February, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland
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It is, Northern Ireland thinks, rather like waking up to find himself in a horror film.
Admittedly, a fairly shite horror film, where instead of ominous flickering lights, portentous thunderstorms, and the discordant screech of the violin of impending doom, there is only Scotland's rucksack propped against the wall outside his bedroom, his freshly waxed walking boots on the landing, and a faint smell of burning wafting up from the kitchen.
The creeping sense of dread is much the same, though.
Almost tripping over a familiar bag at the bottom of the stairs solidifies the dread into terrible certainty. The bag contains a tent, it's absolutely pissing it down outside, and Scotland's busy carbonising porridge (which is, he has always maintained, the breakfast of champions), so he can't be planning anything other than dragging Northern Ireland camping for the weekend.
The prospect is chilling enough that, despite the rain, his bare feet, and the fact he's wearing pyjamas, Northern Ireland pauses by the front door and considers making a break for it. He wouldn't have to go far to find safe harbour, after all; just a couple of houses down and Mrs McPherson will probably take him in, if only to feed him up properly as she's always insisting he needs whenever he sees her. Or, if she's unwilling, there's Scotland's mate Sarah at the end of the road, who seems to have a soft spot for him. Or even –
"Afternoon," Scotland rumbles from behind him, sending Northern Ireland's fanciful notions of escape flying straight out of the window.
The lucky bastards.
"It's nine o'clock," Northern Ireland protests, which earns him a derisive snort from his brother, who has doubtless already climbed a mountain to milk a cow and cut oats by hand in order to make breakfast this morning.
"I bet England and Wales just let you lie around in bed all day when you're staying with them, don't they," Scotland says, equally derisively.
Northern Ireland answers with a noncommittal shrug, because whilst Wales might leave him to his own devices, England only gives him the illusion of choice, starting to stomp around, vac, and pointlessly shift furniture in the name of housework from around ten o'clock, quickly rendering further sleep an impossibility. At least Scotland is up front about it, with all of his hammering on doors and 'get your lazy arse moving's.
"You just need to get some decent food inside you." Scotland almost but not quite loops an arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders – the gesture is there in spirit, even though their bodies don't touch at any point – in order to urge him towards the kitchen. "That'll perk you right up."
Northern Ireland acquiesces to his brother's suggestion, but only because he can't see that he's got any choice in the matter. He might be fast catching up with him in height, but Scotland still has the weight advantage by quite a sizeable margin, and is just as capable of slinging him over his shoulder and simply lugging him wherever he wants as he ever was when Northern Ireland was a child. For the sake of maintaining a little dignity, Northern Ireland would rather walk, even if it is to his own doom.
The porridge bubbling away on the hob in Scotland's solitary pan certainly looks like condemnation, though, on closer inspection, not a great deal like porridge, which Northern Ireland has been led to believe – albeit largely through advertising if not reality – is supposed to be smooth and beige, not lumpy and almost black.
Scotland seems to misread Northern Ireland's appalled curiosity as interest, and scoops a large ladleful of the slop into a bowl. It falls like a stone and then skulks unappetisingly at the bottom, emanating a cloud of foul smelling steam.
"That'll give you plenty of energy," Scotland says, ramming a spoon into the centre of the porridge-blob before handing it to Northern Ireland. "Breakfast of –"
"Champions," Northern Ireland finishes for him half-heartedly, although he can't imagine that anyone could march forward to anything approaching victory with their stomach weighed down by Scotland's porridge. If they could even eat it in the first place, that is; it seems reluctant to relinquish its hold on the spoon when Northern Ireland gives it an experimental tug. "So you keep telling me. I never see you eating it, though."
"I've already had some," Scotland insists, but there's something duplicitous in the tone of his voice and the way his eyes quickly dart away from Northern Ireland's; something which suggests he slipped out before Northern Ireland was even awake to have a fry up at his favourite café. "It's okay if you eat around the burnt bits."
Northern Ireland looks into the bowl dubiously. As far as he can tell, it's all burnt bits.
It's also been over eight hours since he last ate, and the growling emptiness of his stomach is insistent enough to overpower both his sense of smell and better judgement. He wrestles the spoon free of the obdurate glop and pops it into his mouth before his nose has chance to mount any last minute objections.
It tastes better than it looks, if only marginally – well within his, honestly pretty broad, definitions of edibility – but the texture is far worse. He finds he has to chew it, which is a first as far as his experience of even Scotland's porridge goes, and parts of it crunch when he bites down on them.
He's often wondered if Scotland cooks badly on purpose, because someone who handles a sword as well as his brother does, who can keep his car – which is held together solely by rust and fervent prayer – running without resorting to a mechanic, and who, if Wales is to be believed (and Northern Ireland does have his doubts regarding Wales' reliability as a source when it comes to accurately reporting Scotland's accomplishments), once took down ten heavily armed men using nothing more than a stick, can't possibly be this inept with his hands. He has yet to figure out a possible reason for such a ruse, however, so it remains simply idle speculation, something to keep his mind occupied so he doesn't have to think too deeply about the food.
"So, what have I done wrong now, then?" he asks, when he's finally masticated the porridge into a pliable enough state that he can swallow it without fear of choking.
"Camping's not actually a punishment, you know, North," Scotland says, sounding slightly offended even though he has absolutely no right to it, having hauled Northern Ireland off on punitive hikes for as far back as he can remember. "Some people actually enjoy it."
At a stretch, Northern Ireland can imagine that people who camp without Scotland might take some pleasure in the exercise, but he can't begin to conceive of finding any with him. Not unless that hypothetical person had some sort of strange fondness for being forced to walk past the point of pain, pretending deep interest in rocks, and cramming themselves inside a tiny two man tent all night with someone who physically fights against sleep and anyone else with the misfortune to be within punching distance.
Northern Ireland is definitely not that person, however.
-
-
Like his porridge, one of the most unpleasant things about Scotland's car is its smell.
It's difficult to pinpoint a single source for it, or even completely tease out the individual aromas which commingle into something heavy and acrid which tends to make Northern Ireland's eyes water within minutes of the engine starting up.
There's definitely a whiff of petrol, and something a little musty, which doubtless has its origins in the inches thick drift of old chocolate wrappers, empty cans, and other such rubbish which litters the footwells and is probably decomposing into compost at the deepest points. Neither is quite as bad as the hint of burning rubber, which not only catches hard at the back of the throat but also carries with it forebodings of some sort of imminent mechanical failure.
The very worst thing about Scotland's car, however – beyond the stink, beyond the mysterious sticky substance that coats most of the dashboard and the constant, worrying rattle of the engine – is Scotland's driving.
Scotland's patience is a brittle thing at the best of times, and often in short supply for anyone whose name doesn't start with F- and end in –rance, but it seems to evaporate entirely when he's behind the wheel.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he growls, glaring at the Citroen in front of them; current focus of his seemingly limitless ire. Judging by the way the driver keeps nervously glancing in his rear view mirror, the glare is not entirely wasted on him. "We might as well be bloody walking. Get a fucking move on, mate!"
Northern Ireland glances at the speedometer as Scotland edges yet closer to folding his Ford into the Citroen's boot. I reads thirty miles an hour, otherwise known as the current speed limit; a fact that he doesn't bother even trying to point out to his brother, who treats speed limits not as a challenge, nor even as inconsequential, but seemingly a government mandated minimum he is duty bound to endeavour to never fall below.
The next corner they turn on what feels to be two wheels leads them to a stretch of road that is no less narrow and winding than before, but which does at least lack the irksome physical restraints of bollards and traffic islands. Scotland grins and edges towards the road's centre line. In response, Northern Ireland grabs on to the door handle beside him with one hand, braces the other against the dashboard in front of him, and closes his eyes.
The engine's usual clattering is joined by a high pitch whine that sounds like a thousand angry bees taking flight, and then the car jumps forward in a sudden lurch that leaves Northern Ireland's stomach playing catch up with the rest of his body. The burning rubber smell briefly overpowers all other scents as the Ford's tyres screech against the tarmac beneath them, and very faintly, barely audible over the car's various protests and the rapid, terrified thumping of his own heart, Northern Ireland can hear the indignant blare of a car horn.
When the sounder of that horn fails to crush them into oblivion, Northern Ireland cautiously opens his eyes again. The car appears to be completely intact, the road ahead is clear, and the Citroen is nothing more than a rapidly disappearing speck in the rear view mirror. Northern Ireland can't do much about his quickened pulse or the nervous tremble of his legs, but he can force his hands to relax and hope Scotland was distracted enough by his death defying feats of inadvisable overtaking to register Northern Ireland's automatic grab for some poor semblance of safety.
His palms feel a little tacky, and he briefly considers wiping them on the seat, but decides just as quickly that that would probably make them even dirtier. He wipes them on his trousers instead, but refrains from looking at them afterwards, for fear of what he might see.
He's almost as reticent about looking towards Scotland, but the ongoing lack of sneering reprimands regarding his 'cowardice' eventually gives him the courage to do so. His brother, thankfully, looks as relaxed as he ever does driving – presumably heartened by his new-found freedom to hurtle along as fast as he sees fit – faint remnants of his earlier smile softening the normally stark lines of his mouth.
His tone, too, is unusually mild when he says, apropos of nothing, seemingly: "You should start learning to drive."
Northern Ireland would love to, really, if only because it would then be easier to flee to any point that wasn't London when his visits with England take their inevitable turn from comforting and restful towards claustrophobic and annoying (day three, on average), but there remains the small issue of his age. When he points this out, however, Scotland scoffs dismissively.
"You could pass for seventeen easily. Hell, you pass for eighteen most of the time," he says, as though it's that simple. As though England hadn't only agreed – with extreme reluctance – to Northern Ireland's official papers being amended to list him as sixteen solely so he could stay in his little flat in Belfast alone from time to time without either one of them getting in trouble with the less informed of the human authorities over it.
It is a decision that England began to consider ill-advised around the point when 'from time to time' finished its slow, gradual slide into 'for all intents and purposes, moved out entirely', and as a consequence, Northern Ireland thinks he's unlikely to be allowed to be seventeen for a few decades yet.
"Try telling that to England."
"I have," Scotland insists with some vehemence, "but the stubborn wee bastard won't listen, of course."
Once the initial shock over Scotland even bothering to have such a discussion with England at all wears off, Northern Ireland finds that he's not actually very surprised by the content of it. Wales, and especially England, still baby Northern Ireland to a degree that has become cloying in recent years, but Scotland never has.
From his refusal to make allowances for Northern Ireland's shorter legs and lack of stamina as a child, through to his insistence now that Northern Ireland drink far more alcohol than he can conceivably handle – a necessity to 'put hairs on his chest' apparently, as though looking like a partially shaved bear as Scotland does is something Northern Ireland should actually be aspiring towards – and his demands that Northern Ireland, 'stop snivelling like a fucking bairn and act his age' at all points in between, Scotland has always seemed impatient for him to grow up instead.
Buoyed by the unexpected support, Northern Ireland admits, "I've tried to change my date of birth a few times when I put in for new documents, but England always finds out somehow and changes it right back."
"Next year, I'll make sure he doesn't," Scotland says with enough conviction that Northern Ireland almost believes that he will. He's cautiously optimistic for all of a second or so, but then Scotland finishes with: "Then I'll teach you how to drive."
"I was going to ask Wales," Northern Ireland blurts out reflexively, too horrified by that particular prospect to keep the proper hold on his tongue he usually does around Scotland.
Scotland scowls. "Wales drives like an old man."
Wales drives carefully and safely, adhering to all the rules set down in the Highway Code. He's also less prone to bellowing deafeningly at people for any perceived acts of incompetence, and yet… And yet, thinking on it further once the initial shock has worn off, Northern Ireland finds himself becoming strangely tempted by the offer.
England has always taken care of whatever formal schooling Northern Ireland's had, taught him etiquette and the piano, and Wales taught him how to read and how not to be a complete dick. Scotland, to date, has taught him how to fight with a sword.
Even though it had been the 1980s and thus the skill seemed rather redundant, Northern Ireland had eagerly embarked on those lessons, simply because it was finally something that Scotland seemed to deem important enough that he should learn it from him rather than anyone else.
The eagerness had very quickly withered away when faced with the reality of Scotland's preferred teaching method – which was (extremely) light on the praise, and (extremely) heavy on the smacks, swearing, and insults – but he had persevered through the bruises, aching muscles and scorn regardless, eventually earning himself nothing more than a slightly disappointing, 'Well, you're not completely shite,' at the end of it all, several years later. Once Wales admitted that the best he had ever managed, even after centuries' of training, was 'I'm surprised you even remember which end to hold it by,' however, Northern Ireland had felt ridiculously proud of himself.
It's a feeling he's been unable to recapture around his eldest brother ever since, and Scotland has given him very few opportunities to do so, especially since time has proved that repeated exposure has failed to make him any less of a lightweight when it comes to drinking. This offer – amazingly – seems like it might be just such an opportunity, though, and thus he finds himself warming to the idea considerably.
"I guess I'll think about it," he says, trying not to sound too keen.
-
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February, 2013; Cairngorms, Scotland
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A couple of hours later, amidst mountains and heather and not an awful lot else as far as Northern Ireland can tell, the road they were following simply stops. Scotland parks the car, of course, and it's pointless to ask whether they're just there to enjoy the view, because the landscape seems to have everything he could wish for in a holiday destination: steep inclines, copious amounts of rock littering the place, and no chance of finding anything resembling a modern convenience for the duration.
At least the rain seems to have stopped. For now.
It does, however, seem to be several degrees colder than it had been in Edinburgh, and though the wind is slight, it's still got enough of a chill bite to it that it makes Northern Ireland's face and hands sting as soon as he steps foot outside the car. He digs his gloves out of his pocket at the same time as his mobile, checking it purely out of habit even though it comes as absolutely no surprise to see it hasn't got a signal.
"We're going to be completely fucked if we fall off the side of a mountain or something," Northern Ireland says, angling the phone towards Scotland so he can see the screen.
Scotland ignores it – and the subtle hint that they should perhaps relocate to somewhere with better coverage, or at least some form of human habitation within screaming distance (and preferably a pub) – in favour of starting to unpack the boot.
"I've managed to walk around here for thousands of years without falling off anything," he says, thrusting Northern Ireland's rucksack at him. "We'll be fine."
Falling is not quite what Northern Ireland is afraid of, admittedly.
England had returned from the last trudge through the Highlands Scotland had forced him and Wales on with a badly twisted ankle and a black eye, and although all three of his brothers had insisted that he'd simply lost his footing on some particularly loose scree, Northern Ireland remains convinced that Scotland pushed him off a tor or some other suitably precipitous piece of geology. He's certainly promised to do so enough times whenever Northern Ireland has complained about, well, anything at all during their hikes.
It seems sensible, therefore, not to antagonise his brother any more than he might already have done and thus increase the risk of him finally making good on one of his threats, so Northern Ireland dutifully shoulders his rucksack and ignores the contemptuous curl of Scotland's upper lip when he notices the gloves.
Scotland does, however, refrain from calling him soft for wearing them, which is a first in Northern Ireland's recollection. He simply inclines his head towards the vast spread of nothing laid out ahead of them and says, "Come on, then, we'd best get moving. I want to put at least five miles in before we stop for lunch."
Much more characteristically, he then strides off without bothering to check if Northern Ireland is following him.
Northern Ireland does, but only because his only other option is sitting in the foetid car on his tod for two days, waiting for Scotland to return, because he certainly won't turn back before then.
He really does need to learn how to drive.
-
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Not even five minutes out from their parking spot, Scotland swoops down upon a small rock and then triumphantly holds it aloft as though he's stumbled across a diamond, not just an unimpressive lump of –
"Granite," Northern Ireland says before Scotland has chance to ask, having been forced to play this particular poor excuse for a game from practically the moment he learnt how to talk.
Scotland's follow up question is just as predictable as the unvoiced one. "And how can you tell?"
Northern Ireland could answer that in his sleep. In fact, he probably has. He's always had a truly disturbing amount of rock-centred dreams. "It's got large, tightly fitted crystals, and I can see the quartz catching the light, so…"
He trails off when it becomes clear that Scotland isn't listening to him. His gaze has gone distant, lost somewhere amongst the snow-capped mountains, and he is holding himself so still that Northern Ireland begins to worry that he's slipped into some sort of trance. Not quite worried enough that he can bring himself to give his brother's shoulder a squeeze to try and rouse him from his thoughts, though, because Scotland doesn't take kindly to unexpected physical contact, and would likely to knock him flat on his back without a thought.
Eventually, Scotland seems to come back to himself of his own accord, though his voice still sounds a little remote when he says, "This whole area used to be covered in ice, you know."
Which, lack of a bruised arse aside, doesn't seem much of a reward for Northern Ireland's patience. Quite to the contrary, in fact, as it sounds like the opening salvo in yet another barrage of facts about glacial erosion; a subject that is even less interesting than rock classification.
And a subject that Northern Ireland has yet to find a successful strategy for steering his brother away from. There will always be some esoteric nugget of wisdom concerning kame terraces or eskers that Scotland has discovered since his last lecture, so pleading familiarity with the material never deters him, nor does pleading complete disinterest, as that simply encourages him to try to follow Brian Cox's example and scrape explanatory diagrams into any handy patches of exposed soil that might be found nearby.
Like England's soliloquies on his Bentley and Wales' current obsession with Northern Ireland's nonexistent sex life, it is something that simply has to be endured, because greeting the inevitable with anything other than stoic silence will just make the situation worse.
The expected following shot about ice sheets isn't forthcoming, however. Instead, Scotland looses a slightly wistful-sounding sigh, and then continues with: "I wish I could have seen it. I mean, it shaped my foundations, my very bones" – he nods his head towards the chunk of granite still clutched in his hand – "and I've only ever read about it. Doesn't seem right, somehow."
Northern Ireland has never been quite able to tell whether his brothers are being literal about such things. He's seen their bones (England's, at least, when he returned home after the first night of the London Blitz with both his pyjamas and the legs beneath sliced to ribbons) and, from what little he remembers, they'd looked just the same as a human's. He could be mistaken, though (he'd only had chance for the briefest of glances before Wales hurried him away to the kitchen for hot milk and shaky reassurances), and it's hardly the most ridiculous thing they've asked him to believe about himself.
Given the alleged circumstances of his birth, he supposes anything's possible.
"It's a wonder England doesn't have more problems with his feet," he ventures.
Scotland stares at him blankly for a moment, and then his mouth twists into an angry snarl. "Fucking hell, North," he snaps, "I know I'm not as good as Wales at this type of thing, but there's no need to take the piss."
Metaphorical, then.
Bugger.
Before Northern Ireland can explain himself, or even attempt an apology, Scotland tosses him the rock and then stomps off, shoulders held high and stiff, and fists clenched tight at his sides.
-
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If there's one thing which has given Northern Ireland more cause to question England and Wales' intelligence than any other, it's their reactions to Scotland's anger.
Over two thousand years of familiarity seems to have failed to teach them the same lesson that Northern Ireland had learnt in a mere handful of decades: Scotland's temper might be short, loud and occasionally violent, but it's not inevitable.
Northern Ireland actually much prefers dealing with an enraged Scotland than either of his other brothers. England can seethe for months afterwards if he believes he has been slighted or wronged in any way, and his usually patchy memory is nevertheless impeccable when it comes to the matter of grudges. He still flings perceived blunders Northern Ireland made when he was a toddler back in his face if he senses that an argument might not end in his favour; something Northern Ireland can make absolutely no rebuttal to, mainly because, well, he was a fucking toddler at the time and thus hasn't the faintest recollection of them ever having occurred in the first place now.
And Wales might seem like the most easy-going guy in the world on the surface, but underneath there's a cesspool of repressed fury bubbling away. It vents itself sporadically, with little warning, and is usually triggered by something totally innocuous (such as getting toast crumbs in his margarine, which had been Northern Ireland's most recent experience of the phenomenon).
Scotland is refreshingly straightforward in comparison. Not only is there absolutely no mistaking if you've started to piss him off, as clenched fists and shouted threats of impending bodily harm are hardly subtle, but – and this is the vitally important part; the part that only Northern Ireland seems to understand – he calms down amazingly quickly, too.
If he's just given a bit of time and space to work through his frustrations on something other than the person who caused them, then they evaporate harmlessly away instead of exploding outwards, never mind being used in unrelated fights for evermore or added as fuel to some internal reservoir of simmering rage.
Accordingly, Northern Ireland waits until Scotland has almost disappeared from view before he starts walking again, resigning himself to seeing nothing more of his brother than the back of his head in the far distance for the foreseeable future. It's really no different to how their hikes usually turn out, anyway, as Scotland sets a gruelling pace, and seems indifferent as to whether anyone can keep up with him or not.
As he always does, Northern Ireland simply looks on it as an opportunity to amble along at a far more comfortable speed and smoke a few cigarettes safe from the risk of being cajoled into 'lending' his brother about half the packet.
-
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Northern Ireland does eventually catch up with Scotland, if only because he has apparently deemed it time to stop for lunch (though at least half an hour overdue in the opinion of Northern Ireland's stomach).
His approach is cautious, as he's not entirely sure that he's given Scotland quite enough distance, but the crooked smile that his brother briefly flashes him suggests that his ill-considered comment has been forgiven, or at least forgotten.
He's not entirely sure what to make of the sandwich he's offered along with the smile, however, which seems at odds with Scotland's relaxed demeanour. Like the porridge had earlier, it looks more like punishment than food; flatter than a pancake and sweating profusely inside its tightly-wound cling film shroud.
He takes it regardless, as he knows there won't be anything better on offer, and then vacillates for a moment over the decision of where he should eat.
The slab of rock Scotland has seated himself upon is smooth and mostly dry, but also narrow enough that his and Northern Ireland's expansive personal spaces will be forced to overlap, and the ground is a possibility, albeit one which will likely result in Northern Ireland soaking his trousers through and having stones digging into his arse for the duration.
A second flattish rock nearby seems like his best bet right up until the moment he realises that its angle is exactly the wrong one to be trapped in if the wind tugging at Scotland's kilt happens to pick up. To the best of his knowledge, Scotland does have the decency to wear something under his kilts nowadays except in very specific circumstances – circumstances which were permanently and painfully branded into Northern Ireland's brain following that revolting conversation with France a couple of Christmases back – but he definitely doesn't want to be put in the position of having to either confirm or disprove that first hand.
He finally admits defeat, plonks himself down next to Scotland, and starts the grim task of unwrapping his so-called sandwich. It reveals itself, unsurprisingly, to be cheese and ham, although it's a wonder that Trading Standards haven't banned the sale of the both of them for false advertising, because the only thing that looks right about them is the colour. The ham is paper-thin, perfectly square, and covered with an unappetising rainbow sheen. The cheese might well be made out of plastic.
"This is all you're going to get, so you'd better stop fucking dissecting it and just eat it," Scotland says, handing Northern Ireland a sad-looking packet of Wotsits that had obviously been crushed down at the very bottom of his rucksack.
All Northern Ireland can taste when he follows his brother's advice is mustard, which is probably a blessing, especially as there's so much of it that it feels to burn straight through his sinuses, likely destroying his sense of taste.
"Have you ever thought of getting France to give you cooking lessons or something?" he asks, blinking tears from his eyes. It's not a suggestion he'd normally make, but then again, Scotland's food isn't normally bad enough to cause injuries, either.
Something needs to be done for the public good before the situation has chance to deteriorate further.
Scotland chuckles humourlessly. "He's given me plenty, but none of it seems to stick. Drives him mad."
Northern Ireland suspects that's something of an understatement; even England manages to make sandwiches that aren't weaponised, and the sight of his food nearly drives France to the point of tears just looking at it, never mind eating it.
"I'm sure he thinks I'm doing it on purpose to piss him off or something," Scotland says, glaring down at his own sandwich. "But I've tried, I have, and I can't seem to make myself pay attention, no matter what he tries. It just goes in one ear and straight out the other."
Northern Ireland's certain that the unsavoury contents of his stomach have absolutely no bearing on the way it starts to churn. It's nothing but nerves and the paralysing fear that Scotland might be having issues with France; the kind that are so bad that they send him fleeing to the arse end of nowhere in an effort to escape them and make him desperate enough to consider the unprecedented act of unloading them on his youngest brother for the lack of any better options.
"I don't really see the point of it, at the end of the day," Scotland continues horrifyingly on. "If I want a curry, I can get one from the take-away easy enough. If I want a fry up, Fred Ross makes a better one than I could ever manage."
Northern Ireland grabs desperately for his phone, and prays even more desperately for the unlikely miracle of a stray passing signal. He doesn't think he's ever found himself in a plight whose resolution lay more clearly in Wales' intervention before.
"Food's just never going to be as important to me as it is to him. I'm pretty much 'eat to live', and he's more 'live to eat', you ken?"
Northern Ireland's fervent prayers go unanswered, no matter what angle he holds his phone at. Or how hard he shakes it.
"But I guess it's our differences that keep things interesting, right?" Scotland says with a sudden grin and a burst of laughter that sounds genuinely amused this time. "So, how are your cooking lessons going?"
It's hard to tell whether the abrupt change in subject or the almost overwhelming surge of relief that follows it is the more disorientating, but, whichever it is, it's confusing and dizzying enough that Northern Ireland barely has the presence of mind afterwards to formulate a coherent answer.
"All right, I suppose," he manages to force out after a moment's stammered nonsense.
"That's grand," Scotland says, still beaming, as though nothing could possibly make him prouder, despite the fact that he's never shown even the faintest hint of concern regarding Northern Ireland's progress before.
"I can even make my own pasta," Northern Ireland says, finding himself warming to the subject. "Romano didn't even look like he wanted to be sick after he tried the last batch."
Scotland's smile vanishes as quickly as it had appeared, replaced entirely by the expression of disgust that usually accompanies any reminder that Wales' horrible boyfriend is inextricably part of their lives now, for the time being, at least. Just as he's inextricably part of Northern Ireland's cooking lessons, which begs the question of why the hell Scotland even brought the subject up in the first place.
Whatever his original reasons, all it appears to have served is to irritate him again and make him lose his appetite, because he scowls and tosses his own half-eaten sandwich into his rucksack.
"Best eat all of that, too," he says, throwing a Kendal Mint Cake in Northern Ireland's general direction before he gets to his feet. "You'll need the energy; we won't be stopping again until we make camp tonight."