30th May, 2011; Cooper's Hill, near Gloucester, England

-
When he looks towards the apex of the hill, France spots England performing what seems to be some sort of intense warm-up routine. He had found the mere concept of this entire event ridiculous from the start, but the sight of England lunging, stretching, and twirling his arms around with all the vigour of a windmill being battered by a storm renders it so surreally farcical that he can't even bring himself to laugh at it anymore.

If he hadn't been invited to attend by Scotland, he might have started to think this was all an elaborate joke devised by England in order to make him look like a complete fool for ever believing this could be a real competition in the first place.

"Jesus Christ, he's like this every year," Scotland says as his gaze follows France's. "You'd think he was about to play in a World Cup final instead of chasing after some fucking cheese."

Scotland's description of what is about to occur is such a close mirror to both England and Wales' that France has to discard his last, thinning hopes that he'd managed to misunderstand them both somehow.

"I presume there must be some grand prize or other at the end of it," France says, in a last, desperate attempt to pry some rational explanation out of the proceedings beyond the seemingly endless eccentricity of the English. The hill is both incredibly steep and uneven underfoot; a combination that would surely make it foolhardy to hurl oneself down without the right kind of incentive to head towards.

"There's a few quid in it, I think." Scotland's brow furrows. "Oh, and you get to keep the cheese if you win."

It sounds more like a disincentive to France. "The same cheese that's been rolling through all this muck?" France says, nose wrinkling as he inclines his head towards the thick mud surrounding them.

"It's covered in wax." The particular flavour of exasperation France can hear in Scotland's tone is one he often uses whenever he thinks France is being ludicrously fastidious; an implication that France thinks is grossly unfair, given the circumstances. "And it's not really about the prize, at the end of the day; it's the prestige. Or that's what England says, anyway. Not that he'd know, of course. He's been trying for decades and not won a race yet. I've no fucking clue why he still bothers."

France can only imagine that it's pride driving him, as a bruised ego has always seemed to be behind all of England's more mystifying decisions in the end.

He's about to posit as much to Scotland but is interrupted by Wales' loud and repeated apologies as he pushes through the crowd of spectators towards them.

"Bloody hell, I was beginning to think you two had fallen down a fucking mineshaft or something," Scotland says, frowning at his brother even as he grabs one of the bottles of beer he's holding. "It's about to start, you know."

"I do know, but someone –" he glares back at Northern Ireland, who blithely ignores him – "couldn't decide what they wanted to eat."

From the looks of it, no decision was reached, despite the quarter of an hour the two have been gone, because Northern Ireland is laden down with an ice cream, several chocolate bars, a hot dog and something that looks superficially like a burger but doesn't smell like any that France has ever allowed past his lips. He discreetly covers his nose with his sleeve.

"So you brought him the entire fucking van. Bloody typical." Scotland rolls his eyes. "You're lucky you went with Dylan and not me, Mikey, because you would have just had to content yourself with a packet of crisps."

Northern Ireland ignores Scotland, as well, in favour of moving towards the rope barrier that marks the edge of the 'track'. "The MC's brought the cheese out," he observes afterwards when he glances up the hill.

Scotland and Wales grin at each other – child-rearing disagreement apparently forgotten – before surging forward to stand at Northern Ireland's. France follows at a more sedate pace, not wanting to throw himself into the jostle for the best viewing spots (and secure in the knowledge that Scotland's intimidating scowl and precision elbow strikes will ensure that he's secured one in any case).

He joins the brothers just in time to see the wheel of cheese shoot past, bouncing and jolting erratically, and then, to the accompaniment of loud whoops and deafening cheers, the runners start their descent.

Almost immediately, the two immediately on England's left collide, teetering precariously for a moment before collapse in a tangle of limbs and barked swear words. One of their flailing arms almost sweeps England's legs out from underneath him, but he nimbly side-steps it at the last moment and keeps running.

By the time the competitors are halfway down the field, most of them seem to have given up on trying to stay upright and are either crouched down low, inching along with their hands spread out behind their backs for balance, or bumpily rolling along on their sides. And yet England still barrels unsteadily on, righting himself after every stumble, every small victory against gravity greeted by disgruntled sounding grumbling from Wales, and snarled accusations that he's a 'fluky bastard' from Scotland.

A few scant metres from the finishing line, and close on the heels of the front runner, the luck that Scotland had repeatedly bemoaned finally seemed to give out. He's too distant now for France to make out the specifics, only that his knees appear to give out with a suddenness that pitches him forward, too fast for him to have chance to break his fall, and he lands face-first, arms and legs spread-eagled.

This last minute snatching of defeat from the jaws of victory prompts a soft murmur of sympathy from a large part of the crowd, but not from his brothers, who all chuckle with what sounds to be satisfaction, smiling broadly.

"You wanted him to lose?" France asks hesitantly. He can certainly understand that yearning, but England's brothers seldom openly hope for his failure, even though he's sure that they often welcome it privately.

"He'd probably be insufferable if he ever did, but, naw, we don't give a shit if he wins or not," Scotland says cheerfully. "Just as long as takes a tumble or two along the way."

"We don't want him to hurt himself badly," Wales adds hurriedly, looking shamefaced. "Just…"

"Just get a bit battered and bruised," Scotland finishes for him. "It's our reward for putting up with him the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. We don't get to go into battle against him anymore, and we don't even seem to fight as much as we used to anymore, so we just have to work through our frustrations by proxy most of the time."

France casts his eye down towards the base of the hill, where England is lurching to his feet, one hand clutched to his head.

Thus far, every Boxing Day he's spent with Scotland's family has been a disappointment, and each Hogmanay a disaster, but this, he thinks, might become one of their annual traditions that he actually enjoys taking part in.
-

-
Notes: - The bros and France are attending The Cooper's Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake.