Another long-stalled WIP finally completed. At least it didn't take me four years to finish this time (although, admittedly, it is only a month off being four years...).
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As England has the shark-like ability to pick out a single molecule of cigarette smoke from a whole cloud of deodorant/air freshener/breath spray, no matter how recently or liberally applied, one of the things that Northern Ireland had most been looking forward to concerning his relocation to a flat hundreds of miles away was the freedom to light up whenever and wherever he liked.
He had expected to be puffing away like a chimney and/or Wales within days, but instead discovered that, absent the necessary subterfuge required to maintain his infrequent habit right under England's preternaturally sensitive nose, its attraction declined precipitously.
Nowadays, it's something he only indulges in if he's more bored or anxious than usual, or so socially exhausted that he needs to sequester himself for a while to recuperate.
As the morning had been generous enough with its shittiness that he'd already reached his comfortable limit on all three criteria not ten minutes after his prolonged lunch was finally concluded, liberating a packet of fags from Wales' lackadaisical possession and fleeing into solitude with them the moment his brothers were distracted by a particularly loud bit of culture happening nearby had seemed like the only sensible option.
He retreats to the relative safety of the conference centre's car park, and then yet further to its far limit where, he hopes, distance will render him near invisible even if England does decide to pop his head out the front door in search of some 'fresh air' (read: a clandestine calming cigarette of his own, because he's an enormous hypocrite). Once he's settled himself in relative comfort atop the encircling low perimeter wall and behind the shielding bulk of a ridiculously oversized Mercedes, he smokes two cigarettes in quick succession.
After his head has stopped spinning and the urge to vomit has passed, he smokes the third at a more leisurely pace, taking the opportunity to work on perfecting his smoke rings.
It's a tricky undertaking, demanding precise timing, careful breath control, and so much of his concentration that he doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until they're far too close for him to retain even a speck of plausible deniability.
Even so, he launches the half-smoked cigarette away from him with a quick, reflexive jerk of his right hand, and starts fanning his left in front of his face in a desperately futile attempt to clear the fogged air around it.
"Don't panic," a voice says; warm and tinged with iniquitous amusement. "It's all right. It's only me."
Ireland has a very odd definition of 'all right'. Northern Ireland can't imagine any circumstances short of absolute catastrophe that would lead her to voluntarily seek out his company.
His stomach tightens in nervy anticipation, and he barks out, "What the hell do you want?"
"To make your life miserable, of course. Or," Ireland perches herself on the wall next to him, an uneasy handsbreadth away, "perhaps I just wanted to talk to you."
She has pretended not to see him on so many occasions – up to and including the time they were seated opposite each other at an official dinner – to avoid doing just that that Northern Ireland can't imagine her suggestion is meant as anything other than a joke. He laughs.
Ireland does not. Her face pinches with a tight, thoughtful-looking frown, and Northern Ireland's stomach churns anew with an entirely different sort of fear. She is, he thinks, steeling herself for one of her sporadic attempts at being sisterly.
He has never quite been able to recognise the Ireland that Scotland and Wales seem to know – who is, according to them, both a great comfort and dispenser of sage advice – in the one of his acquaintance, who struggles to think of anything to say to him and avoids physical contact with him just as assiduously as if his body were entirely constructed from acid-dipped razorblades.
Their 'talks' have always been excruciatingly awkward on both sides, and Northern Ireland is convinced that they are, one and all, embarked upon for reasons of political expediency, as they sure as hell don't get anything out of them personally.
"I think it would good for you to get to know more nations," Ireland says eventually, staring down at her hands.
Or for reasons of England, apparently.
If there's one thing Northern Ireland admires about Ireland, it's her ability to aggressively yet cheerfully ignore their brother's (many) demands, but he can scarcely credit any explanation other than her surrender to at least one of them now.
"I know plenty," he says defensively. Whilst the revelation that she can be as weak to such things as the rest of them inspires a certain amount of pity, it's not sufficient to inspire him towards an agreement against his best interests.
"Family doesn't count," Ireland says.
"Fine," Northern Ireland huffs. "Then there's the weans..."
"Technically, also family."
"And Portugal and France..."
"Might as well be family."
Which is nothing more than blatantly unfair goalpost shifting. Northern Ireland scowls at his sister, but she ignores him.
"So what you're saying," she continues, "is that you wouldn't see anybody at all if England wasn't around to arrange all his little get togethers and parties."
There's a cashier at Northern Ireland's local supermarket who knows him well enough that she actually seems interested in his answer when she asks how he's doing, and he's on nodding terms with all of his nearest neighbours.
"No," he says firmly. "There are some humans I'm friendly with."
Ireland sighs. "And that's a good thing, too. But you can't rely on your people to be... to be everything to you. You'll just end up heartbroken. Surely Wales has taught you that by now?"
"Aye, but I've never had any intentions of dating them. Scotland seems to do okay being friends with them, though, right?"
"He does," Ireland agrees, "but what's he going to do five years down the line? Or ten? There's only so long people will be fooled into thinking that he's just ageing really, really well. He'll have to pack up and start again eventually when the rumours and questions start up, as they invariably do.
"But you don't have to do that with our own kind, and they can understand you in a way that no-one else will ever be able to."
Logically, Northern Ireland understands that to be true, but he has never been able to persuade himself to believe it.
He's never found the courage to admit it even to Wales – to whom he has confessed some truly humiliating things – but other nations don't even have to be Germany in order to intimidate him; they manage to do so just by existing.
He's always so aware that he doesn't have the centuries of shared history most of the rest of them do, that often slender thread of commonality that has bound them together even through years of bloodshed, hatred, and violent separation. It ties them into a tight circle that he can't conceive of a way to break into.
It makes him feel like an interloper. It makes him feel like a child.
Ireland sighs again, twice as wearily. "Well, you could give it a try, at least," she says. "If not for me, then for Scotland. I know he's just as sick and tired of hearing France and England whinge about it as I am."
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In the end, Northern Ireland doesn't try for Ireland's sake, or Scotland's, but his own, just to prove that he can.
Admittedly, he doesn't try very hard, but sitting down in the middle of the small crowd that has gathered to listen to the tuneless warblings of a folk singer when he returns to the function room seems like a kind of victory nevertheless.
He endeavours to appear as amiable and approachable as he can, though that just serves as fresh confirmation that his face isn't just blighted by an unfairly close resemblance to Scotland's own but his brother's unfortunate affliction of murderous intent around the eyes, too.
Not one nation even glances his way, much less attempts to strike up a conversation with him.
Consequently, he widens his smile until his eyes begin to smart. It feels unnatural, like his muscles simply aren't designed to stretch in such a way, and, on the evidence of the faintly horrified look Wales shoots him from across the aisle between their seats, its appearance isn't much better, either.
He gratefully turns it down a notch.
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In the blessed lull between the droopily moustached guitarist leaving the makeshift stage and the threat of the accordion-abusing trio to come, Northern Ireland becomes uncomfortably aware that his nearest neighbour in this musical hell is staring at him.
As Northern Ireland had given up on his painful efforts at geniality some time ago and thus likely no longer looks as though he's being repeatedly kicked in the bollocks by some kind of malicious, unseen force, he can think of only one justification for the intense scrutiny.
"Northern Ireland," he therefore says, in a bid to save Iceland the bother of the same mental arithmetic that Germany had had to perform a couple of hours before.
Iceland's eyes widen a fraction in a way that is equally familiar. They had first (and last) met one another almost fifty years ago, and he's doubtless trying to reconcile the memory of the short, scrawny nation who was still wearing short trousers with the reality of the tall, scrawny nation to whom anything approaching shorts are an anathema because they have knees that look like someone's viciously attacked them with a lump hammer.
"I grew up really, really fast," Northern Ireland offers by way of an apology for have inflicted this cognitive dissonance upon him unprepared.
Iceland blinks slowly. "Yes," he says after another short pause, and then, after a second, holds his hand out to be shaken. "I'm Island."
Northern Ireland experiences a moment of uncertainty of his own. Although he's a virtual stranger both to Iceland and most of the other nations in the room, he knows each of them as intimately as England's stories and his tireless chronicling of the minutiae of his life via a camera lens will allow.
He had recognised Iceland instantly, but is unsure whether or not it would be creepy to admit that. On the one hand, he would probably seem wilfully ignorant if he were to pretend otherwise, but on the other...
The other hand appears to have learnt England's etiquette lessons better than the rest of him, as it reaches out of its own accord and grasps Iceland's. His more indecorous brain and mouth, however, can only summon up a weak, "Hi."
That paltry offering receives a nod of acknowledgement but fails to disrupt Iceland's staring in any appreciable way. In fact, it only serves to redirect his gaze, and instead of a puzzled fixation upon his face, it begins to slowly wander down Northern Ireland's body in a way that he would find disquieting had Iceland not distracted him soon afterwards by saying, "You're not wearing your national costume."
"Don't have one," Northern Ireland says, and the lie seemingly satisfies Iceland at last because he quickly breaks the clasp of their hands and turns back to face the stage once more.
Northern Ireland lets out his nervously caught breath in a sigh of relief. He can now tell his brothers, Ireland, France and anyone else that felt obliged to poke their nose in his affairs that he had successfully conversed with another nation, and hopefully the matter can then be put to rest for at least another decade or two.
Beyond the mild embarrassment that usually follows any interaction he has with someone unrelated to him, he feels almost proud of himself.
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Whilst he and Iceland do not speak another word to each other throughout the rest of the so-called concert, Iceland does roll his eyes in Northern Ireland's direction at every sour note, which emboldens Northern Ireland to share a smirk with him whenever he comprehends a song's lyrics well enough to realise how trite they are.
After the last appalling act has finally shambled off-stage to the accompaniment of a polite smattering of applause, Wales pops up at Northern Ireland's elbow to invite Iceland to eat his dinner with them.
Given the broadness of his smile and the significant looks he keeps shooting towards Northern Ireland, it's horribly evident that he has been observing them from afar, mistaken their sympatico of musical disdain for some deeper connection, and therefore thinks he's doing Northern Ireland a great favour by extending the invitation he is surely too shy to give himself.
Northern Ireland's own look is meant to convey that this idea is, to date, the very worst Wales has ever had and he should recant it immediately, but it's either woefully miscalculated or Wales is too blinkered by the belief in his own munificence to notice it, because it goes unanswered.
The slim hope that no-one would willingly subject themselves to such a dense concentration of his relatives in close quarters when they didn't have to is rapidly and cruelly dashed by Iceland's prompt agreement that, yes, for some inexplicable reason, he would like to be harangued by England about a thirty-odd-year-old fishing rights dispute for the next hour or so.
To his surprise, however, not only does England refrain from so much as muttering the word 'cod' under his breath, he welcomes Iceland to their table with what appears to be sincere cordiality.
Thereafter, his voice climbs into the crisp, clear register that he strives for whenever he's playing at being the gracious host. Normally, Scotland's burr would become increasingly (incomprehensibly) pronounced in reaction to that soaring note, but, for once, his accent remains unchanged.
Wales is still beaming, Portugal's eyes are warm, France pinches his cheeks twice, and then, after no more than a split second to reflect on his actions and reconsider, a third time before slinging an arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders and briefly pulling him in close against his side.
And, for his own part, Northern Ireland is thoroughly and utterly mortified by the reminder that his social ineptitude is so absolute that he can apparently induce raptures in his nearest and dearest simply by sitting next to someone for a few hours and occasionally having the fortitude to make eye contact with them.
As he so often does, he escapes into his food; hunkering down over his plate and letting the conversation that springs up around him wash safely above his bent head, leaving him entirely untouched.
His gustatory absorption is so complete that he doesn't notice that England has been trying to attract his attention until he's repeated his name at least three times (judging by the level of crackling offence in his voice) and jabbed him in his ribs with an admonitory finger.
"What?" he asks after batting the offending digit aside.
"I said," England says in a particularly etching-glass tone, "you're pretty good at cooking, aren't you, North."
He does have the distinction of being able to make a shepherd's pie that isn't likely to poison anyone, which is more than can be said for his brother. "I suppose," he says.
"Well, that's settled, then," England says, clapping his hands together in what appears to be glee.
"What is?"
"I swear you don't listen to even half the words I say." England harumphs. "What's settled is, the next time Iceland here is visiting his consulate in Belfast, you can cook for him. Restaurant food's all well and good, but sometimes you really do miss a nice, home-cooked meal when you're away on business, don't you agree, Iceland?"
England doesn't give Iceland chance to reply before barrelling on with a diatribe about the disgraceful proliferation of microwaves in modern restauranteering.
He talks over Northern Ireland as well when he tries to protest that there would be nothing 'nice' about a meal cooked in his home because his culinary abilities begin and end with non-poisonous shepherd's pie, and a few silent mocking asides will have in no way prepared him to converse, never mind entertain, someone for the entire duration of one.
But then Scotland pipes up in defence of microwaves, Wales equivocates on the subject, and the tide of chatter rises again, bearing him inexorably along with it towards dessert and thence the exchanging of phone numbers, by which time it's far too late, and it would be unconscionably rude to rescind the invitation that has made on his behalf.
Later, staring down at that unfamiliar number on his mobile's screen, he feels slightly betrayed but too dazed by the swift pace of his damnation that his anger at his brothers' behaviour has not yet had chance to catch up with him.
It will come in time, no doubt, when the full and terrible realisation of what he has been condemned to finally unfurls. But, for the moment, he can at least find some consolation in the fact that, before a hard-eyed Norway descends upon them to scoop him up and carry him away from the dreadful clutches of Northern Ireland's family, Iceland looks just as lost and confounded by this turn of events as he feels.
It gives him hope that Iceland will contrive a way to forget the arrangement England had made on Northern Ireland's behalf, and thereafter the promise he'd given to ring Northern Ireland to confirm the details will very conveniently slip his mind, after all.