The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.
This fic is a companion piece to 'The Small Stuff'.
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April, 2012; London, England
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To hear England tell it, Northern Ireland's decision to have cooking lessons with Romano rather than him represented treachery of the highest order
And Northern Ireland had heard it too many times to count over the last couple of months: as a muttered aside, as a snide remark appended to an otherwise perfectly civil conversation, and finally as a drunken tirade which had culminated in England slumping over his pint glass, bawling about how he 'might as well be tossed on the scrapheap, because he obviously wasn't needed anymore'.
Which was a piece of emotional blackmail just as blatant as any Wales had engaged in to coerce Northern Ireland into taking those damn lessons in the first place – though, to give him his due, Wales' efforts had been a great deal less melodramatic – and Northern Ireland should have known better than to succumb to it.
He did know better, but faced with England's tears in the middle of a crowded pub with no other avenue of escape in sight, he had acted on pure animal instinct and capitulated to save himself from the sheer, humiliating horror of it all.
England's sobs had died down with suspicious rapidity, and then, with a bright sunny smile, he'd promised Northern Ireland that he 'wouldn't regret it'.
But Northern Ireland had regretted that cowardly, desperate act, in that moment and every single one that followed, but he still delivers himself to England's doorstep on the date his brother had decreed their lesson would take place, because he's weak, spineless, and, despite his fervent wishes to the contrary, neither he nor England had been fortuitously struck down by lightning at any point over the intervening week.
"Now," England says as he ushers Northern Ireland into his kitchen, "I know Romano's been teaching you to make pasta, so that's the main course sorted out, but I bet he hasn't even thought about pudding, has he?"
Romano had, in fact, not only thought about the matter of pudding, but demonstrated how to make one: chocolate mousse, using a recipe so simple that he had professed himself confident that even someone of Northern Ireland's severely limited culinary expertise would be able to replicate it with ease.
Northern Ireland's attempt at doing so had been so shockingly dire that Romano hadn't even dared to taste-test it, and the whole sorry mess had been scraped into the bin untouched, never to be spoken of again.
But England doesn't give Northern Ireland chance to confirm or deny his supposition, answering his own question with barely a pause to take breath in-between. "Of course, he hasn't," he says. "So I've taken it upon myself to rectify that."
Northern Ireland wonders if England honestly believes, as it sounds, that he had simply spotted an oversight in Wales and Romano's plans and, out of the pure bounty of his munificence and goodness of his heart, decided off his own bat to rectify their mistake. Quite possibly so, as England is supremely skilled at editing reality to better fit whatever narrative of his life he's deemed more palatable to be true.
"I did think of fruit cake at first," England continues, "because I know how much you like it, but it's probably too complex this early in the game."
Which is a relief, because – and despite the false platitudes he spouts every Christmas when he's gifted one – Northern Ireland can only stomach England's fruit cake when it comprises a 100:1 ratio of marzipan and icing to cake.
"I decided to go with trifle, in the end," England concludes. "It's simple enough to make, and a good, solid dessert, besides."
Northern Ireland would have thought 'solid' was the very last adjective that should be used to describe trifle, but when it came to England's cooking, anything was possible.
"The first step is lining the bottom of your bowl with cake," England says, dragging Northern Ireland over to the counter next to his Aga, where all the trifle ingredients are neatly laid out in preparation. "Madeira works best, I find."
He takes up the loaf of Madeira cake – purchased from Waitrose, Northern Ireland notes, which ensures that the trifle's bottom layer will at least be edible – unwraps it, and then, wearing a frown of intense concentration throughout, tries to cut it into even slices.
He had been, by all accounts (including his own), quite handy with a sword back in the day, but upon seeing the mess he makes of the cake, Northern Ireland thinks it a miracle that he was ever entrusted with sharp objects, or managed to make it through medieval times with all of his limbs intact.
Each slice is either so thin that it immediately disintegrates, or thick enough as to be better termed a chunk. England's complexion gradually darkens to a deep, fiery red, but he persists in hacking away at the loaf until all that remains of it is a large heap of crumbs.
He grimly brushes them off the chopping board into a waiting cut glass bowl, and then makes a similar hash of chopping a punnet of strawberries, which are subsequently deposited atop the layer of mangled cake.
Whist Northern Ireland may not be au fait with every possible permutation of the humble trifle, he had assumed that most recipes called for only a splash of sherry to be added, given their taste. England upends his sherry bottle over the bowl, and stops pouring when the strawberries are bobbing about on the surface of a crumb-clouded lake of the stuff,
He steps back to inspect his handiwork for a moment filled with scowling and the sound of his deep, laboured breathing, and then says, "Jelly next," in a flat, inflectionless tone which is completely at odds with the violence with which he then rips apart the blocks of jelly and hurls them into a measuring jug.
To Northern Ireland's surprise, the blocks readily dissolve once England pours boiling water over them; jelly's surely impossible to fuck up, but he'd been convinced his brother would contrive a way to do so, anyway.
England looks pleased by this tiny victory, a small smile of triumph curling his lips, and the jelly is thereafter accorded the honour of being gently and lovingly drizzled into the bowl.
"We just need to leave it to set now," England says, after relocating the bowl to the fridge. "We can have a cup of tea whilst we wait."
They have time for three cups of tea as they while away the requisite two hours the back of the jelly box recommends, during which time Northern Ireland demolishes an entire packet of chocolate Hobnobs and England pontificates about Romano's imagined deficiencies as a cooking teacher.
When the alarm England had set on his mobile sounds, Northern Ireland dutifully tails after his brother to inspect the bowl. Its contents are still entirely liquid, and the next hour is spent in sullen, tea-less silence.
And also fruitless, it transpires, as the jelly is no closer to setting at the end of it had been at the start. England throws up his hands and declares it the perfect time to start on the custard.
He has never once, in the eighty-odd years Northern Ireland has known him, been successful in making any, but he gamely makes yet another attempt at it, regardless. Even though he must surely know the recipe by heart after all this time, he takes out the ancient, yellowing card on which he had written it down in his neatest, most elegant hand decades ago, and follows the directions to the well-formed letter.
Unlike the jelly, it solidifies regardless of his efforts, and England eventually has to abandon the wooden spoon he was using to stir it, leaving it sticking up like a flagpole in the centre of the pale yellow, rubbery mass.
England glares at the wall above his Aga for a while, fists clenched and breathing like a winded racehorse once more, and then stomps over to the pantry to retrieve a tin of Ambrosia custard, which, he informs Northern Ireland, is just as good as homemade.
His patience with the entire pudding-creating enterprise has clearly run out, because the tin is duly upended over the trifle bowl once he's opened it – even though the jelly still hasn't set – and he doesn't even mention the possibility of whipping some cream for the topping. Instead, he produces a can of spray cream – which he had hitherto declared barely fit to be classified as a foodstuff at all – and takes aim.
The cream, like the custard before it, immediately sinks to the bottom of the bowl, and England, with more evidence of anger than the shame he should, by rights, be feeling at this junction, hands Northern Ireland a spoon and urges him to have a taste.
Northern Ireland's stomach, normally so steadfast in the face of England's cooking, rebels at the thought, and he almost refuses, but then he catches sight of his brother's expression: his wide, hope-filled eyes, the anxious twist of his mouth.
He really is very, very weak.
He digs his spoon into the gloopy concoction, and quickly pops it into his mouth before his stomach can protest further.
It tastes like nothing more than a horribly viscous, sickeningly sweet sherry cocktail. His gorge rises, but he forces himself to swallow the disgusting monstrosity down. Forces himself, too, to say, "It's lovely," so that England's smile returns.
Privately, though, he resolves to simply buy some ice cream to round out the meal he's going to cook for Iceland. It's doubtless the far safer option.