what thoughts had filled his own head at a similar stage of maturity, however.

On further reflection, however, he's fairly certain both he and Scotland had started taking exactly that sort of interest in France when they, in turn, reached that particular phase of their lives.

"Perhaps not," Wales says, and it's a slightly horrifying thought that will inexorably lead towards further discussions with Northern Ireland of the type that he would rather avoid, but will doubtless find himself having anyway because no one else will.

Scotland frowns and then he raises his voice to a bellow that was designed to carry across battlefields, and so it easily cuts through the cacophony of delighted squeals, laughter, and excited chatter surrounding Northern Ireland. "Mikey. Here. Now."

Northern Ireland reacts to the tone with just as much unthinking obedience as Wales ever did, instantly jumping to his feet and starting to run, and he reaches Scotland's side before the final word has even finished being vocalised.

Scotland doesn't praise him for his prompt response – he never does – he simply glowers at their little brother's bowed head as Northern Ireland looks diffidently down at his bare feet, and snaps, "You shouldn't stare at people. It's fucking rude."

Northern Ireland nods briskly, and his shoulders hunch, back stiffening, obviously preparing himself for the clout Scotland would usually reinforce such admonishments with. But it doesn't come. Instead, Scotland simply inclines his head towards the deckchair England had been using earlier and tells Northern Ireland to, "Sit down, and keep your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself," before getting back to finishing his own Flake-less 99 before it liquefies completely.

This command is obeyed with no less speed than the last, but with a great deal more petulant scowling and stomping of feet (not an easy task on sand, but Northern Ireland manages it somehow; an ingenuity that Wales silently admires).

Almost immediately afterwards, Northern Ireland starts rubbing his hand in small, distracted circles over his belly, as though trying to sooth a growling stomach. Given that Northern Ireland has become a bottomless pit as far as food is concerned over the past few years – a propensity England has been hoping that he will grow out of as quickly as he grew into it given the size of their recent grocery bills – the fact that he's hungry is much less of a surprise as when he'd turned down the offer of an ice cream in the first place.

Wales sighs heavily, and then hands Northern Ireland the Flake he'd been saving.

A moment later, Scotland does the same.
-

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6th July, 1976; London, England

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"What's he doing with all those books?" Scotland asks, somewhat suspiciously, as Northern Ireland trots past the living room en route from the library, clutching yet another encyclopaedia to his narrow chest.

"Reading them, I should imagine," England says without looking up from The Times. "It is why we got them, after all."

Specifically, they had been bought in the hopes that Northern Ireland might consult them rather than any of his brothers if he had a question of a more intimate nature. A worthy endeavour, to Wales' mind, though he did worry that the scholarly nature of the articles may be a little too hard to digest for his brother, thus rendering them unfit for purpose; a feeling that had only intensified after the events of the previous weekend.

To rectify matters, he had only yesterday borrowed some more straightforward explanatory pamphlets detailing matters adolescent from his current beau, Jeremy – who had also insisted on lending Wales a book about deep breathing and visualisation exercises with the promise that it would 'change his life' – and sprinkled them throughout the volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica that he thought Northern Ireland would be most drawn to.

Scotland still looks sceptical. "But they don't have any pictures."

"They're full of pictures," England argues.

"Aye, diagrams and the like. Not comics and –"

"Just be glad he's learning," England interrupts sharply, holding his newspaper a little tighter.

'And not asking any questions,' remains unsaid, but is implicit all the same.
-

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7th July, 1976; London, England

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Wales feels distinctly put upon, singled out, and, above all, duped.

He had been lured into the conversation he's sure he's about to have under false pretences, reeled in by Northern Ireland's apparent anxiety about his goldfish's erratic swimming patterns. The fish, it transpired, was perfectly healthy; the real concern lay in the papers that were scattered over Northern Ireland's desk and bed.

Papers that are covered in notes written in Northern Ireland's unmistakable scrawl, and illustrated with the same unsteady hand. Despite the sloppiness of the lines, Wales can still easily recognise the cross-sectional representation of a uterus, which has been circled repeatedly with a bright red pen.

His heart sinks, though only in resignation and not fear. At least this time, he'd been somewhat prepared.

Accordingly, he asks, "What do you want to know, North?" after his brother eases the door shut behind them.

Northern Ireland looks slightly taken aback, but his hesitance is only momentary. "Why do I have a bellybutton if I don't have a mum?"

It is… Not the question Wales had been expecting. Not even close. The breath he had taken to give answer he had assumed would be required escapes uselessly from his mouth in a thin sigh.

His confusion must show clearly on his face, because Northern Ireland shakes his head despondently. "You don't know, do you?"

"Of course I do," Wales says, out of a reflexive desire not to disappoint his brother. "We…" Northern Ireland's eyes narrow when Wales pauses. "The thing is…" Then he crosses his arms tightly across his chest, painting such a perfect picture of an irritated Scotland in miniature that Wales can't help but laugh, which only serves to make Northern Ireland's scowl deepen and the resemblance increase.

"Wales," Northern Ireland whines plaintively, obviously thinking that his enquiry isn't being considered with the seriousness it deserves.

"Sorry," Wales says when he manages to get his laughter under control again. "It's just…" There seems to be little point in obfuscating, because, this time, there's really nothing he either needs or wants to conceal. "We just do, North. Humans imagined us into being and gave us human form, and humans have belly buttons. So I guess that's why we do too. "

"Oh." Northern Ireland looks thoughtful for a moment, before announcing, "That's crap."

Wales chuckles again. "It is, but I don't know any better reason than that, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Northern Ireland says again, sounding even more disappointed. "What if I asked Scotland instead?"

"He'd probably tell you to piss off. England, on the other hand, would tell you exactly the same thing I have."

Northern Ireland seems to accept this with a sort of weary resignation, shoulders drooping as he nods his head dejectedly.

"There isn't anything else you want to ask, is there?" Wales finds himself asking for no earthly reason he can ascertain save perhaps some manifestation of the same subliminal sense of brotherly duty that occasionally inspires him to defend England even when he's being an unconscionable wanker. "About those young ladies at the beach last weekend, perhaps?" Wales voice continues, seemingly of its own accord.

"No," Northern Ireland says, looking confused himself now. And, then, slightly hesitantly: "Should there be?"

"Not that I can think of," Wales lies, with no small relief.