Northern Ireland is so engrossed in deliberating between taking another helping of pierogies or polenta (or perhaps both?), that he doesn't sense he's no longer alone until a quiet, "Nord," is purred into his ear.
The low murmur resonates with something deep in Northern Ireland's hindbrain, triggering his fight or flight response, but as he's trapped between the buffet table ahead and to the sides and France behind, and his only weapon is a plate heaped high with pasta and meatballs, neither seems a particularly viable response.
"Yes?" he tries instead, for a lack of any other options. His voice cracks somewhere around the middle of the word, making the rest sound a little strained and embarrassingly squeaky.
"I'd like you to come with me," France says, all hushed and silky, and fuck, fuck, Ireland had warned him this might happen one day.
Well, she hadn't warned him exactly. It had been the end of a very long, very alcohol filled evening, and Northern Ireland had been nodding off, slumped against Wales' shoulder because the beer seemed to have dissolved all of his bones, when she'd told their brother, 'I think he's aiming to collect the full set one day, you know. It's two down, three to go, and you're probably next on his list, seeing as though you're less likely to rip his bollocks off than England.'
Wales had laughed, assured her that he'd be on his guard, and Northern Ireland had very briefly been disturbed by the intimation that Ireland had at some point slept with France before becoming distracted by far weightier concerns: to whit, how to reconcile his need for a piss with the fact that he could no longer feel his legs.
He hasn't given that overheard conversation a second thought until now, because there's never been any prior indication that France thinks of him as anything other than a child. He's just as inveterate a hair-ruffler as Scotland, and will even, on occasion, feel the need to pinch Northern Ireland cheeks (which hurts, because Northern Ireland doesn't exactly have a cushioning excess of cheek), and coo about how 'cute' he is, in a syrupy tone usually reserved for kittens and babies. He tells Northern Ireland off when he's slouching, tuts over the state of his clothes or the length of his hair, and lectures him about smoking with almost as much conversionary zeal as England does.
And because Northern Ireland hasn't given it a second thought, he's never considered what he might do if that view were ever to change. He should have been studying England, whose ability to rebuff France's advances has been honed down to a fine art over the centuries, instead of naively believing he'd never have to learn.
He didn't, though, so all he can think of to say is, "I haven't finished my lunch yet," which, although it might be the truth, is probably not something France would consider an insurmountable obstacle strewn across the path of his pursuit.
In fact, he clears it without even breaking his stride, pointing out, "You've already eaten two full plates."
"And I have room left for thirds," Northern Ireland insists, because there is still that small space stomach remaining; the space he's sure would be filled neatly by pasta and meatballs, and pierogies and/or polenta.
France chuckles in a breathy way that Northern Ireland thinks sounds vaguely obscene; not the sort of chuckle that someone should be using in a public place, and definitely not the sort someone should be directing towards their boyfriend's little brother. "I don't know where you put it all."
Northern Ireland has heard that particular line too many times to count, usually delivered by England as he mournfully contemplates the barren state of his fridge. His reply, therefore, is both defensive and reflexive. "I'm a growing lad."
England typically rebuts that Northern Ireland hasn't even grown an inch in the last three years, and perhaps he might like to consider the fact that he could just be greedy? (Doesn't he know that England's not made of money? And yet another trip to fucking Waitrose wasn't how he'd been planning on spending his Saturday, North.)
France, however, simply hums in a sceptical sounding way, and the skin at the small of Northern Ireland's back starts to prickle uncomfortably, suggesting that France is more than likely looking at his arse.
There's not much to see, as Northern Ireland seems to be unlucky enough to have inherited England's flat arse along with his knobbly knees, but the principle's the same. France shouldn't be going around looking at other people's arses. Usually, when he did, it would ping Scotland's radar if he was somewhere in the vicinity, causing him to hurry over so he could loom, and scowl, and generally look like it would make his day if he got to feed someone their own teeth.
But Scotland's radar must be faulty for once, because he doesn't appear in time to stop France from curling his fingers around Northern Ireland's wrist. "Nord, I want –"
"Fucking hell, France," Northern Ireland shakes his arm free, and whirls around to face the other nation; feeling desperate enough to stop stalling and simply be blunt, "you're my brother-in-law."
"What?" France's expression shifts – his smile flattening out, and the skin around his eyes tightening – reshaping itself into something a little wilder looking that Northern Ireland hopes reflects a twinge of guilt. "I'm not… I'm not your brother-in-law."
He says the term with enough horrified disgust that it might as well be a swear word, which suggests his reaction isn't so much born of guilt as consternation about the institution its usage implies. It's not exactly the result Northern Ireland was hoping for, but, he thinks as France takes a sudden step backwards as though the thought of getting hitched to Scotland has sent him reeling, it is something he can work with.
"Maybe not yet," he says, shuffling forward himself now France has given him a little room to manoeuvre. Just a few more inches, and he'll be able to make a break for it without first having to knock France onto his arse. "But I've seen Scotland looking longingly at the ring displays in jeweller's windows a time or two, you know."
"You have?" France asks, his face slowly draining of all colour.
Northern Ireland nods vigorously, even though he's never seen anything of the sort. He doesn't feel too bad for the deception, however, because he wouldn't be surprised to discover that Scotland did do that sort of thing when he was on his own, along with doodling 'Mr and Mr République Française' in the margins of his notes to kill time in boring meetings and other such nonsense, because he was that far gone. He'd never actually ask, though, Northern Ireland is sure of that.
Nevertheless, he says, "He'll probably pop the question any day now. That's how much he likes you. So imagine how devastated he'd be if he found out you'd be hitting on me."
"Hitting on…" France's stumbling retreat stops dead, and he lets out a short bark of laughter. "I'm not 'hitting on' you, Nord."
"You're not?" The sense of relief is enormous, albeit still not all-encompassing. "What do you want, then?"
"I simply wanted to introduce you to some of the other nations. That is why you're here, isn't it?"
"That's why England forced me to come," Northern Ireland amends. A little more of his tension drains away. "And I really don't want to get set up with anyone, France."
France waves the clarification away easily, as though it was something not even worth considering. "I told your brother I wouldn't, didn't I? If it sets your mind at ease, Scotland and Cymru made a point of extracting the same promise from me, too."
It does, and Northern Ireland's relief can complete itself. It does have a small pang of guilt trailing at its heels, however. "Me and Wales do call you our brother-in-law, but it's just a bit of a joke," he offers, "because it feels like you are sometimes. Scotland's not going to propose." 'As far as I know,' remains unsaid, because he's supposed to be soothing France's fears, after all.
The breadth of France's smile suggests he feels just as relieved as Northern Ireland.
-
-
Northern Ireland had hoped that France might start out small; take him to meet a nation that he knows a little already, and work up from there. Like Spain, perhaps, who is a sort of in-law, too, and whom Northern Ireland has made awkward conversation with on a couple of occasions when England had been strong-armed into using a rather broader, more inclusive definition of 'family' than he'd prefer for some of their recent family functions.
France didn't even pause as they passed by the table Spain was sharing with Portugal, however. Apparently, France's sights were set a little higher, and the fact that Northern Ireland actually likes Portugal and would have enjoyed chatting with her for a while would have made things far too easy.
No, France was making a determined line straight for Germany, to whom Northern Ireland had said about three words in his entire life.
A couple of decades back, England had been seized by a sudden and mercifully short-lived desire that Northern Ireland should start accompanying him to meetings to improve his understanding of the political process. They'd managed one G-8 and one World meeting before England gave up on the whole thing, presumably because he was so sick of Northern Ireland whinging about being bored (Northern Ireland considered it one of his more successful plans, even if it was originally Scotland's idea).
Northern Ireland had come away from the experience convinced of three things: one, that he hadn't needed to act a great deal, as the meetings were even more boring than he'd been led to believe; two, that it really was damn near impossible to get a decent cup of tea on the continent; and three, that Germany was very, very intimidating.
Less intimidating, it turns out, when wearing lederhosen – because leather shorts are a great leveller – but he still doesn't exactly look approachable, standing there alone, reading a poster detailing the various breads of Europe with all the intensity of someone studying for a test.
"He looks busy, France," Northern Ireland says. "Maybe we should come back later."
"Nonsense," France says, linking his arm through Northern Ireland's to guide his faltering steps. Perhaps he'd heard the, 'Or not at all,' Northern Ireland had thought but assumed wouldn't seep into his voice. "He'll be delighted to see us."
He doesn't look particularly delighted when he turns away from the poster at France's cry of, "Allemagne!" In fact, Northern Ireland's sure he sees a brief flash of irritation pass across Germany's face, quickly smoothed away behind a mask of polite interest, which doesn't exactly fill him with confidence for the conversation ahead.
"Frankreich," Germany says, nodding towards France in acknowledgement. All Northern Ireland receives, however, is a slightly apologetic smile which suggests that Germany doesn't recognise him.
"This is Nord," France says, obviously forgetting that no-one outside the family calls Northern Ireland that, and the nickname will mean absolutely nothing to Germany. "Angleterre's brother."
Despite the small, confused furrow that appears at Germany's brow, bespeaking a measure of mental calculation, it's not particularly advanced mathematics ('England' + 'Brother who's going out with France' + 'Brother who broke Nice Italy's nose' = 'Great Britain'; 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' – 'Great Britain' = 'Northern Ireland'), and so he quickly arrives at the answer, "Nordirland?"
"Hi," Northern Ireland holds out his hand, and it is shaken firmly if somewhat perfunctorily, dropped after a couple of heartbeat's contact.
Unfortunately, England's many etiquette lessons hadn't really prepared Northern Ireland for a great deal beyond the initial handshake at these sorts of occasions. He does know that now is the time for small talk, but England had never been able to furnish him with a wealth of suitable topics to chose from, given that he's hardly the most skilled of raconteurs himself.
('You could ask them about their job,' he remembers his brother saying, face screwed tight in such deep concentration that it looked rather more like Northern Ireland had actually asked him to recall pi to thirty decimal places, instead. "Their hobbies, maybe? And if you're desperate, there's always the weather.')
Northern Ireland can't exactly ask Germany what he does for a living, it's very unlikely they share any hobbies in common, and weather's a home thing – he doubts anyone could be as fascinated with the damn stuff as the British – so he's pretty much shit out of ideas.
Thankfully, France steps into the breach, starting on about his issues with some new EU policy; one which England's told Northern Ireland is a little contentious, and France apparently has a particular bee in his bonnet over.
As Germany's eyes glaze over, Northern Ireland begins to suspect that he has, in all probability, heard this entire spiel about a hundred times before, and would very much have liked to get through his day without hearing it again. It would certainly explain his quickly-concealed look of irritation when he first saw them. Northern Ireland also suspects that France had used introducing them merely as an excuse to create an opportunity to bang on about it once more, because poor Germany could hardly have ignored them even if he'd wanted to without looking like a massive wanker.
Although Northern Ireland does feel a certain amount of sympathy for Germany, it certainly isn't great enough that he wishes France would shut up. This way, at least, neither of them is going to either notice or care if he has nothing to contribute to the conversation.