July, 2012; London, England

-
Northern Ireland has tried lying on his back, his side, and his front. He's tried pulling his duvet up to his chin, and kicking it off onto the floor. He's tried two pillows, one pillow, and no pillows at all.

But none of it has done him any good. He still can't get comfortable, he still can't sleep, and his mind carries on racing round and around the same circular and thoroughly unproductive track, endlessly replaying the events of the evening.

It hadn't been disastrous, per se, just the sort of low-level awful he should have expected from that very first moment of madness wherein he decided that inviting Iceland to spend time with him whilst he was visiting England was a better prospect than suffering through yet another of their stilted conversations over shepherd's pie in Northern Ireland's flat.

That moment of madness wherein he temporarily forgot that England was far from the best third to add to any party if one wanted to avoid awkward pauses and keep the conversation flowing freely.

As it was, there had been plenty of talk as the three of them sat around the dinner table, but Northern Ireland had been cut out of it entirely whilst England mercilessly grilled Iceland about the minutiae of his working life as though he were conducting a job interview.

The tenor of his questions changed over dessert, segueing onto more personal matters such as how Iceland spends his free time and who with, and then again whilst they drank tea, whereupon it began to sound, mortifyingly, as though he was asking Iceland what his intentions towards Northern Ireland were.

If England still had his license, Northern Ireland was fairly certain a shotgun would have made its appearance at that juncture.

Afterwards, they had all watched a film together in stony silence, and as soon as the credits rolled - and even though it was only nine o'clock - England had escorted Iceland up to the guest bedroom like a warden leading a prisoner to their cell.

All in all, the lingering sense of embarrassment is in no way less intense than that Northern Ireland has experienced after hosting Iceland in Belfast before, it 's just a different kind.

He shifts again in the hopes of shaking it off, rolling onto his front again. It doesn't help, the embarrassment just follows along with him, and all his change in position succeeds in doing is putting enough pressure on his bladder that he can no longer ignore its demands as he's been trying his best to do for the past hour or so.

The long walk down from his attic room to the second floor bathroom always serves to wake him up fully, even when England isn't lurking in the darkened third floor hallway, waiting to pounce on him as he passes by.

"Jesus Christ!" Northern Ireland yelps, pressing a hand to his chest where it feels as though his heart is about to launch itself out through his ribcage. "What the fu—"

"Not so fast, young fellow-me-lad," England says with that horrible false-avuncular jollity he always directs towards Northern Ireland when he's nail-spittingly furious. "Where do you think you're going."

"To the toilet," Northern Ireland says, perplexed. He can't imagine how that could possibly anger his brother. Granted, they did have words in the past when England thought Northern Ireland was spending entirely too long in the bathroom, but that would hardly seem to matter at half-past-two in the morning. "Where else would I—"

"A likely story," England scoffs. "Come on. Back upstairs with you."

He grabs tight hold of Northern Ireland's elbow, and, ignoring his very reasonable protestations all the while, marches him straight back up to his bedroom again.

Once there, he directs Northern Ireland to sit down on the edge of the bed, whilst he wanders around the room for a time, studying, in turn, the Airfix planes hanging on strings from the ceiling, the collection of Matchbox cars on the shelf above Northern Ireland's desk, and Mr Bear, seated atop of the chest of drawers. He looks into the bear's shiny button eyes, and sighs heavily.

"North," he says to the bear, then, presumably realising his mistake, again in Northern Ireland's direction: "North."

He gingerly seats himself next to Northern Ireland, and his hand hovers uncertainly in the air between them for a moment, drifting first towards Northern Ireland's knee, then upwards to his shoulder, then up again to the crown of his head. Eventually, it settles there, and England begins, with all the tenderness of a badly-programmed robot, to haltingly card Northern Ireland's hair through his fingers.

On the rare occasions that his brothers do deign to bestow physical contact on him, all three of them tend to go for the hair, which Northern Ireland hates. Not only do they invariably mess it up, but it makes him feel as though he's being petted like a cat.

He ducks away from the contact, and England's hand hangs suspended in the air for a moment, fingers still clawed, before he lets it drop down to rest in his lap. He sighs again.

"North," he says for a thoroughly unnecessary third time. "I think we need to talk."

And, as is also the case with his brothers, those words only ever precede a lengthy silence interspersed with clearings of the throat. Northern Ireland knows from long experience that there's no way of hurrying the proceedings along, so he just waits, idly kicking his heels against the baseboard of his bed whilst he listens to England splutter like the engine of Scotland's Ford Escort.

"You're still so young," England says finally.

"Over ninety," Northern Ireland says, because his brother does have the tendency to forget that if not reminded of it at regular intervals. "I'd be getting a telegram from the queen soon if I was human."

His smile is met by a frown from England. "You know very well that's not the same thing. When I was your age—"

"You were still learning to walk," Northern Ireland says, rolling his eyes. He's heard that particular sentence roughly the same number of times as he's heard the story about America and Wales harp, which is around a hundred times too many. "But I'm not you, am I? I grew up a lot faster."

"Much too fast," England mutters under his breath. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that you're not as old as you think you are."

"I look old enough to get my provisional license, at least," Northern Ireland says, not wanting this fresh opportunity pass him by unexploited. "If someone didn't keep asking for my date-of birth to be changed to—"

"North," England barks, "stop pissing around. You know this hasn't got anything to do with how you look. What matters is how mature you are. And there are certain things I think you aren't anywhere close to being ready for." England blushes and stares very intently at the skirting board by the door. "Intimate things."

Which is another conversation they've had far too often. Northern Ireland hasn't the first clue why England might have deemed it so necessary that they have it again that he'd ambush him with it in the middle of the night, except maybe... Oh.

Fuck.

"England, I wasn't trying to sneak—"

"I know these things seem very... very urgent at your age. When your hormones are raging and so on."

"Honestly, we're just frie—"

"But, believe me, your head can overrule them."

"I don't—"

"It may be difficult - almost overwhelmingly so at times - but it is possible."

Northern Ireland doesn't even attempt to interrupt England again. His brother's built up enough of a head of steam over this that he'll just barrel on regardless until he's said everything he wants to say on the subject.

"There's no shame in waiting, North. I did, and..." England's lips pucker as though he has a bad taste in his mouth. "And, well, it didn't kill me, did it?"

Which is hardly a ringing endorsement for abstinence, as far as Northern Ireland's concerned, because England didn't 'wait' so much as he was 'conned into denying himself for centuries', and it might not have killed him, but he certainly never seemed happy in his self-imposed celibacy.

If Northern Ireland did actually intend on having sex at any time in the near future, England's example would probably persuade him into doing so sooner rather than later.

It seems pointless to remonstrate, either way, because the mental script that England's so clearly following will have included his responses, too, and his brother likely won't listen to him if he deviates from it in any way.

"Right," he says. "Great advice. Thanks, England. Waiting it is."

"Exactly! There's no sense in rushing these things." England smiles contentedly, then slings one arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders. He doesn't try and draw Northern Ireland any closer, and seems uncertain as to what he should be doing with his other hand again. It alights briefly on Northern Ireland's knee before England shoves it into one of his dressing gown pockets. The other hand swiftly follows. "Good lad; I knew you'd come around."