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June, 2014; London, England
Wales used to be in the habit of retreating to the back garden when his stamina inevitably waned during England's parties. Huddled behind the protective cover of the rhododendron bushes there, he would chain-smoke and wallow in his timeworn, comforting fantasies of running away to live in hermitic seclusion atop Yr Wyddfa or some other suitably inhospitable location where his brother was unlikely to ever venture of his own accord.
An hour or so spent indulging himself in such a fashion would be sufficient balm to his nerves that he could return, rejuvenated, to their guests and to England's anxious handwringing about the same. To him worrying about whether they had enough to eat and drink (and if Wales could get right on to circulating around the room, asking if anyone needed a top up, that'd help him no end), whether the house was the right temperature, the music the right volume for their comfort, and – most vehemently – whether the veneer of his side tables would survive the night intact, due to said guests' deplorable eschewal of the many coasters he had dotted about the place before the party began.
('My poor Queen Anne occasional; it'll never recover from this… this indignity, Wales!" was his most common refrain, before storming off to glare and tut at the transgressor in the hopes of shaming them into moving their glass.)
But now that their family circle had expanded to include not only their various partners, but also their partners' own relatives and friends, the invitee list to England's 'intimate little get-togethers' has grown long enough that the ground floor of his house was no longer large enough to contain them all, and the overflow of guests often spilled out into the garden, weather permitting.
It's a lovely warm, clear evening; Wales won't find any succour amongst the rhododendrons tonight. Instead, he will have to resort to his backup plan: the pantry.
England always plans the catering for these events so meticulously that there'll be no risk of him stumbling onto Wales there. He lays out plate after plate of finger food, every conceivable condiment, and not one of them ever runs low, never mind runs out. Tomorrow morning, he will send Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland home with Tupperware containers bulging with leftovers.
Only Northern Ireland has a strong enough constitution to actually eat them. Wales leaves them out to feed the crows who visit his garden; Scotland, who is less charitably inclined towards birdlife, uses the puck-esque quiches and rock-like cakes in lieu of a ball for golfing practice.
Wales loiters by the Aga until the last few stragglers refilling their drinks at the booze-laden kitchen table finish up and amble out into the garden, and then dashes into the pantry. He eases the door closed behind him and then presses one ear against it, listening out for any hint that he had been spotted making his break for sanctuary.
When a couple of minutes or so have passed and he's heard no cause for alarm, Wales relaxes, flicks on the light, and looks around for something to help pass the time.
Ten minutes after that, Northern Ireland joins him.
"I wasn't expecting to see you," Wales says. "Not with Gwlad yr Iâ here."
"Yeah, well, Norway's right there with him the whole fucking time," Northern Ireland says. "And he's just as bad as England. You know, 'What are your intentions towards my brother', and that sort of thing. I just needed a bit of break from it."
"You've lasted longer than you usually do, anyway. Almost two hours; I think that's probably a new record. Do you want me go so you can be on your own for a while?"
The pantry is, after all, usually Northern Ireland's bolthole of choice at parties, and Wales wonders if he's ruing having mentioned that fact now, when they were swapping horror stories of soirees past in anticipation of this one.
"Naw, you're all right," Northern Ireland says with great magnanimity.
"Well, if we're both going to stay, how do you fancy joining me in a little game?"
Northern Ireland's eyes narrow suspiciously. "What sort of game?"
"I've been picking the most esoteric ingredients from the lists on these packets, and then trying to compose a poem incorporating them. Like this one here," Wales says, handing Northern Ireland a tub of gravy granules and pointing to the word printed on the label. "'Xanthan gum'. What do you make of that? Aside from gravy, of course."
Wales laughs. Northern Ireland gives him a faintly pitying look.
"It isn't really much of a game, is it?" he says. "And, besides, I don't do poetry. It's bad for my health."
"How can poetry possibly be bad for your health," Wales asks, and when Northern Ireland neglects to explain himself, he forges on, presuming that he's unsure of his abilities and just needs a spot of encouragement to get his words flowing. The prose of the stories he used to write when he was still under his brothers' tutelage was wonderfully lyrical, and Wales had always hoped to inspire him towards trying his hand at penning poems someday. "It's good exercise for the mind. Look, we'll start small; think of words that rhyme with 'xanthan gum' and we can work up from there."
"Bum," Northern Ireland suggests immediately.
Wales can hardly deny it, but nevertheless, "Better suited to limericks, don't you think?"
"Yum," is Northern Ireland's next suggestion.
"Much the same."
"Cu—"
Wales whisks the tub out of his brother's hand, interrupting him mid-word by slamming it heavily back down on the shelf, and snatches up a jar of Branston Pickle to replace it.
"Right; that one's clearly a non-starter. Why don't we give… 'acetic acid' a go, instead?"
Wales is puzzling over 'sodium metabisulphite' when the door opens again and Romano peers into the pantry.
"Ah, fuck," Northern Ireland says, blushing as red as the bottle of ketchup he's holding. "You two hadn't arranged a… a rendezvous in here or something, had you?"
"What? No! Of course not!" Wales says, whilst rather wishing, at the same time, that he'd thought to do so. It would have been an infinitely better use of this period of seclusion, though perhaps not the most sensible one, given the pantry door's lack of a lock.
Romano glowers at him, and then slightly less accusingly at Northern Ireland. "What are you two doing in here?"
"Hiding from the party," Northern Ireland puts in before Wales is able to think of another, less embarrassing explanation for their actions.
"Right," Romano says sharply, almost as if it's a rebuke. But then he looks lingeringly back over his shoulder, in the direction of the garden. His back stiffens. "Okay."
He steps into the pantry with them.
Given their audience, Wales restrains himself to a single peck on the cheek in greeting. Northern Ireland, in turn, similarly restrains himself to a single false retch of disgust in response.
"Wales has been writing poems about preservatives," Northern Ireland informs Romano when they break apart to stand at a carefully decent distance from each other at opposite sides of the small room.
"You have?" Romano says, and though his voice is completely devoid of inflection, there is a tiny nick of a furrow etched between his brows that bespeaks apprehension.
Apprehension, perhaps, that Wales is considering reciting one of them. He's never quite been able to work out exactly how Romano feels about his poetry. Given that he's not usually reticent about voicing either complaints or criticism, Wales had – somewhat optimistically – assumed that his silence on the subject was an encouraging sign.
That barely-there frown seems to suggest otherwise.
"Nothing worth sharing," he is, therefore, quick to reassure. "I'm obviously not on top of my game tonight. Best give it up at as a bad job, I suppose."
Scotland's crashing entrance not only disrupts Romano's explanation to Northern Ireland of colour theory – using the contrasting turquoise and orange scheme of a tin of baked beans as a practical example – but almost shakes the pantry shelves clear off the walls.
They rattle on their brackets, and a jar of mayonnaise overturns, rolling perilously close to the edge. Thankfully, Scotland shoots out a hand and catches it before it can crash to the floor, so they're spared from the undue attention that the sound of smashing glass was certain to attract.
Not that Scotland's voice is appreciably any the quieter. "Thought I'd find you in here," he bellows, nodding at Wales. "And you." And at Northern Ireland. "Wasn't expecting you, though." His eyes dart nervously from Romano back towards Wales. "You weren't—"
"No," Wales says coolly. "We weren't."
"Good, good. Glad to hear it." There's not really enough room left in the pantry to accommodate Scotland's gargantuan frame, but he squeezes himself in, regardless, pinning poor Northern Ireland against the wall momentarily as he manoeuvres the door closed behind him. He leans back against it afterwards, heaving a deep sigh of what sounds to be relief.
"Are you okay, Yr Alban," Wales asks in some concern.
"I am now I'm out of Norway's sights," Scotland says.
"Why on earth do you want to avoid Norway?" Wales asks, puzzled. He can understand Northern Ireland's nervousness about spending time in his company, but he'd always thought Scotland to be on solidly cordial terms with him.
"It's just awkward, you ken. Seeing as though we, well… You remember that time he and I…" Scotland trails off, his face florid and gaze evasive, leading Wales to suspect that he and Norway must have once had some manner of liaison. Though it's impossible to tell whether it was a torrid affair that lasted decades or Scotland had merely caught an accidental glimpse of Norway's ankle in the nineteenth century, as he would surely have the same reaction now, either way.
And either way, Wales has no recollection of it, but knowing that his brother is unlikely to elaborate further, regardless – and, indeed, it's surprising he's even alluded to anything of the sort – he simply nods as though he of course remembers everything there is to remember about that nebulous, unnamed time.
"Now that's sorted out, pass me that wine, Wales," Scotland says, pointing at the bottle of cooking red that had been hidden – likely from him in particular – behind a stack of tinned tomatoes before Scotland set the pantry shaking and toppled them. "No reason we should miss out on prime drinking time just because we're stuck in here."
"So, I was here," Scotland says, setting down a bag of porridge to mark his position on the pitch he's marked out on the shelf with strands of spaghetti. "And this" – he holds aloft a tin of spaghetti hoops and waves it in Romano's direction – "is laughing boy over there. Who was right here. And then Wales…"
He pauses to contemplate the provisions in front of him, presumably assessing them for their suitability to represent Wales in the recreation for Northern Ireland's edification of the rugby match he, Wales, and Romano had played in during their downtime at the last world meeting.
He appears paralysed by indecision on that score, and eventually Romano hands him a tin of custard, which makes Scotland laugh and nod vigorous agreement to his choice. "Aye, seems about right," he says.
Wales struggles to see the connection. Do they both think he's bland as custard? As lumpy? He'd like to think they considered him equally sweet, but that seems like a slim chance on Romano's part, and an impossibility on Scotland's.
Some telling hint of his consternation must show on his face, because Romano shuffles closer, and laces their fingers together. "It was just the closest one," he whispers close to Wales' ear.
Which is an explanation Wales is more than happy to accept, given the alternative, and he squeezes Romano's hand in gratitude.
"Wales was here," Scotland continues, placing the custard in its proper spot, "when—"
The door swings ajar with an ominous creak, and England sticks his head through the gap it creates. "I should have known I'd find you all in here," he says, sweeping a censorious glare around the room.
When it settles upon Wales, it inspires a reflexive sense of guilt within him, and an equally strong urge to attempt to justify his actions. "Lloegr, we were only—"
"I really don't care what you're doing, Wales," England says. "Just… shift up, the lot of you. Make some space for me."
Even Scotland is remarkably compliant to this request, perhaps thrown by its thoroughly unexpected nature, and he mounts not one word of complaint as they all dutifully shuffle round until they're all pressed shoulder to shoulder and England can step into the miniscule scrap of space they've managed to create.
"What's going on out there, then?" Scotland asks. "Must be bad to have got you running for cover at your own party."
"Mr Featherstonehaugh came knocking at the door," England says, scowling.
"Ah, shit. Did he threaten to call the police on us again?"
"Even worse. America bloody well invited him in! And he accepted! Now he's poking his nose into my things, eating my nibbles, drinking my wine… Speaking of…" England gestures imperiously towards the half-empty bottle Scotland's clutching. "Don't hog the wine, Scotland. And there's a bottle of vodka stashed behind the sardines. Grab that, too, will you? I think I'm going to need it."
On account of the vodka, the lecture on the history of tinned food that England is delivering to the room at large is slightly slurred and prodigiously rambling. Also, mercifully cut short when the door opens for the final time that night, revealing France leaning up against the jamb.
"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you all here, but I'm now wondering why I even bothered checking anywhere else," he says, rolling his eyes heavenwards.
"Did you need me for something, mo chridhe?" Scotland asks, already moving towards the door.
"Only the pleasure of your company, as ever," France says with a sunny smile. "But I was actually looking for Angleterre. Your guests are wondering where you are."
"Well, they can keep right on wondering," England says, folding his arms tight across his chest. "I'm not budging."
"So all it takes is the presence of one old man for you to renege on your hosting duties." France shakes his head, his expression grave. "I never took you to be such a coward, Angleterre."
England flushes puce. "I most certainly am not a coward, Frog," he says, pushing past Scotland with such speed and force that Scotland's sent stumbling back half a step.
"You were stuck entertaining Mr Featherstonehaugh, I take it," Scotland says, after England's stomping footsteps have retreated out of earshot, headed towards the garden.
"Much as I hate to agree with your brother, that man is insufferable. The only excuse I could think of for getting away was fetching Angleterre. Mr Featherstonehaugh is eager to compliment him on his quiches." France shudders minutely. "And now I suppose I should get back to the party. Are you coming with me, mon coeur?" he asks, offering Scotland his hand.
Scotland accepts it with alacrity, and they depart, closely followed by Northern Ireland, who mumbles something about checking up on Iceland.
Wales takes one step out of the pantry and into the kitchen, but there he hesitates, glancing towards the open back door and the crowded garden beyond. The garden where an excruciatingly dull – and likely quite insulting – conversation with Mr Featherstonehaugh doubtless awaits him, along with an endless list of demands from England, and a return of his earlier headache, exacerbated by the weighty presence of so many nations all gathered together, and the maelstrom of displaced magic swirling around them.
He turns abruptly on his heel before his own sense of hostly – and fraternal – duty has chance to get the better of him, and places his hand flat against Romano's chest, stopping him in his tracks inside the pantry.
"I think Northern Ireland had the right idea," he says when Romano looks at him questioningly. "A rendezvous would be a much better way of spending the evening."