New World (2/4)
Title: New World (2/4)
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): background America/England (in this part)
Warning(s): None
Date: 2010; London, England
Word Count: 1442
Summary: The dynamics of Northern Ireland's family begin to change.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Part One
August, 2010; London, England
On the surface, the get-together is no different than any other England might host for America when he was visiting London: charred and leathery roast dinner; awkward small talk about their days; England looking like he’s but one ill-judged comment away from either punching America or… something else.
But no beneath that, nothing about it is normal. England clearly has some ulterior motive for arranging it, even though Northern Ireland has yet to puzzle out what that might be.
It can’t be to ease them into the knowledge that the nature England and America’s relationship has changed, because they’d all been present at America’s party, and all borne horrified witness to the initial drunken fumbling which presaged that particular upheaval to the status quo.
And it can’t be intended as an introduction into the family - as Northern Ireland understands is a normal step in legitimising this sort of affair - as, well, they already are America’s family.
It’s not normal, and that’s clear in every abrupt change of subject that occurs whenever the conversation threatens to take an accidental turn into slightly more personal territory; in every averted eye when England and America’s hands accidentally brush and then linger a little bit too long for comfortable viewing after that.
Wales and Scotland might be able to bear it all with slightly forced looking smiles and dogged questions about American sports that they have little understanding of and even less interest in, but Northern Ireland wants to scream at them, 'I know you both saw America touch England’s arse when he stood up to get the custard. How can you just sit there and pretend it didn’t happen?'
Nevertheless, he has been well-schooled in proper mealtime etiquette - no elbows on the table, no speaking with your mouth full, no talk of religion, politics and arses (or the touching thereof) - so he simply concentrates very hard on his rhubarb crumble and pretends the rest of the dining room doesn’t exist for a while.
His studied indifference carries him unscathed through pudding, tea and After Eights, and even the subsequent argument over the washing up, but it provides absolutely no defence against the proposal America puts to him afterwards.
That makes his heart flip sickeningly in his chest and sends him scampering in search of the comforting bosom of the one member of his family who might offer him some sympathy.
“America just asked me if I wanted to chuck a ball around with him,” he announces, horrified, to Wales when he eventually finds him hidden away in the depths of England’s library.
Wales frowns, which is a hopeful sign. What he says is decidedly less so, however. “You should give yourself a little time to digest your food first. You might get indigestion otherwise.”
“Don’t you watch American TV shows at all?” Northern Ireland asks incredulously.
Wales’ frown deepens, suggesting that that might indeed be the case, which, really, Northern Ireland should have anticipated, as his brother’s viewing habits do appear to be somewhat more S4C-focused nowadays than they used to be.
“I’m afraid I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” Wales says eventually.
“That’s what the fathers on them always seem to want to do with their sons: play catch after dinner,” Northern Ireland explains. “Next thing you know, he’ll be calling me junior and wanting to coach my fucking ‘soccer’ team or something.”
“You’re not even on a football team,” Wales says, sounding lost enough that it’s unsurprising that he missed Northern Ireland’s point by a sizeable distance. After some silent deliberation, he seemingly works his way back around to it, though, and adds, “Just because England’s relationship with America’s changed, it doesn’t mean that yours has to, and I shouldn’t imagine America would expect it to, either. He likely just has some excess energy he wants to burn off because he’s been stuck in meetings all day. He’s been that way since he was a kid. I remember when -“
As any sentence Wales stats with ‘remember when’ usually leads thenceforth to reminiscences that can last for hours - and, as America is involved, inevitably towards the same bloody story about Wales’ harp that Northern Ireland must have heard at least a hundred times over the course of his life thus far - Northern Ireland hurriedly interrupts him with:
“That’s a fucking relief.” And it is, because whilst Wales might not have the… intimate knowledge that England does, he’s known America for long enough that Northern Ireland still trusts his judgement on the matter. “I don’t think I could have coped with him trying to be… my step-dad, or whatever. He’s barely older than me.”
“He’s a lot older than you, Gogledd,” Wales points out, which Northern Ireland knows is, strictly speaking, true, but it doesn’t feel like it is, because America certainly doesn’t act like it a lot of the time.
And Northern Ireland has always found it difficult to think of America as very much his elder because England’s house is saturated with his childhood - the room he used to share with Canada on their infrequent youthful visits is filled with his old toys and books, and even a few examples of the needlework England tried to force him to learn, which look like they had been sewn by an especially ungainly elephant - and Scotland, Wales, and occasionally even England, still refer to him as a ‘wean’.
With that thought fresh in his mind, it feels even stranger than before that Scotland and Wales are apparently so blasé about what’s transpiring between their brother and America.
“Don’t you think it’s all a bit weird?” he asks hesitantly. “I mean, you all raised him, and -“
“It wasn’t like that, at all. We probably only saw him once or twice a decade.” Wales’ mouth crooks upwards at one corner. “To be honest, I struggled with the idea at first, but then Scotland came up with the idea that we should think of them being like Emma and Mr Knightley, and that helped us get our heads around it all a little better. Maybe it’d help you if thought about it like that, as well.”
Frankly, Northern Ireland has always considered that relationship slightly creepy, too. “No, not particularly,” he says.
“I suspect it might be different for England because America’s revolution hit him so hard that he got used to disassociating the boy from the man. It’s…” Wales sighs heavily. “Look, Gogledd, the whys and wherefores don’t really matter. What matters is that England’s happy.”
Northern Ireland snorts. “England’s never happy.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been as often as he could be lately,” Wales says, “but that might change now. Just so long as we don’t fight it too hard, anyway.”
Northern Ireland isn’t surprised that England hasn’t yet finished the washing up when he returns to the kitchen, as he seems to be giving the view through the window above the sink far more of his concentration than the movements of his sponge, which he only manages to connect with a piece of crockery on every fourth attempt.
When Northern Ireland steps up beside his brother and follows his gaze, the reason for his distraction becomes abundantly, distressingly clear.
The evening is warm and far too muggy for any sensible person to be exerting themselves outdoors, but Scotland and America are giving it a good go, regardless. Northern Ireland can’t quite tell what game they’re attempting to play with England’s rugby ball, but it involves a hell of a lot of shouting, tackling, and enough running around the place that Scotland has turned beetroot red and his T-shirt is plastered to his back with sweat.
America, on the other hand, has stripped to the waist and is thus only lightly flushed, his chest… Northern Ireland supposes a person might say it was glistening, if they were predisposed to admire that sort of thing.
Judging by England’s faint smile and the dreamy cast of his eyes, he’s certainly enjoying the view. For the time being, Northern Ireland would prefer to believe that England’s simply pleased he got to see the accidental knee to the bollocks that Scotland’s just received, but whatever the real reason, Wales is right; it’s good to see their brother seeming so content for a change.
“I think I’ll go out and join them, after all,” he tells England.
England’s smile grows wider than Northern Ireland has ever seen it before. “America would like that.”
When Northern Ireland starts towards the back door, however, England grabs his elbow, holding him still. “After you’ve done the drying, of course,” he says.
Some things, it appears, are doomed to never change.
Part Three
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales
Pairing(s): background America/England (in this part)
Warning(s): None
Date: 2010; London, England
Word Count: 1442
Summary: The dynamics of Northern Ireland's family begin to change.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Part One
August, 2010; London, England
On the surface, the get-together is no different than any other England might host for America when he was visiting London: charred and leathery roast dinner; awkward small talk about their days; England looking like he’s but one ill-judged comment away from either punching America or… something else.
But no beneath that, nothing about it is normal. England clearly has some ulterior motive for arranging it, even though Northern Ireland has yet to puzzle out what that might be.
It can’t be to ease them into the knowledge that the nature England and America’s relationship has changed, because they’d all been present at America’s party, and all borne horrified witness to the initial drunken fumbling which presaged that particular upheaval to the status quo.
And it can’t be intended as an introduction into the family - as Northern Ireland understands is a normal step in legitimising this sort of affair - as, well, they already are America’s family.
It’s not normal, and that’s clear in every abrupt change of subject that occurs whenever the conversation threatens to take an accidental turn into slightly more personal territory; in every averted eye when England and America’s hands accidentally brush and then linger a little bit too long for comfortable viewing after that.
Wales and Scotland might be able to bear it all with slightly forced looking smiles and dogged questions about American sports that they have little understanding of and even less interest in, but Northern Ireland wants to scream at them, 'I know you both saw America touch England’s arse when he stood up to get the custard. How can you just sit there and pretend it didn’t happen?'
Nevertheless, he has been well-schooled in proper mealtime etiquette - no elbows on the table, no speaking with your mouth full, no talk of religion, politics and arses (or the touching thereof) - so he simply concentrates very hard on his rhubarb crumble and pretends the rest of the dining room doesn’t exist for a while.
His studied indifference carries him unscathed through pudding, tea and After Eights, and even the subsequent argument over the washing up, but it provides absolutely no defence against the proposal America puts to him afterwards.
That makes his heart flip sickeningly in his chest and sends him scampering in search of the comforting bosom of the one member of his family who might offer him some sympathy.
“America just asked me if I wanted to chuck a ball around with him,” he announces, horrified, to Wales when he eventually finds him hidden away in the depths of England’s library.
Wales frowns, which is a hopeful sign. What he says is decidedly less so, however. “You should give yourself a little time to digest your food first. You might get indigestion otherwise.”
“Don’t you watch American TV shows at all?” Northern Ireland asks incredulously.
Wales’ frown deepens, suggesting that that might indeed be the case, which, really, Northern Ireland should have anticipated, as his brother’s viewing habits do appear to be somewhat more S4C-focused nowadays than they used to be.
“I’m afraid I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” Wales says eventually.
“That’s what the fathers on them always seem to want to do with their sons: play catch after dinner,” Northern Ireland explains. “Next thing you know, he’ll be calling me junior and wanting to coach my fucking ‘soccer’ team or something.”
“You’re not even on a football team,” Wales says, sounding lost enough that it’s unsurprising that he missed Northern Ireland’s point by a sizeable distance. After some silent deliberation, he seemingly works his way back around to it, though, and adds, “Just because England’s relationship with America’s changed, it doesn’t mean that yours has to, and I shouldn’t imagine America would expect it to, either. He likely just has some excess energy he wants to burn off because he’s been stuck in meetings all day. He’s been that way since he was a kid. I remember when -“
As any sentence Wales stats with ‘remember when’ usually leads thenceforth to reminiscences that can last for hours - and, as America is involved, inevitably towards the same bloody story about Wales’ harp that Northern Ireland must have heard at least a hundred times over the course of his life thus far - Northern Ireland hurriedly interrupts him with:
“That’s a fucking relief.” And it is, because whilst Wales might not have the… intimate knowledge that England does, he’s known America for long enough that Northern Ireland still trusts his judgement on the matter. “I don’t think I could have coped with him trying to be… my step-dad, or whatever. He’s barely older than me.”
“He’s a lot older than you, Gogledd,” Wales points out, which Northern Ireland knows is, strictly speaking, true, but it doesn’t feel like it is, because America certainly doesn’t act like it a lot of the time.
And Northern Ireland has always found it difficult to think of America as very much his elder because England’s house is saturated with his childhood - the room he used to share with Canada on their infrequent youthful visits is filled with his old toys and books, and even a few examples of the needlework England tried to force him to learn, which look like they had been sewn by an especially ungainly elephant - and Scotland, Wales, and occasionally even England, still refer to him as a ‘wean’.
With that thought fresh in his mind, it feels even stranger than before that Scotland and Wales are apparently so blasé about what’s transpiring between their brother and America.
“Don’t you think it’s all a bit weird?” he asks hesitantly. “I mean, you all raised him, and -“
“It wasn’t like that, at all. We probably only saw him once or twice a decade.” Wales’ mouth crooks upwards at one corner. “To be honest, I struggled with the idea at first, but then Scotland came up with the idea that we should think of them being like Emma and Mr Knightley, and that helped us get our heads around it all a little better. Maybe it’d help you if thought about it like that, as well.”
Frankly, Northern Ireland has always considered that relationship slightly creepy, too. “No, not particularly,” he says.
“I suspect it might be different for England because America’s revolution hit him so hard that he got used to disassociating the boy from the man. It’s…” Wales sighs heavily. “Look, Gogledd, the whys and wherefores don’t really matter. What matters is that England’s happy.”
Northern Ireland snorts. “England’s never happy.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been as often as he could be lately,” Wales says, “but that might change now. Just so long as we don’t fight it too hard, anyway.”
Northern Ireland isn’t surprised that England hasn’t yet finished the washing up when he returns to the kitchen, as he seems to be giving the view through the window above the sink far more of his concentration than the movements of his sponge, which he only manages to connect with a piece of crockery on every fourth attempt.
When Northern Ireland steps up beside his brother and follows his gaze, the reason for his distraction becomes abundantly, distressingly clear.
The evening is warm and far too muggy for any sensible person to be exerting themselves outdoors, but Scotland and America are giving it a good go, regardless. Northern Ireland can’t quite tell what game they’re attempting to play with England’s rugby ball, but it involves a hell of a lot of shouting, tackling, and enough running around the place that Scotland has turned beetroot red and his T-shirt is plastered to his back with sweat.
America, on the other hand, has stripped to the waist and is thus only lightly flushed, his chest… Northern Ireland supposes a person might say it was glistening, if they were predisposed to admire that sort of thing.
Judging by England’s faint smile and the dreamy cast of his eyes, he’s certainly enjoying the view. For the time being, Northern Ireland would prefer to believe that England’s simply pleased he got to see the accidental knee to the bollocks that Scotland’s just received, but whatever the real reason, Wales is right; it’s good to see their brother seeming so content for a change.
“I think I’ll go out and join them, after all,” he tells England.
England’s smile grows wider than Northern Ireland has ever seen it before. “America would like that.”
When Northern Ireland starts towards the back door, however, England grabs his elbow, holding him still. “After you’ve done the drying, of course,” he says.
Some things, it appears, are doomed to never change.
Part Three