April, 2012; Belfast, Northern Ireland
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A fortnight ago, fresh from the success of his first cooking lessons with Romano, Northern Ireland was suffused with quiet confidence regarding his abilities and certain that he would cook the more complex of the two dishes he'd been taught for Iceland's visit.
That feeling quickly dissipated, his nerves frayed, and a fretful week later he decided to err on the side of caution and make the simpler recipe instead.
This morning, he had woken in a state of near-panic, convinced that the only possible outcome of that course of action would be a horribly explosive dose of food poisoning, one which could be misconstrued as a deliberate attack of some kind and result in an unpleasant international incident that England would gleefully use as pretext to remove him back to London post-haste, as clearly he was not fit to be living on his own.
Consequently, he'd sprung immediately from bed and made a harried dash to the supermarket to buy the ingredients for shepherd's pie.
Shepherd's pie is safe. It's comforting. And, even if England does manage to do so nine times out of ten, it's almost impossible to fuck up.
Northern Ireland has already fucked up three times, in various stages of its preparation. First, he mutilated both carrots and onions beyond all recognition whilst he was chopping them, then, on his second attempt, burnt them to a crisp. The third batch browned beautifully, but then he accidentally nudged the pan's handle with his elbow and sent the whole thing crashing to the floor.
He watches the fourth batch like a hawk as they fry, because he's out of fresh vegetables now and has no wriggle room left for mistake, and wonders if this might be the true cause of England's failures in the kitchen. Not a curse laid on him in childhood by Scotland, as England insists, nor complete ineptitude, as Scotland believes, but simple performance anxiety. Maybe his hands tremble just as much as Northern Ireland's are, his heart beats just as fast, and he's so worried about getting it wrong - yet again - that he can't to do anything right.
Nevertheless, he succeeds in simmering the mince, mashing the potatoes, and thereafter constructing the pie without further incident, and gratefully rams the whole thing in the oven where he can forget about it for the next twenty-five minutes.
He picks up his phone, ostensibly to check on the time - quarter-to-seven; perfect timing despite all his setbacks - but mostly in the hope that he will have received a text or email from Iceland sending his apologies for not being able to call around, after all.
No such luck. The screen is cruelly free of any such alerts, even though Northern Ireland had been convinced that Iceland found the prospect of their evening together just as unpalatable as Northern Ireland does himself.
He certainly didn't seem particularly enthused by the idea when England had strong-armed him into agreeing to it back in February, and the few texts he and Northern Ireland have exchanged since have been fairly terse, nothing more than bare-bones negotiations about the exact date and time of their meal.
But, then again, Norway probably hadn't grabbed hold of the wrong end of the stick with quite so much vigour and enthusiasm as Wales had, and thusly blown everything so hideously out of proportion with his cooking lessons, shopping trips, and excruciating discussions of mess that the entire situation seems fraught with the potential for both misunderstandings and failure.
Whenever Northern Ireland allows himself to think about either of those things, he becomes almost overwhelmed with the desire to tuck his tail between his legs and flee to England's house and the comfort of his overbearing coddling for a few days - preferably three; the exact duration of the rest of Iceland's stay in Belfast - as he always does when his life takes a difficult turn, but, well, it's a bit late for that now.
All that remains is to distract himself before his thoughts can settle into that particular, unproductive rut once more, and to that end he makes one last tour of the flat, double-checking that it's as neat as it can be and that nothing too incriminating or embarrassing has been left out on display.
It doesn't take long, as Northern Ireland's flat is tiny, and he doesn't really have a great deal in the way of possessions, embarrassing or otherwise. All of his loose papers from work, dirty clothing, and the few unwashed mugs and plates that had escaped his cleaning spree of the previous day have been bundled together and deposited on his bed, where he's certain they will remain safely hidden behind a closed door, despite Wales' insinuations.
In the bathroom, the toilet has been scrubbed, the sink and mirror above it carefully denuded of their streaks of dried toothpaste, and he's dug out the hand towel embroidered with flax flowers that England had given him for Christmas, because it's still fluffy and spotlessly clean for never having seen the light of day since then.
The kitchenette is sparkling, due to the second round of elbow grease he'd had to apply to it after his mishap with the pan earlier, and the living room/dining room/sometime overflow wardrobe is spick and span thanks to the relocation of all of the detritus which usually litters everything that so much as resembles a flat surface. It looks as good as the day he moved in, which isn't saying much, due to his landlord's love for puce paint and floral carpets.
He'd even remembered to dust the skirting boards and along the tops of the curtain rails, so the room would probably even pass muster with England never mind Iceland, who is presumably much less likely to run his finger along them in the hopes he can find some evidence of cut corners that he can then tut over disapprovingly.
The only real fault he can detect is its scent. He'd invested in a number of air fresheners to dot about the place, in an effort to mask the teenage-boy-fustiness that Scotland insists infects the entire flat, but even though he can't smell that - and never could - there's definitely a whiff of scorched onions in the air.
He's busily applying Febreze to everything in sight when he hears a knock at the door, and he freezes for a moment, thinking that the soft hiss of the spray might have angered his large and irritable downstairs neighbour, who often lumbers around to complain about the noise he imagines Northern Ireland's making, whether he's listening to music at a near subaudible level, or quietly sitting on the sofa doing nothing at all.
He opens the door cautiously, but isn't particularly relieved to find Iceland outside it; earlier than expected, and thus depriving Northern Ireland of those vital five minutes he needed to fully resign himself to the other nation's arrival.
"One of your neighbours let me in the front door," Iceland explains in response to what Northern Ireland can only presume is his horrified look, and then, without further ceremony or any sort of explanation for his actions, thrusts a sizeable a bouquet of pink and white flowers into his hand.
Northern Ireland thanks him for them reflexively, but then finds himself at a complete loss as to what he should do next. He's never been given flowers before, or bought any for himself, so he's had no reason to furnish his flat with a vase. It seems ungrateful to just plonk them down on the kitchenette's counter, still wrapped and without water, even though that's his first instinct, but he can't think of anywhere more suitable to put them, either.
He dithers for long enough, there on the threshold and staring down at the flowers with the sort of apprehension, he's certain, better suited to someone who's been handed an unpinned grenade, that it serves to make Iceland just as uncomfortable in turn, apparently.
"I couldn't decide whether to get those or chocolates," he says, shuffling his feet diffidently. "Maybe I should have got chocolates..."
"No," Northern Ireland reassures him. "No, these are great, really. I just..." He beats a hasty retreat to the kitchenette, and begins rifling through the cupboards until he finds something of roughly the right dimensions to press into service as a makeshift vase.
Unfortunately, although the measuring jug is more than wide enough, it's far too short, and when he fills it with water and puts the flowers in, they splay wide and then droop down over the edge of it, completely ruining the arrangement.
Iceland steps close behind him, and eyes the sad display over Northern Ireland's shoulder. "Definitely should have got chocolates," is his final judgement on the matter.
"They're great," Northern Ireland reiterates, and then to put a firm end to the discussion, which he fears could become paralysingly recursive if allowed to continue any further, directs Iceland to take a seat at the small table crammed in the tight space between the end of the kitchette's tiles and the start of the sofa.
It's Iceland's turn to dither, and he hesitates before taking a seat, casting an eye towards the glowing oven. "Are you sure you don't need a hand with anything, Norður Írland?" he asks.
"No, everything's under control," Northern Ireland says, and then, because he's been because he's been practising for over a week now in anticipation for just such an opportunity, adds, "And please, call me Norður."
He wishes he could simply ask Iceland to call him North instead, but as that's akin - or so England taught him - to stripping off and waggling himself in Iceland's face at this early point in their acquaintance, he'd decided that Norður would be the next best thing. And perhaps it would have been, if he hadn't stumbled in the middle of the word and pronounced incorrectly, despite all his practise.
He flushes unhappily, expecting Iceland to take umbrage at this mangling of his language, but Iceland accepts it with nothing more than a placid nod before finally seating himself at the table.
Northern Ireland pauses for a moment to ensure that he's settled comfortably, and the offense isn't merely delayed rather than nonexistent, before moving to the kitchenette to pretend great absorption in preparing a salad whilst in actuality watching Iceland more carefully than he'd ever dare to up close.
Iceland's obviously fresh from his work, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and understatedly patterned tie, and looks far smarter and much more grown-up than Northern Ireland ever manages when he's dressed in businesswear. Granted, that's likely because none of Northern Ireland's suits fit quite right - there being a distinct gap when it comes to the tall and spindly section of the market, seemingly - and show far more of both his shirt cuffs and ankles than anyone could possibly either want or need to see, but the difference, to Northern Ireland's eye, is glaring, and it makes him suddenly and very acutely aware of his own attire.
Suddenly, acutely, and very ashamedly aware, in fact, as the shock of Iceland's premature appearance had not only robbed him of those few, all important minutes of breathing space he had been counting on, but also caused him to forget that he'd meant to at least remove his apron before greeting him.
It's a cast off from Scotland, an unwanted present handed down because one novelty apron was more than sufficient for all the cooking his brother didn't actually do, printed with a picture of the headless torso of a heavily muscled, shirtless man wearing a kilt. Northern Ireland winces at the realisation, but soldiers on, because it's too late, the damage has been done already, and it at least saves him the further indignity of splattering salad dressing all over his as yet pristine T-shirt and jeans.
As soon as the salad is dressed, though, he hurriedly throws the apron aside, and takes the bowl alongside a bottle of wine to set on the table. The wine's white, probably not the right sort to be serving with shepherd's pie, but as the only other alcohol he has in stock is cheap cider and a bottle of Scotland's favourite whisky, it seems the best choice, regardless, especially as it had been a gift from France, and is presumably a decent vintage as a result.
Pouring out two glasses and belatedly scavenging up a couple of spoons to take the place of the serving utensils he doesn't own, neatly fills the remaining cooking time of the shepherd's pie without more than a couple of words having to be exchanged between Iceland and him, which Northern Ireland is thankful for, and dishing out two portions of the pie silently kills a few more minutes.
Iceland stares at his plate with what looks to be surprise when Northern Ireland puts the plate in front of him, which makes Northern Ireland a little nervous, and prompts him to take a closer look at it himself, fearing that he might have overlooked some raw spots or charring.
Eventually, Iceland shoots him a small, crooked smile, and admits, "I was expecting pasta."
"Oh," Northern Ireland says, feeling a little guilty now for disappointing him. "I guess England told you about the cooking lessons, then?"
And also a little embarrassed again, both because England had made his thoughts on those lessons abundantly clear - pique that Northern Ireland had felt it necessary to go to Romano for them when England was right there, ready and willing, featured heavily - and because he's sure they make it appear that he had put far more stock in this evening than he ever had in reality, when in reality it had all been Wales' fault.
Iceland nods, but then says, "This looks good, though."
Nonetheless, he waits until Northern Ireland has taken a bite until trying one of his own, doubtless assuming, in spite of England's assurances, that Northern Ireland's culinary skills are just as lacking as his brother's.
When that bite neither kills him nor sends him retching for the toilet bowl, he digs into the rest eagerly enough. Once he's devoured a decent portion of it, he pauses to wet his mouth with the wine, and then asks, "How are they going? Your lessons?"
"Okay, I guess," Northern Ireland says. "Romano shouts a lot, but I'm used to that with England. It's better than having them with France, anyway. We tried that once, and he just looked really disappointed in me whenever I did something wrong. That's worse."
Which is exactly how Wales managed to force Northern Ireland to agree to the lessons in the first place. He's got disappointment down to a fine art.
Iceland smiles slightly again, then resumes demolishing the pie, leaving Northern Ireland floundering with no idea how to continue their conversation from this tentatively auspicious start. He doubts Iceland would be interested to hear about the exact composition of flour, oil, and eggs required to make pasta dough, and Northern Ireland's continued inability to replicate the same, and so he says nothing, and returns to the stolid security of England's etiquette rules once more for inspiration.
'You could ask them about their job. Their hobbies, maybe? And if you're desperate, there's always the weather.'
The weather is, as ever, a refuge only to be sought in the very direst of circumstances, and Northern Ireland isn't there quite yet. Hobbies have already proved themselves to be a dead end.
Job it will have to be.
"How was the consulate?" he asks, which, amazingly, proves to be the right decision, as the subject prompts Iceland to talk about the events of his day; haltingly, but in enough detail that it carries them through not only the rest of the shepherd's pie, but a full glass of wine each, as well.
In the silence that follows, though, the continued, unsatisfied rumbles of Northern Ireland's stomach remind him that he'd omitted a very important step from his otherwise diligent planning. The matter of dessert.
Normally, he would gorge himself on chocolate after a meal until the remainder of his hunger pangs are quelled, but, even though he has a packet of Flakes in the cupboard and a box of Magnums in the freezer, he has the feeling that neither are fit for purpose.
No, some kind of pudding is what's called for here, or perhaps a cake, and he only has one of those in the flat.
It takes him a long while to decide whether being seen as an inadequate host, or inflicting that on Iceland, is the worst evil.
Graciousness eventually wins out.
He presents England's fruit cake - which has also remained untouched since Christmas - without comment, and Iceland regards it with exactly the right degree of suspicion, namely considerable.
"Did... Did you make this, too?" he asks, with what sounds to be forced interest.
Northern Ireland shakes his head. "England did." He taps it with the end of his knife, which connects with a strangely hollow thumping noise. "They're usually edible. Sometimes, they're better as decoration, though."
Iceland squints at the cake again. It's sporting one of England's more inept icing jobs - lumpy, discoloured, vaguely smelling of fish - which hardly inspires a great deal confidence about what might be lurking beneath.
"I..." Iceland swallows heavily. "I'm all right, actually. Couldn't eat another bite."
Which is the more sensible choice, admittedly, but it does leave Northern Ireland without any remaining inspiration of how best to proceed. He could, perhaps, suggest they watch a film or play Call of Duty, but that's so far off script that he's reluctant to do so. Drinks and conversation; England has always been adamant that they're what should follow a shared meal. Neither sounds appealing: Northern Ireland's done hobbies, jobs, and commiserated with Iceland about the sudden downpour that soaked him through on his lunch hour, and his alcohol tolerance is shite; if he has another glass of wine, he'll be a boneless, giggling lump by the bottom of it.
There's nothing left, and Iceland appears to sense his desperation, because he begins to shift restlessly in his chair, glances at his phone, and then says, "I should be getting back to my hotel. I have some documents I need to prepare for tomorrow, so..."
He looks chagrined, obviously worried that Northern Ireland will be insulted by this obviously fabricated excuse, but Northern Ireland is overjoyed to hear it. Granted, the past hour or so could have gone far worse - and had, whenever he'd played it through in his mind beforehand - but he's exhausted his options now, and an end to it all is nothing but a relief.
"No problem. Thanks for coming," he says, and, "We'll have to do it again some time," because it's the polite thing to say.
And it's the polite thing to do to walk Iceland to the door, and when Iceland loiters there momentarily to ask, "Would you like to join me for lunch tomorrow?", it's only polite to answer, "Sure."
Damn England and his fucking ridiculous rules of politeness.