18th February, 2012; Berlin, Germany
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Following the whole matchmaking nonsense with France, Wales had decided that Northern Ireland needed to spend more time with nations who weren't family.
'You should get to know more of our kind,' he'd said. 'You don't want to end up like me, do you?'
Whilst the possibility of ending up having to settle for a horrible boyfriend like Wales' was enough to make anyone pause and seriously reconsider their life choices, Northern Ireland had carefully weighed up the pros and cons, and decided he couldn't be arsed. Dealing with the dysfunctional chaos of people he was actually related to and therefore couldn't avoid was stressful enough, and he couldn't see how adding more variables to that could do anything other than make things worse.
Telling Wales it was a crap idea and he didn't want to do it was easy enough, because the only fallout from doing so was that Wales got a little mopey, looking at Northern Ireland with huge, sad eyes which seemed to say, 'You're breaking my heart here, North'. What Wales' mouth had snapped in an extremely pissy tone, though, was, 'It was only a bloody suggestion', because not even Wales went around actually saying stuff like that out loud.
Unfortunately for Northern Ireland, word of Wales' suggestion got back to England, and refusing him had far direr consequences than feeling a little guilty that Wales might well go and have a bit of a cry later because he felt like a shite older brother. There would be shouting, and the dredging up of ancient transgressions as leverage, and perhaps, if he got frustrated enough, the playing of England's trump card: having the long-threatened conversation with their boss, wherein he would be informed that England thought Northern Ireland was far too young to be fending for himself so much, and wouldn't it be better if he moved back into England's house full time?
And so almost before England could finish saying, 'Well, I think it's a splendid idea', Northern Ireland had found himself here in Berlin, waiting outside some blocky monstrosity of Seventies architecture for Scotland and Wales to turn up, and about to be subjected to almost twelve hours of Pan-European cultural exchange which a cabal of their bosses had decided was a good way to promote unity and understanding, or some such crap.
"Cheer up," England says after he and Northern Ireland have been standing by the conference centre's main entrance for what feels like at least half an hour. "It'll be fun."
Which would be more convincing if England didn't sound like he was spitting up the words because they tasted of bile, and if Northern Ireland had perhaps just met him on the street and was thus completely unaware that there were very few things England enjoyed less than being forced to mingle and take part in 'planned activities'.
"No it won't," Northern Ireland says, rolling his eyes.
England's brows descend, and a keen light kindles in the depths of his eyes which heralds the approach of one of his fiercer glares. Thankfully, Scotland's noisy arrival distracts England sufficiently that Northern Ireland's spared the full brunt of the glare when it finally ignites, as it quickly swings in Scotland's direction instead.
"Fuck off, England," Scotland responds brightly, insulated from the glare's full power both by what smells like a particularly thick protective layer of alcohol, even though it's not even noon, and his general indifference to being the focus of England's ire. Sometimes, Northern Ireland is a little bit in awe of Scotland.
Wales, on the other hand, smiles apologetically at England as he trails in behind Scotland, and then offers Northern Ireland a sympathetic look, because Wales is never anything less than scrupulously impartial when circumstances allow.
"Sorry, Lloegr," he says, "we -"
"Got lost walking the few hundred feet from our hotel?" England finishes for him, a flush slowly creeping up his neck from beneath his collar. "Were kidnapped and forced at gunpoint to go to a pub, maybe?"
"Fucking hell," Scotland says, the broad smile he had greeted them with eroding with astonishing rapidity. "It was a couple of pints. You don't expect me to face this thing sober, do you?"
"I hope you're not planning on over-indulging." England's voice is low and strained, sounding very much like he's about to have an attack of the vapours.
Sometimes, England treats them all as though they're a collective embarrassing uncle; the type who would get shitfaced at weddings, try to start a fight with the groom, creep on the bridesmaids, and then throw up on the back of the bride's dress. Northern Ireland finds England's hypocritical primness regarding their behaviour a constant source of black amusement, but it never fails to piss Scotland off, probably because he resents being lectured on his manners by his little brother.
Scotland's smile disappears completely, replaced by an ugly scowl. "Don't even start with that crap, England. It's not as if you won't be flat on your back in a corner somewhere a couple of hours in, blubbering about America. Even now, like you never even -"
"Right," Wales says, clapping his hands together, his voice upbeat and over-loud, "shouldn't we be getting a move on?"
The interruption visibly startles both Scotland and England, and they take a step back from each other. Their backs, which had begun arching like a cat's does as it defends its territory, slowly relax, and Scotland unclenches his right hand from the fist it had formed.
The four of them stand in silence for a moment, carefully not making eye contact, until Scotland finally says, "I'm going to stick out like a fucking sore thumb, aren't I, seeing as though I'm the only one who bothered to get dressed up for this thing."
Their invitations had asked that they wear their national costumes, but Northern Ireland had refused, England technically didn't have one (and the unofficial one he did have would have made him look like a complete cock), and Wales had (very conveniently, Northern Ireland thinks) forgotten to pack anything suitable.
Scotland needs no excuse to wear a kilt, however, and is proudly decked out in the Black Watch tartan one he usually wears as part of his formal Highland suit, though he's paired it instead with his walking boots and a black T-shirt with a small hole at the top where the collar's parting company with the rest of the fabric. France will no doubt give Scotland grief about that, but Northern Ireland suspects his exasperation is destined to be short lived.
France had got very, very drunk at Christmas, blocked Northern Ireland's escape from the dining room, and then subjected him to a lengthy exultation of the finer qualities of kilts, which started at 'easy access' and only went downhill from there. By the end, Northern Ireland had been quite willing to die if it meant he would have no memory of what had been said, but despite his fervent prayers, he still remembers every word.
He can only hope that France is able to restrain himself from showing his appreciation until he gets Scotland back to the hotel.
-
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Whoever decorated the cavernous function room certainly hasn't scrimped on the flags.
They're everywhere: hanging off the back of chairs, sprouting in clumps out of plant pots, and covering almost every square inch of the sterile beige walls. Even the optics at the bar are draped with bunting made out of tiny triangular flags. It is, quite frankly, a bit of an eyesore.
"What do you fancy, Mikey?" Scotland asks, leaning across the bar so he can better see how the glass fronted fridges behind it are stocked. "They've got British beer, Danish, German..." He nods decisively at the last, because clearly the question had been a red herring, and Northern Ireland didn't really have a choice after all. "We'll have two of those, please," he says to the barman, pointing at the bottles instead of asking for them by name, presumably because he can't pronounce it.
Northern Ireland's beer is intercepted by England, who appears out of nowhere (seriously nowhere; he hadn't been anywhere in view before he suddenly materialised at Northern Ireland's side) to snatch the bottle out of the barman's hand.
"You're too young for that," he says chidingly, even though Northern Ireland's been drinking for decades back home with his knowledge (if not his enthusiastic approval), and by his own admission, England himself used to put whiskey in Northern Ireland's milk to knock him out when he was a baby. "You can have lemonade or something."
"Give it him back, Wart," Scotland says, his tone exasperated. "It's a bit late to start trying to fool anyone you're anything other than a fucking terrible role model. I'm sure no-one will faint away with shock if they find out we let him drink."
England's scoffs dismissively - which is pretty much proof positive that Scotland had got his motivation spot on - and passes the bottle back to Northern Ireland, probably because he cares more about proving Scotland wrong than he ever could proving the contrary to the rest of Europe.
"Just the one, mind, Michael; I don't want to be carrying you out of here at the end of the night," he says with a familiar sort of forced joviality that sounds far more threatening to Northern Ireland than any stern tone ever could. Before England turns to leave again, he gives Scotland and Northern Ireland each a sheet of paper with an equally ominous-sounding, "This is the schedule for the day's events."
"There's a schedule?" Scotland's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Jesus Christ."
Northern Ireland quickly skims over the list, which seems to consist mainly of such delights as demonstrations of traditional basket weaving, and performances of folk music; the sort of thing that will make every minute stretch out like an hour. He can tell that Scotland's reached the end of the page when a low groan drifts up from beside him.
"Two hours of dancing?" he says, sounding pained. "Well, at least they don't expect us to take part." There's a small pause as he reads the rest of the final bullet point. "Oh, they do. Fucking fantastic. Why the hell did I agree to come here?"
"Because you're so far under the thumb that it's a wonder you can move," Northern Ireland says, but quietly, so Scotland can't hear. Some things need to be said, but they don't need to be said loudly enough that they risk him getting his arse kicked. "I was press-ganged into it," he adds at a slightly higher volume, "you have no excuse."
Scotland snorts. "You think England's bad? He's got nothing on France when he's got his heart set on something. Nothing at all."
-
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Northern Ireland has found the perfect spot to hide away from the display of clog making, concealed by an enormous Norwegian flag that has come unfixed from its moorings at the top, and is slowly peeling away from the wall. For the moment, it forms a handy sort of tent as it drapes across the table beneath it, in which Northern Ireland can sit and drink his beer with only one hand and part of one leg sticking out sufficiently that they might betray his position if anyone cared to look from just the right angle.
What makes his quiet sanctuary even more perfect is that he can still see the far end of the room, near the bar, where Wales seems to be having an argument with his horrible boyfriend, which is far more entertaining than clogs. He can't hear the obviously harsh words they're exchanging, so he fills them in with how he thinks one of their private conversations might go.
'I'm a complete and utter wanker,' he imagines Wales' horrible boyfriend saying, because he is, and Northern Ireland's sure it would do him good to admit that. 'Remember how I was a total arse at Hogmanay, and poor Northern Ireland and England missed half of the party because I pissed Scotland off so badly that he wanted to punch me, and they had to drag him out to the garage to calm down? Which took three hours, because that's how awful I am.'
Real Wales touches his horrible boyfriend on the arm with far more gentleness than he's entitled to, and imaginary Wales says, 'They like freezing their tits off standing around in an unheated room in the middle of winter. That's how they celebrate! It had nothing to do with you,' because any Wales, regardless of his degree of corporeality, is too nice for his own good.
But because Wales' boyfriend is horrible, and an arse, and a wanker, he shrugs off Wales' hand, then stomps away scowling, hopefully to inflict his awfulness on someone more deserving of it than Northern Ireland's brother. Wales looks inexplicably morose as he watches him leave, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.
It only lasts for a moment, however, before Wales straightens up, grabs another drink from the bar, and then makes a beeline straight for Northern Ireland's hideout, which obviously isn't quite so secret as he had assumed.
"Sometimes I wonder why I bother," Wales says with a lopsided smile when he slumps onto the seat next to Northern Ireland.
Northern Ireland never stops wondering why Wales bothers, but he hesitates to ask his brother to explain what the hell's going on in his head, because he's scared the answer might have something to do with sex, and he still hasn't quite recovered from the last time they had talked about that.
A couple of years back, when Northern Ireland was staying over in Cardiff, he had found a heavy chest tucked under Wales' bed. He hadn't thought twice about opening it, because most chests in Wales' house were simply home to sentimental knick-knacks, and Northern Ireland had been bored enough at the time that listening to Wales drone on about the meaning he imbued his keepsakes with actually seemed like it might be an improvement.
The chest hadn't contained locks of hair and fading sepia photographs, however. It was filled to the brim with things made out of brightly coloured rubber, and leather, and straps, and so on, which made Northern Ireland cry out reflexively in dismayed alarm. He was still blinking in shock when Wales came skidding into the room, face pale and obviously convinced that some dreadful fate had befallen him.
And later, even though Wales was blushing so hard that he looked as if he might catch on fire, he had insisted that they sit down together and have a frank discussion about sex in the light of Northern Ireland's discovery. Northern Ireland had been too dazed at the time to put up an argument, because, although there wasn't anything in the chest he hadn't seen in action countless times before on the internet, his brain refused to accept that they belonged to Wales. Wales who looks like an affable fucking geography teacher or something, and, to Northern Ireland's mind, people who look like geography teachers don't have enormous collections of sex toys. They just don't; especially if they're Northern Ireland's big brother. It had turned his entire worldview upside down, and it taken him quite some time to adjust. So he bites his tongue and doesn't comment, and eventually Wales sighs.
"He'll calm down soon enough," he says; cheerfully, like that's something he's actually looking forward to.
Northern Ireland despairs of him.