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“Awh, look at this one.” Ireland pointed to a picture of himself and Northern Ireland from when they were younger. In the photo, Ireland had made a chain of clovers for North to wear as a crown.
“How cute,” Northern Ireland sighed, leaning in closer to get a better look at the photo album.
Ireland hadn't hesitated to offer North a place to stay after the meeting between their bosses. Everything about his room still felt the same to North as it did many years ago. The dim lighting, the simple yet homely decorations that made it feel like Christmas year-round, and the overflow of pillows and blankets surrounding them in Ireland's bed.
Part of North felt like he was home for the first time in a long time. After the weight of the week, a few drinks and the company of an old friend helped him relax. However, it was odd to be so close together again. He had grown accustomed to being distant from his old partner. North was surprised that Ireland wasn't so bitter about his dismissiveness over the recent years and that he even suggested that North stay over.
“Do you still play the violin?” North giggled under his breath, pointing to another photo. The photo featured a slightly younger Ireland. He was standing out in the cold Irish winter. A violin under his chin and a newsboy cap on his head, playing with a huge grin, surrounded by dancing strangers.
“O God, it’s been ages since I’ve picked it up, actually.” Ireland’s eyebrows drew together in a look of regret. “I miss playing with you.”
“Oh,” North recalled their duets. Himself on the harp, and Ireland on the violin. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“Looking back, it feels like an odd combination of instruments, huh,” Ireland interjected, flipping to the next page of the photo book and leaning back onto the cushioned headboard. “But now that I’m thinking of it, the tunes we played—I can almost hear them.” He smiled, and North giggled softly, as he too could vaguely hear the notes.
“Look,” North rubbed his thumb over another photo, this one a bit more disheveled than the others. Here, the two boys stood by the coast, wind and salt in their copper and ginger hair. Nearly the entirety of Ireland's face was covered in freckles. “How come you have more freckles than usual here?” North asked.
“I always get more freckles in the summer, don’t you know?” Ireland looked at his old friend with a sorry smile. “You do too; I’ve noticed.”
“Oh, right, but never as many as you,” North scoffed, examining the patterns on his face in the photos.
“Just enough to lay kisses on each one, remember?” Ireland said, still smiling at the album.
North's breath caught slightly, and he drew his eyes away from the photos.
He remembered how Ireland would lie with him during the few sunny days they had together. Or at night to put him to sleep. Ireland would press his soft lips to each of North's freckles scattered across his face and the tops of his ears.
He recalled the warmth and smiled. It was never anything too intimate. Just Ireland’s way of saying, “I’m glad you’re okay,” and “sleep tight, partner.” North hadn’t realized how much he missed Ireland’s gentle embraces. He also felt a twinge of disappointment upon recalling that he’d never quite returned that act of love.
“Well, it's winter now. I’d say you have just enough freckles to kiss.” North laughed, his eyes slightly lidded, clearly sleepy as he tilted his head to face Ireland, red velvet hair shifting to the side.
“O please,” Ireland blushed at the thought and laughed with him. “That would take hours; I still have twice as many as you—”
North turned Ireland’s head with his hand, presenting his old friend’s cheek so he could press a kiss underneath his eye. Then another. Then another. In the same quick yet gentle manner that he remembered Ireland kissing him in when they were younger.
Ireland was dazed; he felt his heart squeeze with excitement upon the touch. And confusion. He'd assumed North was sick of him. He was surprised he'd even taken Ireland's offer to stay over. And now, after a few drinks, he was kissing him?
Led on by Ireland's frozen compliance, North closed the gap between their chests, leaning in even more to kiss his nose, until Ireland brought his hand to where North held his face.
“Please, North… it tickles.” Ireland smiled sadly again, slightly pulling away. He didn't know what else to do. He was confused. But North kept his face close to Ireland's, trying painfully to make eye contact with the man under him.
North wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked through Ireland's orange eyes with his own green ones, growing dimmer as he held still. He looked like a sad cat, left out in the rain, not moving his hand away from Ireland's cheek.
They breathed slowly in unison. “Look at me,” North whispered calmly. Ireland gave in, unable to help his little frown as he met North’s gaze. North rubbed his thumb over Ireland's red, flushed face as he relaxed his grip on North’s hand.
“You're too good, Ireland. I've been horrible to you, yet you're still sweet to me.”
Ireland flinched internally with embarrassment. Taken aback by North's sudden honesty.
Taken aback by the fact that North was consciously ignoring Ireland during the fights between their bosses. Ireland had just assumed they were growing apart naturally. So why was he saying this? So that Ireland could feel like he had been nagging North like a stray dog?
“No, you haven't been horrible! You can’t help what your bosses and brothers and faith expect of you. You're still…you. Things have just changed,” Ireland said. At least, he wanted to believe that was the truth.
“That's no excuse.” North broke their contact shamefully. “I’m not the same, and it's my own fault. I’ve taken advantage of your kindness by avoiding talking to you. Not just that, I’ve missed so many chances to be good to you. You don't deserve… this.”
Just as North started to get up off the bed, Ireland strained his neck upward and closed the gap again. He hesitated for a moment before pulling North back down to face him. Their bangs brushed together where their foreheads lay centimeters apart, mixing red and orange strands.
“Don't say that. Don't go.” Ireland pleaded; his heart felt too heavy now. “You will always be a part of me; even if you’ve left me for good, I don't think there's anything you could do to make me stop thinking of you.” Ireland's frown had disappeared; now he was surprised by his own sudden honesty and the wetness clouding his eyes.
North felt sick with guilt. He can’t promise Ireland anything. He knows he will never be able to be with Ireland in the same way they were before. Partners. United by something special that neither of them would ever find in someone else.
But he knew that what Ireland was saying was true: although not united, they would always exist within each other. Their history, their language, their mannerisms, and the way they had influenced each other growing up would all always be the basis of themselves.
The thought of how he had neglected his other half for so long made North feel weak, and it showed in his countenance and the way he leaned his forehead lazily against Ireland's.
Ireland’s hands wrapped in North’s hair, pushing the thickest, hanging strand back to where it belonged. North let out the breath he was holding to tell him:
Tá grá agam duit.
The words lifted an impending weight off his tongue. Like they had been sitting there for ages, waiting for his heart to realize what was there all along. He then breathed in again slowly before kissing the dazed Ireland on his mouth, which hung slightly open. Chaste and brief.
North continued showering the rest of Ireland's face with kisses as he’d intended before. Each one said, "I missed you." There was a sense of haste that wasn't there before, as if North was making up for lost time, trying to return all the favors Ireland ever did for him in an instant.
Ireland's words rang in North’s mind, the words that told him no matter what he did, no matter how far he went, Ireland would always be his. He began to kiss and nibble on Ireland's reddening ear; the sensation made him let out a gasp, which he muffled by clamping his mouth shut.
Ireland's whole body burned from pent-up desire upon hearing his confession. It was too perfect to hear, too unpredictable; he couldn't believe it. He wanted to touch more of Northern Ireland, to kiss him back. But he was uncertain if his words should be attributed to drunken impulse.
“North—” he whispered. North pulled off to look at him with his cat face again. Ireland was scared to speak, that his voice would crack and he’d start crying uncontrollably, like he always does when it comes to North.
“Do you mean it? That you love me, you won't ignore me anymore?” His voice did crack. He felt selfish, as if he was asking to keep North to himself.
He refused to look at the green eyes again. Afraid that he'd look in them, and their void glow would still be distant. Like the way he looked at him from across rooms, from far away, always out of reach, even if he was right there.
“I won’t. I promise I’ll never hurt you ever again.”
Upon hearing his honest tone, Ireland looked into his eyes. Then he saw they were bright green and shining. Close and warm. Like the way North looked at him when they were young and as freckled as they were in those photos.
Ireland's heart somehow squeezed even harder. He kissed him. Shutting his eyes tight so that the tears he was holding back got stuck in his orange eyelashes.
The two of them melted into Ireland's soft bedding, lying on their sides. North loved touching Ireland’s hair, for the first time since he could remember, tugging on it slightly, and scrunching it to feel the rock of his head as they kissed.
Ireland smoothed his hand over his partner's shoulder, then gripped the fabric of his dress shirt. He could feel how North had grown into his body; he was slightly taller than Ireland, more now than he had remembered, but his build wasn’t as broad. It was great to feel how he had changed, to feel how they were different… but still led back to each other.
Ireland wrapped his arms securely around North’s back, afraid that he’d been dreaming, that he’d open his eyes and his bed would be empty and Ireland would be a stray dog once more. He couldn't get the embarrassing image out of his mind. Of him biting at his owner's ankles, begging and whining for him not to leave. He couldn't help it.
But North was here now. He loved him, and he could see it. Their lips parted, and Ireland fit his head onto North’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, convincing himself North was really with him, touching him, and he'd stay there. Convincing himself that this wasn't another sick rig from God. He whispered into his neck:
Grá mo chroí, fan liom
North nodded yes, kissed him yes on his head with a brave certainty in his heart. Running his fingers through Ireland's orange hair until they grew limp from fatigue, he smoothed his hand down the brown of his undercut.
Oíche mhaith, Éire
The dim yellow lights faded to black as their wet eyes closed. They fall asleep as one, as the Irish island sleeps, holding itself alone in the ocean. The notes of their harp and violin sounded completely clear now, in the hum of their dreams.