April, 2013; London, England
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Sometimes, England's like a perpetual motion machine, albeit one that endlessly produces anger instead of kinetic energy.
His ire had been initially raised by the sight of a lone crisp packet blowing around his front garden, which had led quite logically – albeit unnecessarily, in Northern Ireland's opinion – to a rant about littering. Littering had segued into a lengthy moan about the local council, but everything thereafter was not even tenuously connected to his original complaint.
The council had led to criticising Scotland's lack of involvement at Westminster, which led to denouncing Wales as an ungrateful wanker for reasons so nebulous Northern Ireland can't be sure that there were any to speak of. From Wales, he made a detour down the familiar path of France's selfish refusal to disappear off the face of the planet, and then strolled leisurely around Ireland's worst side before taking the scenic route back to Scotland once more.
Because Iceland was sensible, he had excused himself to ostensibly use the bathroom at least ten minutes ago. Because Northern Ireland was not, he was still stuck listening to England rage and futilely wishing for a precision bout of laryngitis to strike his brother down.
Astonishingly, England's voice does crack a moment later, but he simply gives a sharp cough to restore it and continues unabated.
When he starts rasping for a second time, though, Northern Ireland finally recognises it for the opportunity it is.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks.
"What a wonderful idea!" England says, looking so delighted by what he doubtless perceives as a genuine demonstration of thoughtfulness that Northern Ireland almost feels guilty. "Thank you, North."
Northern Ireland's grateful absence doesn't seem to dim England's enthusiasm for continuing his tirade, however, and his muttered griping is distinctly audible even in the kitchen. Setting the kettle to boil does eventually drown it out, but, unfortunately, it also masks all other sounds to such an extent that Northern Ireland doesn't realise that he's no longer alone until something grabs hold of his wrist when he reaches out for the tin of teabags at the back of the counter.
He flinches back in automatic revulsion and the fairy squeals at him, its hinged jaw swinging down low to reveal the yawning cavern of its mouth and a slim, pointed tongue. All of England's fae look almost identical to him – their tiny pointed faces are almost blank canvases onto which only the faintest suggestion of features have been painted – but this one's hair is fairly distinctive: a bright red tuft that sticks straight up from the top of its head like a candle's flame.
He's fairly certain that it's the same one which had been perched on top of the curtain rail in the living room about half an hour back, yowling like a cat whose tail had just been trapped in a door.
If it was, Northern Ireland understands why it might be unsettled, but what's much less clear is why it might think coming to him in search of comfort would be anything approaching a good idea.
"Fucking hell, you can't be frightened of a bit of shouting," he says to it. "You're living in the wrong house if you are."
The fairy squeals again and then scuttles across the worktop towards him, one clawed hand reaching out for his. Its joints look to be in the same places as they would on a human body, but they don't move in the right way; its legs don't bend so much as curve above the bird-like talons it has in place of feet.
Northern Ireland takes an even bigger step away from it.
"Besides," he continues, "I thought we had an agreement. If I don't want you watching me, what the hell makes you think I'd put up with you touching me."
At least, Northern Ireland had presumed they had an agreement, anyway. He'd cursed at the crowd of fae that had assembled once when he was doing something extremely personal, squashed one of them with a book, and then let the rest of them know in no uncertain terms that the same fate awaited the remainder if he ever caught them doing the same thing again, He's not entirely sure even now that they truly understood what he was saying – they seem to rely entirely on instinct and animal cunning – but they had at least cut down on their snooping somewhat ever since.
The fairy's wings unfold with a leathery rustle, but it just flaps them agitatedly afterwards, seemingly unwilling to take flight.
Northern Ireland tries to encourage it on its way by means of a wooden spoon, carefully held at the very end of the handle as fae's teeth are jagged tetanus traps and he's never encountered a single one of them that has any compunction about trying to sink them into the closest bit of warm flesh if they feel threatened.
It just digs its talons into the wood of the worktop and stands firm, however.
"Look, will you please just fuck off," Northern Ireland says, jabbing with the spoon in between each word. "I'm not England; I don't give a shit if you're upset or scared or whatever. To be honest? If you were on fire? Forget pissing, I'd get the fucking marshmallows out. You're a creepy little –"
"What are you talking to?"
Northern Ireland freezes mid-poke with the spoon, a cold shiver running down his spine as it stiffens, as if someone's just ripped it out and replaced it with a block of ice. He's always been afraid of being caught doing something like this: arguing with what must look nothing but a patch of empty air like everyone laughs behind England's back for doing.
The petrified feeling only last for a second or two until the memory of Iceland's completely insouciant reaction to body and dimension swappings past supplants it. Thereafter, he relaxes enough to turn towards Iceland slightly and cock a questioning eyebrow.
"You really can't see it?" he asks, to which Iceland shakes his head.
His magical nullity is a bit of a mystery to Northern Ireland, considering Norway, but his best guess as to an explanation for it is that some people are simply born lucky.
"It's one of England's fae," Northern Ireland says, giving it one last swat on its bony little arse before giving the whole spoon deal up as a bad job.
The fairy's answering hiss sounds distinctly triumphant.
"Like the ones Scotland said live in his attic?" Iceland asks, taking a couple of small steps towards Northern Ireland.
"No, they're actually useful. England's just seem to like watching people…" The word 'wanking' withers and dies on Northern Ireland's tongue. A second attempt fares no better, so he eventually has to just finish with, "They like spying and shit."
Northern Ireland turns again to tea-making to divert himself from the embarrassment of being the sort of person who can't even allude to masturbation in conversation with someone because he might maybe perhaps have accidentally linked the thought to action in relation to them once. Logically, he knows that Iceland likely wouldn't be able to intuit that fact simply by the change in his tone Northern Ireland fears would be there, but he might.
When Northern Ireland stretches out for the teabags for a second time, he collides with Iceland instead of the fairy, but the contact startles him just as much. He tries not to jump away this time, however, as he thinks Iceland is probably much more likely to take it the wrong way.
Even so, it's hard to hold himself still when Iceland's right there, close and warm and smelling like… Well, he really just smells like whatever shampoo and deodorant he uses, but it's a oddly intimate thing, Northern Ireland thinks, to be able to pick it out so clearly all the same.
He breathes out sharply through his nose to rid himself of the scent before he dares to slant his eyes to his right so he can look at Iceland out of the corner of them.
Iceland isn't looking at Northern Ireland as he had half-expected, half-feared – there's a hint of disappointment in the discovery, too, but Northern Ireland ignores it – but instead has his head bowed, and is squinting very determinedly at a completely empty spot on the worktop.
"What're you doing?" Northern Ireland asks, a little warily.
Iceland draw together in concentration as he closes one eye and then the other. "Trying to see the fairy," he says. He sounds a little disheartened that he very obviously can't.
Unfortunately, Northern Ireland isn't aware of any trick that can make those without the Sight perceive the fae visually, but he does know that they must have some sort of physical presence, because they can eat human food, do Scotland's housework, and leave footprints all over England's butter whenever he forgets to put the dish away at night.
Without really thinking about the ramifications of the act first, Northern Ireland leans over and folds his hand over Iceland's.
He interlaces their fingers together, and then guides their linked hands until Iceland's palm has moulded itself to the line of the fairy's back.
The fairy squirms and chatters its teeth a little, but otherwise seems content to stay put. Its wings brush against the inside of Northern Ireland's wrist; they feel cold and slightly slimy, like a slug crawling across his skin. Northern Ireland's throat spasms in response, and he can taste bile at the back of his mouth.
In an effort to keep himself from dwelling on the sensation, he glances towards Iceland. He finds himself fixated not on his friend's expression of intense concentration but by the way the angle of his head and the brightness of the light above them causes his eyelashes to cast delicate little shadows, darkening the violet of his eyes.
It's certainly not the first time he's found his attention caught by some ridiculously insignificant detail – he'd spent a good portion of the previous day marvelling at how Iceland's hair brushed the tips of his ears whenever he moved his head a certain way – but it's become such a frequent occurrence of late that it's starting to add up to a conclusion he doesn't much care for.
It's not so much the fact that, yes, he does apparently still find Iceland attractive – he'd worked through pretty much all of the anxiety related to that realisation several months back – but the stupidity of the observations that serve to reinforce it.
Other people, he's sure, notice things like the curve of someone's arse or the shape of their lips, or the way that that someone moves, or smells, or sounds. He, on the other hand, is stuck with fucking eyelash shadows and the brief impressions of Iceland's tongue glimpsed when he says the name Norður.
To his knowledge, only one other person of Northern Ireland's acquaintance ever pays attention to that sort of crap. After all these years of being grateful that he never inherited Wales' shit hair or tendency towards carrying most of his weight in his cheeks and arse, it seems there was something far more insidious his brother had bequeathed him, lurking at the bottom of his psyche all this time and only recently awoken.
Northern Ireland can only hope that the urge to write poetry doesn't inevitably follow.
"Can you feel the fairy, then?" he makes himself ask, to forestall any nonsense like 'adumbrated eyes' that might be awaiting its chance to spew from his mouth otherwise.
Iceland gives Northern Ireland an undecipherable look. "I'm trying to decide," he says.
"You either can or you can't. What is there to decide?" Northern Ireland asks, perplexed.
"Whether it's in my best interests to say yes or no." Iceland smiles faintly, and his gaze drops to his and Northern Ireland's clasped hands.
Northern Ireland only comprehends in that very moment that if Iceland can't actually sense the fairy, then all they've actually been doing for the past few minutes is stand there holding hands – albeit in a not particularly comfortable configuration – whilst Northern Ireland stared at Iceland dreamily.
His skin suddenly feels hot and itchy, and the rest of him feels horrifically ashamed for being so fucking slow to catch on. He drops Iceland's hand hurriedly and then lurches back, his breath coming in so quick and shallow that he starts to feel a little woozy.
The sudden movement makes the fairy screech in alarm and then finally – at long bloody last – take to the air, but Iceland seems unmoved; his only reaction a slight roll of his eyes that happens so rapidly that Northern Ireland almost believes he must have imagined it.
Unlike the fairy, Iceland must be mostly inured to this particular facet of Northern Ireland's inability to function like a normal humanoid being by now, though. It's not that Northern Ireland dislikes being touched, precisely – it doesn't happen often enough for him to have formed much of an opinion either way – more that he really has no idea how to react now that Iceland's touches feel like they should be a prelude to something, rather than being an end in and of themselves.
He's starting to regret ever letting his brothers believe that he and Iceland had been dating before. Sure, it had been fucking hilarious to watch England work himself up into ever greater fits of horror over the imagined loss of Northern Ireland's still very firmly intact virginity. And, sure, Iceland had never seemed bothered by that lie of omission, either, failing to correct it even after Norway found them together, shirtless and trouserless for entirely innocent reasons – namely being caught in a sudden downpour – leapt to the wrong conclusions, and then rained magical vengeance down on Northern Ireland's family in retribution.
(Northern Ireland has come to understand that he and Iceland have very similar senses of humour in some respects.)
But it also means that now, when Northern Ireland could really do with some advice on how to take that next step for real, he can't go to the one person he'd feel something approaching comfortable talking about it to.
Wales had invented a love story for Northern Ireland out of whole cloth, and Northern Ireland had let him believe it because believing seemed to make his brother so happy. He baulks at the prospect of having to admit that, no, isn't as capable of navigating simple social interactions as Wales had previously assumed. That he really can't manage on his own, and all of the talks Wales had forced himself to give about lube and mess and the like had been so premature as to be ludicrous, because Northern Ireland apparently can't even cope with a spot of accidental hand-holding without being sent spiralling into some sort of bewildered paralysis afterwards.
"Are you okay?" Iceland eventually asks, after Northern Ireland has stood staring at him, mouth gaping stupidly and silently for… Jesus, his eyes and throat both feel dry enough that Northern Ireland suspects it's best not to think too deeply about just how long it might have been.
"Fine," Northern Ireland says, though he's sure the way the word rasps makes the lie obvious. "It's just –"
"North!" Northern Ireland had no idea what justification he could possibly have used to explain his behaviour, and thus the sound of England's voice bellowing out from the living room is almost a relief. An incredibly short-lived relief, because his brother then sees fit to add, "There's a fucking newspaper wrapped around my rose bush, too! Can you believe that! I'm sure it's that new bloke at number eight. Next thing we know, the whole street will be knee deep in rubbish just because he can't be arsed checking to see if he's shut his wheelie bin properly."
Northern Ireland cringes, though he's not sure whether he's embarrassed on England's behalf or his own. If he wasn't so much of a coward, he wouldn't continually have to expose Iceland to his brother's vile temper – which he usually kept in decent check in company, but he can't seem to help easing into along with his slippers as soon as he's at home – and snide comments. If he wasn't so much of a coward, he wouldn't have stopped inviting Iceland to his own flat in Belfast in the first place.
In some ways, he likes that Iceland is seemingly just as content as he is to stay quiet, because being expected to talk constantly exhausts him. On the other hand, though, sometimes his quietness merges with Iceland's in just such a way that their combined lack of words appears to form some sort of conversational black hole, one which sucks all the relaxation out of a room and radiates only awkwardness back in return.
Meeting at his brother's house instead at least ensures that England's ranting provides a near constant distraction, if nothing else. An irritating distraction, admittedly, but still better for Northern Ireland's nerves than being solely responsible for providing one himself.
The guilt remains, regardless.
"Sorry about all the…" He pauses, hand caught in mid-wave towards the living room because there seems little point in continuing; he's apologised for the same thing so many times that he's sure it rings completely false by now, especially since his own behaviour never changes in consequence. Instead, he tries to make light of the matter by continuing, "I put up with him because he's my brother, but I honestly can't understand why you keep coming back here when there's that going on all the fucking time. And I'm not..."
Northern Ireland can't think of a way of putting into words that he thinks Iceland could find better company for himself than someone who might as well have been raised by wolves, given his total lack of conversational skill. Actually, no, wolves would probably have done a better job, because they're social animals, after all, and probably don't treat their cubs like diseases that they fear may be communicable on contact.
Eventually he decides that his inarticulate spluttering as he fumbles for the right phrase is sufficient explanation by itself on that score, and gladly concludes, "Well, I don't exactly have enough to say for myself to make up for it, do I?"
Iceland shrugs. "Maybe I just think the view's worth it, then?"
Northern Ireland's first sluggish thought is that Iceland must have a very high tolerance for ugly antiques if he finds England's home décor anything approaching an attraction. His second, more rational, thought is that he's an idiot for even contemplating the first one might be Iceland's point.
Thereafter, he's just impressed. Northern Ireland's a big of fan of jokes told so dryly that they crackle, and it's driven him to strive towards developing the perfect stoic delivery himself for years. He doesn't think he's ever even approached the utter nonchalance of Iceland's tone and expression, though. It's a masterful display.
"Fuck off;" he says, smiling to show that he's identified the joke, because he knows from experience that he always feels like a wanker when people don't and he has to imagine how abashed they'll be for believing whatever shite he'd been spouting once they finally recognise it for what it is. "I know you're taking the piss, because everyone says I look just like Scotland."
Northern Ireland's horror rises along with the faint flush of colour to Iceland's cheeks.
"Scotland? Really? Jesus Christ!" Northern Ireland nearly chokes on his own incredulity. "He looks like…"
Like someone who has just been dragged out from under the hedge where they've been living for the past few weeks, and who is really fucking pissed off about the situation. Like someone who has had a sheepskin rug glued to his front – but not his back, thank god, which is one less thing for Northern Ireland to have to worry about as he ages – with just a small hole cut out for his face to poke through. Like someone who Northern Ireland distantly acknowledges has a certain square-jawed intensity and symmetry to his features that isn't entirely frightful to behold but who is, at the end of the day, his brother, and so there's little to choose between him and a blobfish as far as Northern Ireland's concerned.
The disgusted noise he lets slip suffices to encapsulate all of that, he thinks, and thus allows him to move on to more pressing matters. To whit, "Is this a commonly held opinion, or are you just... Just a bizarre outlier or something?"
Iceland frowns, no doubt because Northern Ireland basically just called him strange. Northern Ireland would usually feel the need to apologise for the unintentional insult, but as he's so preoccupied with other concerns, the urge barely even registers.
"I don't think there's ever been an official survey or anything," Iceland says, "but I get the impression it's pretty common."
Northern Ireland had assumed that France's endless 'tres beau'ing towards Scotland was just him overcompensating for being an appalling boyfriend for centuries; that it might be something approaching an objective truth had always been unthinkable before.
He's so flabberghasted at the idea that he can't think of a single more thing to say. Neither, it seems, can Iceland, and Northern Ireland can sense that one of their silence singularities will soon be forming. In an effort to head it off, Northern Ireland returns to the long neglected and still unfinished tea, because a change in topic is clearly beyond both of them.
The simple practicality of the task works so well in deflecting his attention, however, that he doesn't realise until the very moment he's handing England his mug that Iceland basically just said that he finds him attractive.
The possibility had never crossed Northern Ireland mind before, not only because of his supposed resemblance to Scotland – though that's evidently not the obstacle he'd always presumed it to be – but because he looks like someone who was designed to be about five foot four but has been stretched out to six foot, regardless; spaghetti-limbed and ungainly.
He's not sure what to feel about the idea now, and all it entails, but England's instant and resounding complaint about the amount of sugar in his tea probably means that he won't have the chance to worry about working it out for a while yet.
He sits himself down with his own cup of tea, and – for the first time, as far as he can recall – gratefully lets the sound of his brother's obstreperous voice push all of his other thoughts aside.