Chapter Text
22nd August, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
Back when they all lived together, Wales seemed content to lock himself away in his bedroom with nothing more than a large stash of strong alcohol and a mountain of writing supplies to sustain him whenever one of his relationships broke down.
He would emerge several days later, pale and drawn and a little swollen around the eyes, laden down with some new multi-part epic poem about the transience of beauty or something equally dreary, and silently settle back into his normal routine. Occasionally, in the weeks and months that followed, he would suddenly pause in whatever he was doing and tear up over some seemingly innocuous object such as a certain brand of cereal or particular piece of clothing, but Scotland and England would simply steer clear of him for a while – 'giving him a bit of space', they'd always called it, whilst carefully not looking each other in the eye – and he'd pull himself together soon enough.
Since devolution, however, he had seemed to want to actively seek out their company in such circumstances, and, following England's rather spectacular meltdown after being imposed upon one too many times, Scotland and Ireland had reluctantly agreed to setting up a rota to share the burden of dealing with Wales' all too frequent relationship crises.
The latest of which, Scotland presumed, had led to Wales turning up on his doorstep, pallid, unshaven, and stinking of cheap vodka.
"Could I stay with you for a few days, Yr Alban?" he asked, his voice thin and wavering. "I don't like to impose, but I don't fancy being on my own at the moment, and Lloegr's out of the country, so…"
Wales' voice trailed off into a loud sniff which sounded suspiciously watery, and Scotland took a hasty step backward, fearing an explosion of tears which he was ill-equipped to deal with at the best of times, never mind when he was faced with them unexpectedly first thing on a Sunday morning when he hadn't even had his second cup of tea. Wales scrubbed at his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles as though they irritated him, but, thankfully, the sniff seemed to be a one-off and didn't escalate further. Scotland relaxed slightly.
"Aye, I suppose so," Scotland said, even though he'd like nothing better than to send Wales straight on to Ireland, who had always been better able to cope with Wales' more melancholy moods. But a promise was a promise, even if it was made to England – whom Scotland suspected was more than likely not out of the country at all and merely screening Wales' calls – and Scotland had promised to take his turn, just like the rest of his siblings.
Wales looked pathetically grateful, and he started sniffing again, so Scotland hooked an arm around his shoulders and dragged him inside the house before he did something that would embarrass Scotland far more than it ever seemed to embarrass Wales.
Scotland and Wales had polished off at least half of Scotland's cheapest bottle of whisky before Scotland worked up the mental fortitude to actually start a conversation with his brother.
"So," he said, staring fixedly at the glass in his hand, "I guess thing's aren't going so well with…"
Although Scotland could remember several things about Wales' latest boyfriend – he'd been studying for a Master's in Clinical Engineering and worked part-time at the Cardiff Roath Tesco Metro where their eyes had met over a display of half-price Jaffa Cakes or some such (Scotland hadn't been listening particularly attentively by that point) – his name hovered around the periphery of Scotland's normally eidetic memory but consistently eluded his attempts to grab hold of it and pull it to the fore.
"Adam," Wales supplied helpfully after a moment or two of awkward silence. Scotland couldn't tell if the slight sneer in his voice was directed towards Wales' (presumably) ex-boyfriend or Scotland himself, due to his forgetfulness. "He's fucking bogging off to Australia. Apparently, he needs some time away from everything to decide what he wants to do with his life next. And whatever that's going to be, it won't include me."
Scotland wished he hadn't said anything, or, at least, had said something different. It used to be that he and Wales were more than capable of spending long periods of time in each other's company without once talking about anything even remotely connected to their personal lives, but that all seemed to have gone tits up recently. Somewhere amidst Scotland's brief split with France and the whole debacle with England, things had become a little too caring-and-sharing between them, and Scotland wasn't sure either how they'd got there or how to deal with it.
He definitely wasn't sure what he should say next. Before France, there had been a few human lasses, but Scotland had never expected anything lasting to come of those relationships, not in the same way Wales appeared to, and so he had never had any advice to give on that score. It was tempting – it was always tempting – to tell Wales to just suck it up and deal with it, though, because a boyfriend going off on a sodding gap year wasn't anywhere near on the same level as finding yourself on the opposite sides of a war or church schism when it came to ripping your fucking heart in two, but he couldn't be that cruel. Not when it came to Wales, anyway.
"Maybe it was for the best that it happened now rather than later," he said instead, quietly and cautiously, peering up through his lowered lashes to gauge Wales' reaction. "Before you got even more attached. We can't stay with humans long-term, Wales. You probably know that better than anyone."
Wales' face crumpled in on itself a little, his eyes screwing shut briefly and his mouth twisting awry at the corners. "I know, but what's the alternative? I don't really know any nations outside of the family anymore, and I never get the chance to meet anyone else."
"There was America's birthday party. And that EU meeting we went to back in April–"
Wales interrupted Scotland with a snort. "You mean the meeting where you and Lloegr started a knock-down fight that ended up dragging in half of Europe, and I accidentally head-butted Yr Eidal – the nice one at that – so hard he needed stitches? The meeting that very nearly caused an international incident, and made our bosses seriously consider revoking all of our travel privileges for the foreseeable future? Yes, that was a fantastic opportunity to meet new people, Yr Alban."
He glared at Scotland, eyes suddenly sharp and one brow arching upwards as if daring him to make a rebuttal.
Scotland didn't have one. Instead, he refilled their glasses.
Several hours later, the bottle of whisky was finished, they'd started making inroads into a bottle of rum, and Wales had moved through the slightly belligerent stage of his drunkenness and straight on to the maudlin, weepy stage, which usually came much later in the proceedings, typically just before he passed out.
"I don't understand why I keep doing this to myself," Wales said morosely, wiping at his damp cheeks with the back of one hand. "I know always turns out the same way, but I can't…"
Wales sighed, and took another swig from his glass rather than finishing his sentence. Scotland made a low, wordless noise that he hoped sounded suitably sympathetic, and hoped against hope that Wales' mood did herald an immanent loss of consciousness, even though that seemed increasingly unlikely as time wore on.
Scotland just didn't know how to cope with Wales when he cried. He never had. Back when they were all children, he had smacked both Wales and England at the first sign of tears with the nebulous, unsubstantiated hope that it'd work as some sort of aversion therapy and toughen them up enough that they wouldn't complain, and wail, and generally bother him quite so much all the time. He gave it up as a bad idea when England became big enough to hit back, and all it appeared to have done in the long run was make England resentful and even more vicious, and yet still prone to spraying tears like a burst pipe if he was drunk, embarrassed or angry enough. And Wales had continued on much as he'd started out – which was far too soft to live, in Scotland's opinion – albeit with the tendency to flinch even now whenever Scotland raised his hand too quickly.
Scotland leant over the arm of his armchair and clasped Wales' shoulder for lack of any better ideas. Wales seemed to deflate under the contact, and his eyes welled up, bottom lip quivering. Scotland instinctively tried to pull away, horrified that he'd apparently somehow triggered another bout of weeping, but Wales grabbed hold of his wrist and held him firmly in place. His other arm snaked around Scotland's back, dragging them both into a tight hug before Scotland had chance to react.
Scotland stared stolidly at the wall behind Wales' head and rued his mistake as Wales clung on to him, mumbling incoherently and soaking the front of Scotland's T-shirt. In the future, he would do best to remember that all forms of physical contact were inadvisable when Wales got himself into this sort of state.
27th August, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
Scotland had no idea how the hell England had managed to put up with Wales like this for three weeks last April. Scotland had started to crack after three days. He'd eventually tried ringing his brother for some advice, but England was apparently screening his calls, too, and remained incommunicado.
Wales had barely moved from the sofa all week, steadily working his way through all the alcohol in Scotland's cupboards (they were down to a half-bottle of some mysterious, sticky pink liqueur that tasted a little like melted strawberry Chewits which Scotland didn't remember possessing, never mind buying), by turns morose and uncommunicative, then sobbing and uncomfortably oversharing.
It wasn't just the incessant drone of the miserable Eighties music that Wales had on constant fucking repeat all hours of the day that was sending Scotland to the end of his tether, or even that Scotland knew far more about Wales' sex life by now than any brother should ever have to, though that was something he would have gone to his grave immeasurably happier for not being enlightened about.
It was the fact that Scotland could see that Wales was getting worse whenever this happened – getting more upset, and staying so for longer – and that this really wasn't a healthy way for him to live. Scotland had an idea of how he could go about remedying that, at least, but also knew that he definitely wasn't the best person for the job.
He did, however, know someone who probably was.