Work Text:
April, 2013; London, England
“Don’t eat that!”
Iceland freezes. “Why?” He squints suspiciously at the biscuit he had been just about to raise to his mouth. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”
Normally, he wouldn’t even think to ask, but given England’s behaviour towards him ever since he became friends with Northern Ireland, the idea doesn’t seem quite as ridiculous as it should.
“A couple of months ago, who knows, but obviously not now.” Northern Ireland beams at him. “That’s not just a HobNob, it’s a symbol. You should keep it for posterity, to mark this momentous day.”
Iceland peers a little closer at the biscuit, trying to find some deeper meaning in it. It remains, however, simply a small circle of rolled oats, half covered in chocolate, and no different as far as he can tell than any of the others on the plate England had provided along with their cups of tea. (Iceland doesn’t even bother asking for coffee anymore, because England just pretends not to hear him if he does.)
“A symbol of what?” he asks, admitting defeat.
“That England’s finally started to accept you.” Northern Ireland wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “It’s almost like you’re one of the family.”
The blood suddenly rushes from Iceland’s head, leaving him feeling slightly dizzy. “It doesn’t mean we’re betrothed or something, does it?” He drops the biscuit hurriedly, just in case.
Northern Ireland also pales. “Fuck no,” he says, looking horrified. “England’s just really fucking petty with his biscuits. I’m not even sure if he’s aware that he does it, but if he’s pissed off at you, it’s Rich Teas all the way. America and Portugal always get the posh biscuits from Marks, whilst us poor drudges in the middle – who he’s quite fond of really, but doesn’t want to shag – have to content ourselves with a Kit Kat, at best. Chocolate HobNobs are definitely a huge step up for you, though.”
“Right,” Iceland says, smiling in relief. “Good.”
Iceland likes Northern Ireland. He likes him a great deal. But they haven’t done anything more than awkwardly dance around admitting the fact that feelings might have become a little less platonic on both their parts, so marriage does seem somewhat premature.
“Jesus, I know my family has some pretty fucking weird traditions, but even we draw the line at getting engaged with biscuits.” Northern Ireland then adds, in such a deadpan tone that Iceland honestly can’t tell whether he’s joking or not: “That’s what Battenberg’s for.”