Strong Brows And Bad Weather

Summary: England's brothers(?) are as questionably mad as he, for with those eyebrows, it's guaranteed to be in the Kirkland genes. Once a month they risk their lives with their inherently bad cooking, getting together to share a Sunday roast. Spoiler - it never ends well. Humor. Crack. British Isles siblings ft. other nations.

Warnings: Language, innuendos, Scotland, France, England and his food, silliness.

Chapter notes: I will never have two characters talking in the same paragraph, another will always be taken, I simply have a horrid habit of having huge chucks of text between dialogue. You're probably sick of BI brother fics, but hey, have another.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, if I did I wouldn't be posting terrible fanfiction on the internet... Or would I?

1: Estimated time of arrival

It's supposed to be a quiet Sunday afternoon with all of them sitting down for a pleasant Sunday lunch at England's quaint little countryside home outside Nottingham, yet Scotland had compromised this indefinitely the moment he lugged his bagpipes from the car, bending over in a kilt and flashing England, who was unfortunately standing on his porch with his arms folded when a gust of wind lifted his brother's tartan skirt.

"Why in all of hell do you refuse to wear underwear every single time you travel down here!?" England yells, traumatised.

"I like the draft, it tickles. And it's your fault for looking," Scotland grins over his shoulder, and England forces down the urge to toss a plant pot at him. He doesn't care about injuring Scotland or damaging the Scotsman's car, he cares more about his swanky pots and the healthy lavenders growing tall in them.

England snorts. "Your pale, disgusting rear blinds the whole country when the sunlight hits it, I'm fairly sure the neighbours a few fields away saw it just as swell. Now hurry up and finish gathering up your stuff, I'm bloody freezing!"

"Even better if France saw it from across the channel. Ye know, I wouldn't mind reacquainting myself with that," The redhead pauses for dramatic effect, smirk widening, flexing his eyebrows suggestively back at his little brother. "...if you know what I mean." Finishing cheekily, Scotland grins broadly and England wretches theatrically, abandoning all poise and marching into his house. He slams the door behind him, locking it and to peer out at Scotland through the tall window beside his front door.

"Awwwk come on England, it's chankin out here th'day!"Scotland eventually shouts after flipping England off for a few minutes in various ways, to which England cracks the window open the tiniest bit to hear him.

"What was that?"

"I didn't travel all the way down from the highlands to freeze my balls off on your doorstep, you feckin' wally!"

"it's your fault for wearing a tilt without knickers, and I for one know rightly you brought a pair of trousers." England replies calmly and very collected. Folding his arms and sniffing while he lifts his head higher, he's determined to get his brother into a pair of underwear at the very least. He knows his brother only goes commando because he knows it gets under England's skin. "You're not allowed to enter until you put underpants on- I'm not letting your scrotum touch my leather settee, not a snowball's chance in hell- HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, GET DOWN!"

But Scotland's legs disappear out of sight as he pulls himself up using the drain pipe to the right of the door. Unlocking the door, England dashes out onto the gravel of his driveway, but by this point his ninja brother and his bagpipes have already made a beeline across the roof and he's climbing in through the master bedroom window which had been accidentally left open.

Already at his wits end, England dashes back inside to grab a rolling pin to bludgeon his brother with, only to find smoke pummelling from the kitchen. There's a very slim chance he's going to survive this day - even if he's survived the years of monthly Sunday lunches before that.

France is "ohonhonhon"ing down the phone at him when his second and third siblings arrive. Unable to cope with the freshest arrival while France is wheezing down the phone, England elects to ignore the doorbell when it rings a second time.

"Are you deaf?! Jesus Christ, I'm older than you and I have better hearing!" Scotland shouts, unaware of England's kitchen dilemma.

Ignoring him, a panicked England fans the flaming chicken frantically with a tea towel, phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. The smoke alarm had been disarmed long, long ago.

"This is a bloody emergency you buffoon!" England declares in heated frustration down the phone to his eternal nemesis and occasional crisis-manager. "If I can't find a substitute for the charcoaled chicken, Scotland is going to serve up the haggis he brought! There's enough in that tubberware for two or three servings each! For everyone in Europe, Frog! Surely you understand the gravity off the situation!?" When the last flames of the burning chicken die down(mainly because the entirety of the chicken is now a black lump of something) the tea towel catches fire instead and England dashes to the sink, firing it into the cold water and audibly sighing in relief with the fire fizzles out and dies.

But France is still struggling to get over what England had told him previously. "Y-you! You off all people are hosting a Sunday lunch?" There's another fit of laughter and England wants to reach down the phone and strangle the Frenchman. "A-Angleterre! Angleterre, Angleterre..." France sounds like he's suffocating, and England's crosses his fingers, hoping that he suffers long and painfully. "Your ambition is impressive, I cannot lie, b-but your desire to cook such a huge amount is terrifying!" The Frenchman wheezes.

"Just give me a quick fix before I-"

The doorbell rings a third time, Scotland groans. "Will I shout out the window for Gingerknut and Hobknob to climb the drainpipe too? Or are you going to get that England!?"

This time England loses it and he roars, deafening France, "Why don't you and your hairy testicles both get up of my sofa, answer it for me and never sit back down in this house ever again! And put on some underwear you giant uncivilised ape!"

Scotland groans again. "Why am I the one doing all the work around here?!"

"Get out of my bloody house!"

"You sound stressed." Comments France cautiously down the line, stunned at the Englishman's panting and stomping around, there's a lot of clanging pots and pans on England's end. "Hey Rosbif, calm down. Why don't you turn off all kitchen appliances and I'll be there in thirty to forty minutes to finish what you started."

"You certainly will not!" England exclaims haughtily, knowing it'll only be an excuse for France to have a nosy at his brothers and gloat about his cooking skills, but England's need to have a chef is increasing along with his blood pressure when he hears the joint booming laughter of Scotland and Ireland in the hall. Suddenly, the indignation he feels at the idea of France being in charge of his kitchen is a thing of the past. "Wait, only thirty minutes? Where on earth are you?" England's knuckles are white as his hold on the phone tightens, hoping and praying France isn't going to say what he suspects he's going to say.

"Nottingham!" France chirps.

Of course France would say what England was hoping he wasn't going to say.

"... But why?"

"I got a strange text from your brother about meeting him in the dark of the night, very clandestine," France sounds genuinely confused and unnerved down the phone, forever oblivious to the fancy Scotland had taken to him centuries ago, and England was thankful for that obliviousness. "I don't know why he said to wear something fancy, but he promised to reveal a top ten list of things that annoy the English and I couldn't resist. He gave me a taster- Apparently Englishman can be defeated by curvy croissants, is that true?"

"No, it's not! And I'm assuming you're referring to Scotland here."

"Ah oui, that's the one! ... At least I think so. His contact name in my phone is 'tartan and fartin'... I don't know how it got there, but it wasn't me..." France tries to clarify, only to become much more confused than he was at the beginning.

England held back his heaving. He was all too eager to stop those obvious date plans from happening; at least if he invited France to cook for him then he could keep an eye on Scotland, instead of Scotland meeting up with the Frenchman at some fancy bar or club later. "Fine, I reluctantly admit that I may need your help."

"Yay! I finally get to meet all of your siblings!"

"I said no such thing about all of my siblings being at this gathering! How do you know about that?"

"Scotland just checked in all five of you at one of Nottingham's most famous gaybars on facebook, so I just put two and two together. Hey, maybe we can go to that bar tonight Rosbif, that would be so much f-"

"Wait, he did what?!"

Ireland and Northern Ireland stand side by side, gazing at the lock on the drinks cabinet. England and Scotland are having a blast (rather, Scotland is as he parades around in his flowing kilt with a manic grin. England instead is staggering about in an exhausted and dishevelled stupor, eyes bleary and hallucinating, steamed trousers and once clean wool sweater vest covered in mud and pond water, twigs and leaves in his tatty hair from the plethora of times he's fallen accidentally or has been cruelly tossed into the pond by Scotland.) catching the regiment of leprechauns that had hitched a ride on the roof of the car that had been chauffeuring the two siblings over from the Island of Ireland. Ireland promised them fifty quid if they managed to catch all 15 of them in under twenty minutes. Scotland's in it for the money, while England is solely hunting them because he's worried about the state they'll leave his prized garden. He had been awarded 'Garden Of The Year' four years in a row, he was not going to lose that title without a fight.

"Listen brother." Northern Ireland says. She's a foot smaller than Ireland, the youngest and shortest Kirkland sibling, but apart from her long waist length hair of ringlet curls (Ireland's hair being a straighter voluminous quiff with a few kinks to it) and her smaller eyebrows (Ireland had the biggest eyebrows of the Kirkland clan, unruly, wild things, no one else's compared), she is the spit of Ireland in every way. They both have the same ice blue eyes, identical masculine bone structure, accompanied with the fanta orange ginger hair and fair, freckled skin. Eye shape, nose, mouth, cheekbones, all identical. The two of them showcased all the stereotypical signs of having Celtic blood running in their veins, just like Scotland and his fiery flaming red hair.

"Aye brother?" Ireland answers. It was a common thing to forget Northern Ireland was a girl, since she was a stocky, muscled, flat-chested and well-built little short woman with a mean right hook, fierce scowl and tendency to resort to violence more than the rest of the Kirkland's. She really was one of the boys. Oddly enough, she never corrected anyone when they addressed her as sir or lad or brother or mister, and sometimes she referred to herself in a masculine manner.

She lifts a brow as a leprechaun dashes along the outside windowsill, cheering and cackling back at England as he scrambles after it, shouting profanities as he waves around a gardening rake. "I'm hurt he feels the need to lock away the booze."

"But Nordy, can ye blame the ninny when we are looking for the booze...? That's what we're doing in here, right?" Ireland asks unsurely before he smirks at watching a leprechaun and England's beloved Foxhound, Lady, tug on Scotland's kilt, dragging him towards the pond. England's newest dog, a hyperactive, brown spotted Springer Spaniel named Soldier, jumps around the flailing Scotland with a wagging tail, barking gleefully.

"I came out lookin' for a Custard Cream but aye, whatever you want Ire. Didn't you bring some pochine and a few boxes of Guinness in the car though?"

"Aye, but I ain't goin' out in te that warzone, so I'm not. Besides, I've got to save the pochine for when we run dry after dinner – And you know how Scotland doesn't like to share." Ireland says and Northern Ireland hums, both falling into an amused silence as they watched the calamity outside.

"Can't you can control those leprechauns? I think they've had enough exercise for the day... Scot and Igg, I mean." Northern Ireland says.

"Aye," admits Ireland with a wry grin. "But England's weakness is Ireland's opportunity, remember?"

Northern Ireland snorts. "It drives him up the wall you know? That phase," she says, motioning a thumb to England, who was now trying to retrieve both of his shoes from a leprechaun that had scaled a tree, seemingly very expensive looking brown oxfords. "Whatever the hell you do, don't use it at the dinner table if you don't want to start a riot-"

Ireland laughs heartily as he wraps and arm around his sister's shoulder and rests his weight on her sturdy, stocky frame. "Ha, but you'll find a way to start a riot if one doesn't happen, Nord."

"... I'm a changed lad these days." Northern Ireland says aloofly, she's not offended in the slightest.

They both snicker in unison at England suddenly hanging from a branch by the belt in his trousers, the leprechaun who previously had his shoes was twisting wildflowers into his hair. Poor England, Northern Ireland thought, knowing his balls were being crushed at the incredible wedgie he was suffering from the agonizing look on his face alone.

She shrugs off Ireland arm and turns to face him, opening her mouth to nag him into stopping the leprechaun chaos, but her brother is now looking out a different window, his eyes fixated at the gate beyond the drive, glistening merrily.

"That's one huge-ass dragon." Ireland breathes, "... Talk about travelling in style." North's eyes follow his and she drops the packet of Custard Creams in her hand.

"Jesus Christ! Dywsil's got big, hasn't she?!"

Dywsil, the speckled-grey welsh mountain dragon that had hatched only six months ago, closed her giant orange eyes in bliss at the nice thorough chin scratch she was getting. As quick as she had arrived, she was leaving again, turning around and plodding up Arthur's lane with thundering footsteps. She took flight with a powerful flap of her wings, leaving behind the final Kirkland arrival, England and Scotland were too preoccupied with being ambushed to notice.

The English countryside is a unique kind of refreshing at this time of year, France thinks as he waltzes in through England's gates whistling a French folk tune, caring six grocery bags. It's a bit like standing naked in the middle of a blizzard while stranded in the artic with the gusts of Baltic cold wind, minus the snow – and France spoke from experience... he wouldn't be any hurry to repeat that experience again, that was for sure.

Gravel crunched under his feet as he started down the long drive. He watches England flail wildly as he hung from a tree with an empty birds nest on his head and he snickers. Ignoring the commotion of a very familiar bearded and Scottish redhead running around, barefoot, swinging a lasso here, there and everywhere, France's attention curiously settles on the brunette standing half way down the drive, hands on his hips. From observing his back alone, he seems to have the same height and stature as England, similar taste in clothes and a similar bum, France realizes regretfully. Not regretting the sight of the booty, England's too was quite nice, but the Frenchman was still coming to terms with the fact he had checked out England more than a few times and was gobsmacked he'd even considered going there.

Slowing to a stop behind the unfamiliar personified nation, obviously one of England's sibling's, but he couldn't be sure if it was Wales or Northern Ireland since he had yet to meet them, he laughs loudly over the chaos in the garden that had been caused by what he counted as thirteen leprechauns - emphasized further by the rowdy shouts and rages of Scotland and England.

"I don't believe we have ever met, Monsieur," France pipes up, making his presence known.

France forgets to breathe when the man turns with a gentle smile on his face, breath being snatched straight out of his throat. While the brunette was quite handsome, it wasn't his similar but softer features than England's that physically took his breath away, in actuality it was the lack of turning the man did. Gaping in horror, France drops his bags of shopping as the man's neck twists to an odd angle, only to surpass the natural angles of rotation, his head turning the whole way around to look France up and down, like an owl, eyes warm and inviting despite one of his irises being a red, angry and glowing slit, the complete opposite to his other friendly emerald one.

"Ah I don't believe we have!" He exclaims as his body finally turns 180 degrees to align itself properly to the orientation of his head. "Let's see... "Silly hair", "stupid beard" and "ridiculous accent" in the words of England, you must be France!"

"O-oui..." France squeaks.

"This is delightful, to finally meet the infamous France! England never shuts up about you and I can see why!"

"M-merci...?" France is dumbstruck, speechless and still not breathing as he watches that sinister red eye roll into the back of the Welshman's head, seemingly with a mind of its own, before it rolls forward again to dart back and forth, up and down. The other green normal eye looks directly at France the entire time.

"Hello dear sir, I'm Wales!" the brunette shoves a hand in between them, outstretched for the Frenchman to shake. "This is ridiculous, right?" His other hand motions in the direction of Scotland who's having his ass handed to him to a gang of shin high giggling gingers that slightly resemble England's collection of garden knomes. "I've only been here for two minutes and there's already so many bloody reasons why I want to leave, look at those two imbeciles. But my ride flew home without me so I'm slightly stuck. Damn dragons, am I right? She's gorgeous though, my girl, I love her to pieces. I'm going to guess and say you're here to save all of our lives with those groceries? I'm no chef, I'll admit my taste buds don't really work properly, but even I can recognize England's cooking as a weapon of mass destruction. Blimey, I've accidentally killed a man with my cooking once but not even that compares to the destruction England's cooking can inflict. The world is filled with horrible things-"

And Wales rambles on and on brightly as France bravely takes his hand to shake with a trembling, sweating palm, only to faint seconds after, landing in a heap at Wale's feet.

"Why do so many people faint around me...?" ponders the Welshman quietly, dejected. "Was it something I said?"

"Wales? Wales!" The brunette turns in the direction of the call of Scotland, noticing he was fighting for his life. "Help an old man out and get these feckers away from me before that wee bastard there manages to climb my leg and- what did you do to my beautiful repunzal!?"

"Who's repunzal- oh..." Wale's worried emerald green eye flit's down to France. "Honest to god Scot, I did nothing!"

In a fit of sudden determination and revitalised strength, Scotland manages to free himself of the magical midgets and bounds towards the two. "Move aside! In the name of love I'll give him mouth to mouth!"

"I don't think he needs-"

"In the name of-? LIKE HELL YOU WILL!" England shouts back, infuriated. Wales' head snaps to his other side to see the Englishman sprinting like an Olympian in his boxers, trousers abandoned to the tree, heading straight for them like a missile. On his other side Scotland barrels athim, a worrying sense of extreme duty written all over his face.

Wales hastily leaps out of the way, seeking cover and he winces when Scotland and England collide head first, knocking themselves out cold.

Standing on the doorstep, Ireland passes Northern Ireland a bottle of Guinness, who opens it with her teeth and passes it back.

"Aaaahhhhh, I love independence." Ireland says with a blissful sigh, completely unbefitting and not in any way related to the situation. Northern Ireland kicks his shin, aware that the mention of any sort of independence might wake Scotland.

TBC

End notes: I've been gasping to write for the British Isles siblings for so long, I've got so many headcanons and OC ideas for them I don't even know where to start... I would love to see Hima's take on them all, but I doubt that's ever going to happen. Anywayyyy... time to explain some things, heheh:

Scotland's fancy for France is based on the Auld Alliance of 1295. The main reason for the alliance was so the two countries could keep an ambitious/aggressive England in check, who was trying to expand at the time. It was described as "affectionate and cosy". My trope is that instead of France doing the flirting and making the dirty comments as he so usually does, Scotland is the one making them instead and France remains completely oblivious.

Ya'll probably don't need to know what Haggis is but here goes... Lots of organs than should not be eaten that are minced and shoved in another animal's stomach... I think there's some onions and spices in there too. And check this, it's a savoury pudding!

Chankin = Scottish slang for cold apparently?

Tescos no longer sell curved croissants due to so many complaints being made about how difficult it was to cut them open and spread jam on them.

Pochine is an old irish alcohol homebrewed from potatoes I believe, according to my grandpops. I've heard it being referred to as moonshine too. Some pochines were so strong it lead to blindness and it was made illegal due to the dangers that came with drinking it. It was also used to treat aches and pains in the joints.

"England's weakness is Ireland's opportunity" A phrase used by Irish revolutionaries in the led up to Ireland's independence. It was fabricated when England got involved in World War 1 with the idealogy of "while England is distracted with the war, we strike!" It was mainly the war that led to the timing of the Dublin 1917 Easter Rising – a rising that in short, set Ireland up for independence by invigorating the Irish people. It instigated a guerrilla war against the British forces in Ireland, resulting in an agreement being reached between Ireland and Britain in 1921 in which Ireland became the Irish Free State and could govern itself as long as it respected and remained linked to the king and crown. Ireland was said to have been independent then, but it did not break away from the commonwealth entirely until 1949 after a civil war.

The comment made on Northern Ireland and riots is a reference to "The Troubles" of the 70s, 80s and early 90s following Irish Independence/Partition of Ireland where the British had to intervene to help quell political and religious based violence in the streets between Catholics, who felt their livelihoods were at threat in the North and protestants, who felt their livelihoods would be at threat if they united with the Republic of Ireland. "I'm a changed lad" refers to beginning of peace process, accumulating in the signing of the Good Friday Belfast agreement of 1998.

Wales. Oh Wales. ? In my imagination, he a mysterious character with the most quirks of the brothers. ? You will find out more historical stuff about him next chapter? He is my favourite. I love him. He is mysterious? He is full of surprises ? such as Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyllllantysiliogogogoch. This is a real welsh word, I swear. I kid you not, the Welsh are cray, bro.

This was so incredibly fun to write! I hope you enjoyed, and if you liked this and want more of this rubbish written faster then let me know, I'm also open to requests on which other nations to add into the fic, so please pitch some ideas! If anyone also has some fun facts about the British Isles that you think I could try to incorporate into this story or any of your own theories about the characters, tell meeeee. I'm a sucker for that shit! (Especially if it involves Scotland and Wales – Historically, I don't know enough about these 2) I'll be off now, who knows when I'll next update... Sorry~ Thank you for reading