1995; London, England
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More often than not, Northern Ireland will only know that France has paid them a visit nowadays because of the small changes he leaves scattered around the place like an animal's spoor: bottles of fancy shampoo in the shower, even fancier bottles of wine in the fridge, and markings dotted about the exposed parts of Scotland's person that don't bear thinking about too closely.
Their paths may cross on occasion as France flits between Scotland's bedroom and the bathroom or kitchen, but France never pauses for any longer than it takes to coo over how much Northern Ireland has grown since the last time they saw one another (which is nothing but empty flattery, as he's been stalled at five foot nine for over half a decade now).
He never normally eats with them, or joins them to watch telly or go to the pub in the evening. He's never cooked them lunch before this afternoon.
Northern Ireland tears his eyes away from the strange sight of France with his fine silk shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, busying away at the Aga, and turns them towards the equally strange contents of his plate. France had declared it an omelette when he first set it down in front of Northern Ireland, but it has nothing in common with the omelettes England sometimes prepares, which are sad, flat little things with the consistency of half-set concrete. France's looks light and fluffy, and is liberally sprinkled throughout with thick chunks of bacon and flecks of greenery which Northern Ireland presumes must be herbs of some persuasion. England never seasons his omelettes with anything other than salt and unintended carbon.
Even though France's attention appears to be entirely devoted towards his pan, he still tuts loudly when Northern Ireland reaches, on autopilot, for the bottle of tomato ketchup. "Are you not even going to taste it before you smother it in sauce?" he asks, pronouncing the last word with such withering scorn that it might as well have been 'shite'.
Chastened, Northern Ireland withdraws his hand, but he remains hesitant to actually start eating his meal, as a quick glance around the table reveals that his brothers don't seem to be particularly enjoying their own omelettes ungarnished.
Wales is tucking in eagerly, but that signifies nothing, as Wales would probably pretend to relish even a bowl of cold sick if someone else had prepared it for him, in order to spare them from any feelings of culinary inadequacy, no matter how justified. His eyes, however, have the glazed appearance of a person taking a long, leisurely journey through their own thoughts, and thus it's very likely that he's not even aware that he's busy shovelling food into his mouth, much less giving any attention to its flavour.
England hasn't even touched his own omelette but that signifies even less, as he doubtless doesn't want to risk accidentally enjoying it in front of France.
It's Scotland's reaction that gives Northern Ireland the most pause, because although he might be munching away energetically enough, every time he swallows, his brows descend, his eyes scrunch tightly shut, and he looks every inch as though he's forcing down a mouthful of gravel.
Northern Ireland has seen Scotland eat his own cooking – the results of which can only be called edible in the very strictest terms, being that they're usually still pliable enough to chew – with far more evident pleasure.
It doesn't bode well.
"I could make you something else if you'd prefer, Nord," France says, though he doesn't sound particularly enthused about the idea.
He sounds, in fact, a little hurt, which spurs Northern Ireland into guiltily taking an experimental bite of his omelette.
It tastes… Northern Ireland isn't entirely sure how to describe it, as his palate is hardly discerning and is generally only able to classify food by its degree of charring. There is none of that distinctive bitter aftertaste, which renders his normal scale of meal appraisal somewhat moot, so 'like something from a restaurant' is the best he can do.
He imagines that such high praise would likely sit very poorly with England – and thus doom him to snippy remarks about his 'betrayal' for weeks thereafter – thus he restrains himself to a rather more subdued, "It's delicious."
France doesn't look happy to hear that so much as relieved, Northern Ireland thinks, and he gives Northern Ireland's shoulder a quick squeeze that feels almost thankful before turning back to the Aga once more.
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Scotland slopes off as soon as he finishes eating, which is his typical ruse for getting out of helping with any of the cleaning up.
Typically, though, he would ensure that he disappeared without leaving any clue to his whereabouts because England has no compunctions about following to give him a good hard nag about 'pulling his weight', even if it ends up being conducted in the middle of the street with all their neighbours and random passers-by looking on.
Today, he seems to be making a huge production out of departing the house; thundering up the stairs to his room and then back down again, and then slamming the front door closed behind him. England puts on an equally good show of being completely engrossed by his newspaper, and doesn't react to the sound.
France, too, seems unperturbed by Scotland's noisy vanishing act, and simply carries on eating his own lunch as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. If nothing else, Northern Ireland would at least have expected him to take some kind of umbrage over Scotland's lack of gratitude over having just being fed.
He leans in towards Wales and asks in a whisper, "Have France and Scotland fallen out or something?"
Wales blinks dazedly out of whatever reverie the omelette had sent him into, and then eventually whispers back, "I have absolutely no idea. Your guess is as good as mine, North."
Northern Ireland thinks it really isn't, as Wales is at least entrusted with the knowledge that France and Scotland are apparently engaged in some form of relationship – as nebulously defined as that might be – whereas Northern Ireland had just been left to piece that conclusion together over the years using flimsy scraps of evidence such as unused spare beds after overnight stays and so on.
He's never even seen them touch, never mind kiss.
"You know Scotland wouldn't tell me even if they had," Wales adds. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if France were in a bad mood, having his day mucked around like it has been."
"Mucked around?"
"With his and England's meeting being cancelled at the last minute? Didn't England tell you?"
Northern Ireland doesn't even bother shaking his head, because, really, what else does Wales expect? His brothers very rarely deign to tell him anything outright, and seemingly just expect him to absorb whatever is going on in their lives through some weird form of osmosis instead.
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After they've finished the washing up, Wales excuses himself on the pretext of needing to finish a poem he started earlier in the day.
Northern Ireland has often suspected that 'writing poetry' is a euphemism, as it provides Wales with a good excuse to stay shut up in his bedroom for long stretches of time, but given the frequency with which 'inspiration' strikes his brother, he really hopes he's misguided on that score.
He knows that England's explanation of needing to prune his rose bushes is a lie, but thankfully not one that conceals motives of a baser nature. He simply feels the need to cut at something with sharp implements and considers the real target of such impulses an impolitic one. (It's a wonder that his roses still bloom at all, given how much of them get hacked away over the course of a year.)
It takes Northern Ireland an embarrassingly long time to realise that he's essentially been burdened with the task of entertaining France now by his brothers' cowardly acts of desertion. As ever, when faced with such a prospect, his mind wipes entirely blank of thought, rendering him incapable of both conversation and inventing his own excuse for escape, euphemistic or otherwise.
Instead, in desperation, he mumbles something which he hopes sounds suitably apologetic and then flees to the safety of his bedroom.
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Until very recently, Northern Ireland had had to make do with Ireland's old bedroom, regardless of how much he disliked it.
The spare room was far larger, but England liked to keep it available for visitors (no matter how infrequently they entertained them), and the weans' old room was a lot less draughty, but that had been left as a kind of shrine to their childhood and was still filled with their old toys and books, even though they were all well on their way to disintegrating into dust.
For the vast majority of his life, Northern Ireland had suffered the chilly little room (and Ireland's execrable taste in wallpaper) not so much in silence, but in sullen resentment. The two might look almost identical from the outside, but Northern Ireland suspects that some hint of his inner seething ire must have been discernable nevertheless, because England had – with absolutely no prompting on Northern Ireland's part – suddenly announced a couple of years back that he was going to have the loft converted into a new bedroom for him.
Admittedly, it's not much bigger than his old one, as half of the loft is still given over storage for the overflow from England's collection of ugly antiques, Scotland's old armour, and Wales' chests full of tedious sentimentality, but it has several advantages far greater than space.
For one, it's far enough removed from his brothers' bedrooms that they can't seem to be arsed popping in half as much as they used to, just on the off-chance that he might want to listen to them whinge about one another or natter on about cars or rocks for a while.
And for two, it has one skylight that he has discovered is perfectly situated so that he can see down into the garden from it, but the reverse is not true thanks to respective angles and the fortuitous placement of an overhanging branch, so he can smoke out of it blissfully free from any chance of being spotted by England.
He clambers up onto his desk, flings the window open, and then lights one of the cigarettes he'd nicked from an unattended packet of Wales' he'd stumbled across that morning. If he stands on his tiptoes and cranes his head as far as he can to the left, he can make out England's distant figure, his elbows pistoning energetically as he attacks one of his unfortunate rose bushes.
More surprisingly, he also spots France loitering nearby, his hands fluttering about in an articulate way that suggests that he's attempting conversation with England.
Northern Ireland is unable to fathom why France has decided that the real and present danger of having England's secateurs lodged in his windpipe is preferable to spending a little time on his own in the kitchen. Northern Ireland wouldn't dare to try and speak with England when he's pruning, and he's fairly certain that England likes him, or at least feels some sense of familial duty which might stay his hand when it came to matters of throat stabbing.
France, on the other hand, has no such assurances. In fact, Northern Ireland would have thought he would expect no other outcome than that for his troubles.
To hear England tell it, there is no other person save Scotland who deserves random acts of violence perpetrated against them more than France. Northern Ireland's lessons on English history had often been derailed into lengthy diatribes on that very subject ('The way he smirked at me, North," was a familiar refrain, whether it followed a recitation of French victory on the battlefield or a particularly cutting insult at the dinner table, "I wanted to disembowel him on the spot.') and he can't imagine that France is unaware of his feelings on the issue.
Still, he hasn't actually witnessed England subject France to anything worse than a little light sarcasm – though Wales assures him that the same doesn't hold true for them anywhere outside the house – so perhaps it's his proximity, unseen though he might be, which makes France feel secure enough to try engaging England's attention now.
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According to Wales, when Northern Ireland was a toddler, France had spent every waking moment he could spare with him whenever he stayed. His interest must have tailed off long before any of Northern Ireland's clear memories begin, however, as he has absolutely no recollection of France being anything other than indifferent to his existence.
Consequently, he had felt secure enough that France wouldn't try and seek out his company if he happened to tire of England's, and had neglected to bolt his bedroom door before settling down on his bed to start reading.
France apparently takes the open door as an invitation, and marches straight through it without pausing to knock or otherwise announce his presence in any way.
He's fortunate that Northern Ireland had eventually decided to pick his copy of 'Guards! Guards!' rather than the magazine he'd been contemplating, else the interruption would have been mortifying for both of them rather than just Northern Ireland.
As it is, the speech centres of Northern Ireland's brain perform their usual shutdown yet again, and he finds himself unable to utter either the indignant protest over his invaded space that he wants to, or the greeting he feels that he should give.
All he manages is a small nod, which is answered by France with a wide grin quite out of proportion to the mild civility he was offered. "Nord," he says, rolling the r for an inordinately long time. "I have a gift for you."
He strides forward and drops a bag by Northern Ireland's elbow. It's a terribly familiar sort of bag – made from thick, glossy paper with a shop's name discreetly stamped in gold at one corner – and Northern Ireland's stomach makes a slow, sickening roll at the sight of it.
France often leaves bags like this for Northern Ireland when he visits, and they invariably contain some item of clothing or other that was obviously very expensive, and just as obviously designed to fit a person who is roughly Northern Ireland's height and build, but is lucky enough to possess an arse and/or a chest which is not practically concave.
Normally, Northern Ireland will look at said gifts once, experience a momentary pang of annoyance over being lumbered with the metabolism of a hummingbird, and then consign them to the other side of the loft, where they can keep good company with all of the clothes Wales and Scotland have stored there in the vain hope of them one day coming back into something resembling fashion again.
With France actually there to see his reaction for once, Northern Ireland forces himself to smile at the sight of a shirt he's likely never going to be the right proportions to wear, and say, "Thanks, France."
He needn't have bothered with the deception, as France is far too distracted by tracking the movements of the sole inhabitant of Northern Ireland's fish tank to notice, seemingly.
"That's Fred," Northern Ireland says, as France's intent concentration seems to demand some sort of satisfaction. "My immortal goldfish. I've had him since the fifties."
France's eyes soften as they swing towards Northern Ireland, taking on what is clearly a pitying sort of cast. Northern Ireland flushes at this fresh confirmation that he should just keep his mouth shut as often as possible, because every failure to do so inevitably results in him feeling like a twat afterwards.
In order to avoid any unnecessary strengthening of that conviction, he chooses to keep quiet, even though he does feel compelled to reassure France that, no, he's well aware that Fred isn't actually immortal, but has in fact been replaced by England innumerable times over the decades by a look-alike upon his predecessor's demise.
Eventually, France must make the decision that he's not going to be the one to disabuse Northern Ireland of his delusions concerning animal immortality, because he grimaces slightly, and then starts scanning the room in what Northern Ireland suspects is a desperate attempt to find something to remark upon that isn't fish-related.
His gaze finally settles on the sword affixed to the wall above Northern Ireland's bed, and his lips curve into a small smile.
"That's one of Scotland's swords," he says.
"It used to be," Northern Ireland says, twisting around to stare up at the sword himself. He's not sure what had driven him to hang it there – against Wales' counsel, who remains convinced it will fall down and behead him one night – as it's hardly an attractive blade; just a big lump of metal designed for killing people and nothing else. "It's mine now. He gave it to me when we started training."
"He taught you to fight with a sword?" France sounds about as baffled by that concept as Northern Ireland has always been.
"Apparently it was 'vital' that I learnt. He never did explain why, though."
France moves closer to the bed, and lifts his hand towards the sword's hilt, though his fingers stop just short of touching it. "He trained with Pays de Galles and Angleterre when they were younger, so perhaps he felt that it was only fitting that he trained you in the same way, even though the skill is somewhat redundant nowadays." France's smile deepens. "We used to spar together then, too. Did he tell you that?"
Northern Ireland shakes his head; he honestly can't remember Scotland ever mentioning France when he's not there, except in the abstract. He's definitely never shared any childhood memories of him.
"I don't think I managed to defeat him once, at least not with a sword, anyway. I was always the better shot, though."
It occurs to Northern Ireland then that England has often said (usually when he and Scotland are in the midst of an exceptionally vicious fight) that France never talks about Scotland, either. In which case, it would seem odd that he would start spouting off such reminiscences unprompted – and to Northern Ireland, of all people – but there's a note of something that sounds very much like wistfulness in his voice, and that, added to Scotland's stormy exit earlier, leads Northern Ireland to believe that he might not have been too far off the mark when he'd posited that they'd fallen out.
"Scotland's probably only gone for a walk to the park to clear his head or something," he says tentatively, but, he hopes, reassuringly, because he's aware his brother's temper burns itself out even quicker with exercise. No doubt France, who's known him for more than ten times as long, is aware of that as well, though he could just be in need of a reminder if the argument they'd had been especially unpleasant. "He'll be back soon enough."
There was a wrong end to the stick of his conversation, it seems, and, as ever, Northern Ireland had firmly grasped hold of it. France just stares at him blankly in response, as though his remark had struck him as a non-sequitur, or worse, been utterly incomprehensible.
His entire expression is so vacant, in fact, that Northern Ireland has to wonder whether he'd even noticed that Scotland was missing at all.