Family Ties [Part 1]
Title: Family Ties
Author: Me, silly.
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, Northern Ireland, England.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Swearing, politics,
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
It was 2:30am on a Tuesday morning, when Wales' phone rang.
A couple of colourful Gaelic swears later, and he mumbled into the receiver "'ello? Jimmy, this better be fuckin' important-"
"Darren!" came Northern Ireland's unexpected voice. Wales blinked a little more awake. "Darren, Darren! You'll never guess!" this was the most excited he'd heard his youngest brother in a long time. He sat up in bed, and turned on the light, rubbing a hand over sleep crusted eyes and slight blondish stubble.
"What's goin' on?" he grumbled. The invention of time travel? The cure for cancer? World peace?
"I'm joining with Ireland!"
Silence.
Wales nearly dropped the phone.
"Darren? Darren? Hello? Bráthair?" Jolted out of his silence, Wales finally replied.
"You're leaving the Union." it was less of a question, more of a statement of the obvious. There was an awkward pause.
"Uh, yeah." came the answer with no little amount of sheepishness. "James left already and all... and I mean, things have totally cooled off between me and Aine." He seemed cheerful about this, and Wales couldn't exactly fault him on it. His sister and him had been through rocky times.
"Fantastic." he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah..." the younger boy sighed happily, almost dreamily. After a pause. "Uh, good luck with your separating, by the way."
Wales blinked. "Wait, what?" More awkward silence.
"You're not leaving...?" came the incredulous words. Wales could practically see the expression his brother was making, big Kirkland eyebrows scrunched together and the corner of his lips twitching in confusion, caught between a nervous smile and a frown. "Why would you want to stay-"
There was a loud knock on Wales' door, more like someone had run bodily into it. The sound echoed around the old cottage house, shaking the floorboards. It seems it was heard even across the ocean, because Northern Ireland coughed nervously.
"Oh, uh, I called England first, by the way. I’ve been out drinking the past three hours, I guess he has too." he admitted. "So, um... bye!" with a click, the line went dead.
Bugger.
For a brief moment, Wales contemplated going back to bed and dragging Arthur's frozen, alcohol saturated arse back to English territory once the sun was up. It wasn't going to be too frosty tonight, he didn't think...
There was a scratching sound, similar to a dog begging to be let in.
With a long suffering sigh, Darren grabbed his dressing gown and trudged downstairs. Switching on the porch light and the hall light, he took a deep breath of the last breath of non-booze smelling air he’d get for a while, and opened the door.
England didn’t so much step over the threshold as fall in. Wales half-caught him, lowering him to the ground just inside the door and shutting the cold and the rain out behind him. His younger brother was soaked, tie undone, a couple of buttons on his shirt conspicuously missing, hair flattened onto his head with the rain and trouser knees ripped.
In short, he looked pathetic.
“Waaaaaales,” came the depressed whine, as with the speed of a drugged snail he shifted to lean on his elder brother’s leg. Damn, now Wales would have to change pajama trousers. “Waaaaaaeeeeellllzzzzz.” He slurred, ending with an abrupt giggle. “Hehe, you’re a fish.”
“Wales are mammals, Art.” The sober nation replied, just watching the drunkard for now.
“Shud send ‘Merica to see you.” He muttered. “Likes wales, makes friends with them.” Then after a pause. “Won’ make friends with me though. Hates me.” Ah, the ‘America hates me’ spiel again. Maybe he should call France. “Ev’ryon’ hates me.” Came the whisper, followed by a small sigh that could have been a sob. “They all hate me, an’ leave me. Was an empire, once. Stupid ‘Merica. Said gotta le- le-” a hiccup. “-let it all go. C’nada, N’ Zealan’, O-…Oz-Stralia, S’th Afrka.” That one was definitely a sob. England’s shoulders shuddered. “An’ India. Miss her. Miss them.”
Wales let his brother rant, then sighed. “I’ll go make some tea, okay?” He said, turning to walk off to the kitchen. He almost fell over when England latched onto his leg like a limpet. “Oi! Leggo you drunken arsehole!” He shook his foot, which was getting wetter and colder by the second. He didn’t want to deal with this at three in the morning, he didn’t. Why couldn’t he sleep? No no, because he was big brother Wales, he had to listen to everyone’s problems.
“Don’t leave me too.” Mumbled England. Wales stopped struggling. The shorter blonde held on tighter, taking the silence as a rejection. “Please, don’t leave me all alone.”
The rain pounded, a steady and familiar beat on the tiled roof and the pavement outside. A constant in the ever-changing world, and an accurate reflection of the dismal mood this evening was beginning to take on.
Wales leant down, and pealed England off him. The physically smaller nation protested wordlessly, but drunk and upset, he couldn’t stop his brother. Nor could he stop him when long arms scooped him up off the floor, carried him into the front room and dumped him on the sofa. A blanket was thrown over him, and he blinked misted green eyes up at Wales.
“You’re staying there, and I’m getting some tea.” He ordered. “And then we are going to sit here, and talk. You’re going to sober up while I’m gone, and we’ll sort this out.”
He stole out of the room before England had the chance to latch on again, flicking on the kitchen lights and trying to ignore the way his cold and clammy trouser leg was sticking to his calf.
It was while he was standing in the kitchen that Wales finally had a moment to organise his thoughts on the whole mess.
His usual method of smacking his head on the nearest object for a couple of seconds until it wasn’t his problem any more seemed pretty tempting, but that wasn’t for right now. This was too delicate.
The argument had started in the first place because England had brought up the war with Iraq. It had escalated by this point, and many more had died, but what had set Scotland off was the obliteration of an entire trope of Scottish soldiers. Both the Nation himself and his people had expressed concern over the way the war was heading, and this had been the last straw.
Maybe he should have stepped in then. But he was too used to being the quiet shadow, just waiting for everything to move on and go with the flow. Only this hadn’t. This had lead to the breaking down of the Union, with Northern Ireland being bolstered by Scotland’s defiance.
The clock in the kitchen flashed 3:15am, then back to the date; April 12, 2020. It’d been a long time since the Troubles, and Northern Ireland had been slowly working his way back into his sister’s good books, and vice versa. Some old wounds would never heal, but they would manage somehow.
The kettle whistled, high and long and piercing into the night. Wales scrunched his gentleman’s eyebrows (as Arthur called them) together as a headache loomed. He reached for the teabags and continued to think.
Regardless of how this had happened, the issue was that now England was even less powerful than he was before, and feeling the effects. He was a proud man, and at one time had been rightly so. But the age when Empires were acceptable was over, and while they had the Commonwealth, it still left the once glorious pirate miserable when he thought about everything he had lost.
Sometimes, Wales got pangs of bereavement too. Australia had always been one of his favourites, such a sunny and happy child, with a whole territory named after him. And Canada, who had somehow taken Wales’ ability to not be noticed and magnified it 100 times. He remembered India’s beauty, her hennaed hands and jewels and feisty uprisings and zen-like calm. They all felt the loss, but England, ever emotional even when he refused to show it, seemed to take it hardest.
The loss of his own brothers wasn’t going to end well until he faced it.
Tea ready, he picked up some digestive biscuits on the way and went back to his drunken brother. Time for an action plan.
And… maybe a hug.
Notes:
- A dressing gown is British for "bath robe", only we wear them over night clothes. Idk if Americans have an equivalent, tell me and I'll edit.
- You see before you a veeeeery optimistic view on Irish politics. No, it probably won't resolve itself in the next 10 years, I know this, but if we go any further I'm gonna have to start making up technological advances that haven't happened yet and just no.
Part 2
Author: Me, silly.
Characters (in this chapter): Wales, Northern Ireland, England.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Swearing, politics,
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
It was 2:30am on a Tuesday morning, when Wales' phone rang.
A couple of colourful Gaelic swears later, and he mumbled into the receiver "'ello? Jimmy, this better be fuckin' important-"
"Darren!" came Northern Ireland's unexpected voice. Wales blinked a little more awake. "Darren, Darren! You'll never guess!" this was the most excited he'd heard his youngest brother in a long time. He sat up in bed, and turned on the light, rubbing a hand over sleep crusted eyes and slight blondish stubble.
"What's goin' on?" he grumbled. The invention of time travel? The cure for cancer? World peace?
"I'm joining with Ireland!"
Silence.
Wales nearly dropped the phone.
"Darren? Darren? Hello? Bráthair?" Jolted out of his silence, Wales finally replied.
"You're leaving the Union." it was less of a question, more of a statement of the obvious. There was an awkward pause.
"Uh, yeah." came the answer with no little amount of sheepishness. "James left already and all... and I mean, things have totally cooled off between me and Aine." He seemed cheerful about this, and Wales couldn't exactly fault him on it. His sister and him had been through rocky times.
"Fantastic." he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah..." the younger boy sighed happily, almost dreamily. After a pause. "Uh, good luck with your separating, by the way."
Wales blinked. "Wait, what?" More awkward silence.
"You're not leaving...?" came the incredulous words. Wales could practically see the expression his brother was making, big Kirkland eyebrows scrunched together and the corner of his lips twitching in confusion, caught between a nervous smile and a frown. "Why would you want to stay-"
There was a loud knock on Wales' door, more like someone had run bodily into it. The sound echoed around the old cottage house, shaking the floorboards. It seems it was heard even across the ocean, because Northern Ireland coughed nervously.
"Oh, uh, I called England first, by the way. I’ve been out drinking the past three hours, I guess he has too." he admitted. "So, um... bye!" with a click, the line went dead.
Bugger.
For a brief moment, Wales contemplated going back to bed and dragging Arthur's frozen, alcohol saturated arse back to English territory once the sun was up. It wasn't going to be too frosty tonight, he didn't think...
There was a scratching sound, similar to a dog begging to be let in.
With a long suffering sigh, Darren grabbed his dressing gown and trudged downstairs. Switching on the porch light and the hall light, he took a deep breath of the last breath of non-booze smelling air he’d get for a while, and opened the door.
England didn’t so much step over the threshold as fall in. Wales half-caught him, lowering him to the ground just inside the door and shutting the cold and the rain out behind him. His younger brother was soaked, tie undone, a couple of buttons on his shirt conspicuously missing, hair flattened onto his head with the rain and trouser knees ripped.
In short, he looked pathetic.
“Waaaaaales,” came the depressed whine, as with the speed of a drugged snail he shifted to lean on his elder brother’s leg. Damn, now Wales would have to change pajama trousers. “Waaaaaaeeeeellllzzzzz.” He slurred, ending with an abrupt giggle. “Hehe, you’re a fish.”
“Wales are mammals, Art.” The sober nation replied, just watching the drunkard for now.
“Shud send ‘Merica to see you.” He muttered. “Likes wales, makes friends with them.” Then after a pause. “Won’ make friends with me though. Hates me.” Ah, the ‘America hates me’ spiel again. Maybe he should call France. “Ev’ryon’ hates me.” Came the whisper, followed by a small sigh that could have been a sob. “They all hate me, an’ leave me. Was an empire, once. Stupid ‘Merica. Said gotta le- le-” a hiccup. “-let it all go. C’nada, N’ Zealan’, O-…Oz-Stralia, S’th Afrka.” That one was definitely a sob. England’s shoulders shuddered. “An’ India. Miss her. Miss them.”
Wales let his brother rant, then sighed. “I’ll go make some tea, okay?” He said, turning to walk off to the kitchen. He almost fell over when England latched onto his leg like a limpet. “Oi! Leggo you drunken arsehole!” He shook his foot, which was getting wetter and colder by the second. He didn’t want to deal with this at three in the morning, he didn’t. Why couldn’t he sleep? No no, because he was big brother Wales, he had to listen to everyone’s problems.
“Don’t leave me too.” Mumbled England. Wales stopped struggling. The shorter blonde held on tighter, taking the silence as a rejection. “Please, don’t leave me all alone.”
The rain pounded, a steady and familiar beat on the tiled roof and the pavement outside. A constant in the ever-changing world, and an accurate reflection of the dismal mood this evening was beginning to take on.
Wales leant down, and pealed England off him. The physically smaller nation protested wordlessly, but drunk and upset, he couldn’t stop his brother. Nor could he stop him when long arms scooped him up off the floor, carried him into the front room and dumped him on the sofa. A blanket was thrown over him, and he blinked misted green eyes up at Wales.
“You’re staying there, and I’m getting some tea.” He ordered. “And then we are going to sit here, and talk. You’re going to sober up while I’m gone, and we’ll sort this out.”
He stole out of the room before England had the chance to latch on again, flicking on the kitchen lights and trying to ignore the way his cold and clammy trouser leg was sticking to his calf.
It was while he was standing in the kitchen that Wales finally had a moment to organise his thoughts on the whole mess.
His usual method of smacking his head on the nearest object for a couple of seconds until it wasn’t his problem any more seemed pretty tempting, but that wasn’t for right now. This was too delicate.
The argument had started in the first place because England had brought up the war with Iraq. It had escalated by this point, and many more had died, but what had set Scotland off was the obliteration of an entire trope of Scottish soldiers. Both the Nation himself and his people had expressed concern over the way the war was heading, and this had been the last straw.
Maybe he should have stepped in then. But he was too used to being the quiet shadow, just waiting for everything to move on and go with the flow. Only this hadn’t. This had lead to the breaking down of the Union, with Northern Ireland being bolstered by Scotland’s defiance.
The clock in the kitchen flashed 3:15am, then back to the date; April 12, 2020. It’d been a long time since the Troubles, and Northern Ireland had been slowly working his way back into his sister’s good books, and vice versa. Some old wounds would never heal, but they would manage somehow.
The kettle whistled, high and long and piercing into the night. Wales scrunched his gentleman’s eyebrows (as Arthur called them) together as a headache loomed. He reached for the teabags and continued to think.
Regardless of how this had happened, the issue was that now England was even less powerful than he was before, and feeling the effects. He was a proud man, and at one time had been rightly so. But the age when Empires were acceptable was over, and while they had the Commonwealth, it still left the once glorious pirate miserable when he thought about everything he had lost.
Sometimes, Wales got pangs of bereavement too. Australia had always been one of his favourites, such a sunny and happy child, with a whole territory named after him. And Canada, who had somehow taken Wales’ ability to not be noticed and magnified it 100 times. He remembered India’s beauty, her hennaed hands and jewels and feisty uprisings and zen-like calm. They all felt the loss, but England, ever emotional even when he refused to show it, seemed to take it hardest.
The loss of his own brothers wasn’t going to end well until he faced it.
Tea ready, he picked up some digestive biscuits on the way and went back to his drunken brother. Time for an action plan.
And… maybe a hug.
Notes:
- A dressing gown is British for "bath robe", only we wear them over night clothes. Idk if Americans have an equivalent, tell me and I'll edit.
- You see before you a veeeeery optimistic view on Irish politics. No, it probably won't resolve itself in the next 10 years, I know this, but if we go any further I'm gonna have to start making up technological advances that haven't happened yet and just no.
Part 2