Work Text:
23rd July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales
Wales' house feels more like a museum to Northern Ireland than England's ever has.
England might have more in the way of valuable antiques, but near everything Wales owns seems to serve as a memorial to some failed past relationship or other. There isn't a single nook or cranny that doesn't hold a memento of some kind; scarcely an object which is free of sentimental value. Even something as simple as making a cup of tea risks prompting his brother to take a protracted wander down memory lane, given that the teapot had been a gift from one of his lovers at the tail-end of the sixties, and most of his mugs had been made by Cerys during her pottery classes.
The feeling is only enhanced by Wales' apparent aversion to any technology invented after the 1950s.
"I'm sure you can find something to amuse yourself whilst I make dinner," he'd said before disappearing into the kitchen, but glancing around the living room, Northern Ireland isn't sure that he can.
A few years back, Wales had owned a Wii, but Cerys had taken it with her when they broke up, and now he doesn't even have a telly. The old one had been broken during a fight between Scotland and England that Northern Ireland has only heard the sketchiest of details about, and Wales hasn't replaced it yet. Apparently, he doesn't intend to, because he 'spends too much time staring at screens as it is'.
Which screens remains a mystery, however. Wales does own a computer, but it's ancient and clunky, and all Wales knows how to do on it is send emails. Northern Ireland supposes he might perhaps use a computer at work, as well, but considering his laborious hunt and peck approach to typing, and inability to navigate even the simplest of programs, it's more likely his staff take pity on him and complete such tasks themselves.
"Like what?" Northern Ireland shouts through the living room doorway.
The clattering of pans stops for a moment. "You could always read a book. Jesus, Gogledd, we all managed just fine before we had televisions. You included."
Northern Ireland rolls his eyes, and wanders over to browse Wales' bookshelves, although he's not sure why he's bothering. The majority of Wales' books are dry and boring, and all the ones that aren't, Wales conscientiously keeps in his bedroom because he, like England, seems to think that Northern Ireland needs protecting from the sort of thing he's been reading and watching for decades without their interference.
Even the slim volumes of Wales' published poetry don't hold any allure at the moment, however, even though they're usually good for a laugh, if nothing else. (One of the benefits of Wales' technophobia, Scotland has always insisted, is that he's never discovered how easy it is to self-publish nowadays.)
That leaves only the slender hope that Wales' record collection might provide something by way of a distraction. Extremely slender, as for all of his brother's supposed championing of new Welsh music, near everything he actually owns involves either a harp or a male voice choir. The only exception is his large selection of eighties miserablist albums, which have been the soundtrack to each and every one of his break-ups for the last three decades. One of Northern Ireland's most enduring memories of the years he lived with his brothers are of the mad scrambles from the house he, Scotland and England made as soon as they heard Morrisey's voice floating down from Wales' bedroom.
He flicks disconsolately through The Smiths and The Cure, pausing only to marvel at the absolutely fucking awful hairstyles that they all somehow thought were attractive back then. When he reaches 'Disintegration', something slithers out between it and the next Celtic knot adorned record in line.
It's a CD.
Northern Ireland wasn't even aware that Wales owned anything to play them on, but it appears that there's a whole stack of CDs tucked at the very back of the shelf, only revealed if one were to take an interest in the works of eisteddfod winners past. Hidden away, as though Wales is too ashamed to have them on show.
After Northern Ireland picks them up and turns them over to read to their titles, he can't stop his bark of laughter, or his loud, "Fucking hell."
The expletive propels Wales out of the kitchen at speed, clearly under the impression that there's been a terrible accident. "Are you okay?" he asks as he appears at Northern Ireland's shoulder, breathing raggedly after his sprint down the hallway. "What's happen–"
His words cut off abruptly when he sees the CDs, and he echoes Northern Ireland's, "Fucking hell."
Wales blushes, looks away from Northern Ireland, and then stares very pointedly down at his slippers. He seems even more embarrassed than he did when Northern Ireland had stumbled across his collection of sex toys a few years back, and that had lead to an awkward and unpleasantly frank conversation which Wales seemed determined to deliver despite all protestations to the contrary. Northern Ireland is still trying his hardest to repress it.
"Take That?" Northern Ireland can't help asking, because, really, there has to be some sort of explanation. "Take That?"
"Gary Barlow's an excellent song writer," Wales says, sounding slightly desperate. "And… And, please don't tell Lloegr, Gogledd."
Northern Ireland snorts. "England likes Sting. I don't think he's in any position to judge."
"It's not that, it's, well… My position on the Super Furry Animals isn't really going to hold much weight if Lloegr knows about those," Wales says, nodding towards the CDs.
It's not solely embarrassment, then. When it comes to bands, England sadly always has the upper hand. If he were to find out that Wales hadn't just been seduced by miserablism, but by an English boy band, too, he'd never have the chance of scoring points in one of their interminable arguments about their respective countries' music ever again.
"Okay, I won't tell him," Northern says, because he often finds himself also at a disadvantage during such arguments, and senses an opportunity to turn the odds in his favour somewhat. "But only so long as you back me up next time Scotland tries to claim Snow Patrol are Scottish."