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Ireland was completely limp. His breathing was slow and deep. He was just… sleeping.
His dead weight should have been a struggle to carry, but in Northern Ireland's arms, it felt weightless. Ireland's unconscious body felt like an extension of himself, another being built into him.
North deliberately held his breath, then resumed, more slowly this time; he wanted to match his breathing to Ireland's.
The sounds of the ocean crashing behind them rose and fell in tune with Ireland's breath, the swell of his chest, then compressed back down like the tide.
The sand sank under North’s feet with each step he took away from the dock. The sound of waves and light from lanterns grew dimmer and dimmer as he walked.
North didn’t try to outrun the sinking of the sand. He was not in a rush.
He could barely make out Ireland's face as he looked down at him in his arms. A few shards of moonlight reflected on his light eyelashes, his left cheek, and his nose.
The longer North stared, the more his eyes adjusted. The moonlight then caught on the blood covering Ireland's forehead, dripping down to his ear, painting his skin what looked like black in the darkness. North looked away.
The gash wasn’t bad enough to go to a hospital, for a nation at least, so he kept walking. He walked until he reached the house, then the bathroom.
He placed the unconscious Ireland on the floor, with his head resting against the counter wall.
North used his now-free hands to turn on the dim lights and warm water in the bathtub, allowing the hum of the faucet to fill their ears—or North’s, at least.
He then unlaced his soaked shoes and pulled them off, along with his socks. The tiles were ice-cold, and a burning sensation spread from his feet up, where his toes had already turned blue.
He unbuttoned his dirty shirt patiently. It was soaked in salt water and spotted in blood from Ireland's head, yet he was reluctant to fully remove it as the cold air froze his pale skin with each careful unbutton.
He folded his shirt, then turned back to Ireland. He could now see his partner's face in the light. North couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Ireland so peaceful.
His face appeared infinitely soft, still young despite all the tears, pain, and hunger. Especially hunger.
North realized why Ireland's expression, sleeping, was so special. The only time Ireland isn’t hungry is when he's asleep, when he doesn’t have his eyes open. Desperate eyes that yearn and beg and dampen and break North.
North liked Ireland like this. He didn’t feel guilty anymore, without Ireland's puppy-dog eyes on him. If Ireland could just keep acting clueless about Northern Ireland being drawn into the UK and let him slip away, he’d be free.
North tugged lightly at Ireland's shoulder. And gave a forceful whisper
“Wake up!”
Ireland didn’t twitch, his soft, pretty face still in slumber. North sighed in defeat and a touch of relief. He brought his hands to Ireland's shirt, thumbing at the buttons until he hesitated, and his fingers became stiff.
They had bathed together before, many times when they were younger. Why was North frozen? He only needed to wash off his blood and ocean water.
North thought of England; he imagined bathing him and scrubbing his back. North wouldn’t hesitate to clean an injured England, as a child or as a grown man, as he is now. England is his brother.
Anger and guilt started rushing into his mind. Why couldn’t he see Ireland the way he saw England? After everything they’d been through, why hadn’t Ireland struck him as a brother?
North had always avoided thinking of this topic; the uncertainty of their relationship frustrated him. Ireland had always referred to North as his “partner,” so North did too, but that label felt so flimsy.
The term “partners” was too promising. Ireland called him that, as if the title secured their relationship permanently. But it didn't; that title wasn't right because North knew Ireland was too different from him.
Ireland wasn’t Protestant like North’s real brothers, and despite all the time they spent together, North had never felt like they thought the same way; he never felt that he could be himself without somehow hurting Ireland.
Ireland broke easily; he bent and flailed in the wind, while North and his brothers stood still and sound. That’s why North would leave him. He had to leave him; he couldn't let an aversion to his partner grow silently. But he could silently leave. It's not his fault that Ireland was different.
His hands were sweating now. He frantically undid the buttons and pulled Ireland into him as he shook off his shirt. Ireland's head lolled back as it lost contact with the wall, and his mouth gaped open slightly.
He then hurriedly took off Ireland's pants and boxers; thankfully, they were loose enough that he didn't have to roll him over. North folded the garments and left them with their shirts on the counter.
He scooped his arms under his partner to pick him up again, as he did before. It was meant to be a bridal carry, but it felt more like he was cradling him as he struggled to lift him off the floor.
Ireland no longer felt weightless in his arms.
North lowered him into the bathtub, full nearly to the rim with warm water. A splash of liquid sloshed out of the tub as Ireland was lowered to the bottom.
North froze again, admiring the light reflecting from the water back onto Ireland's unbothered face, casting a cold glow on such a warm visage.
North brought his hand to close Ireland's mouth that was still hanging open. Ireland's head leaned lazily into North's hand as he did so, making North's heart squeeze painfully. He quickly pushed his head back onto the wall behind him.
North then removed his own bottoms, turned off the faucet, and pulled the shower curtain back all the way so he could sit in the wide tub across from Ireland.
North started with his face, lathering his hands with watery soap before rubbing delicately at his partner's forehead and hair. The soap and blood mixed as they dripped down Ireland's cheek, covering his freckled complexion with a murky, muted red-colored mixture.
North then tenderly rubbed Ireland's ears; the blood had already dried here, so he used his fingernails to chip off thin chunks of it.
The bits landed on Ireland's upper chest and shoulders. North pushed the bathwater, creating a wave to wash over his smooth chest.
Ireland's eyes slowly fluttered open, making North's heart sink. Bathing was perfectly simple with Ireland asleep, relieving even; he didn't want to face him.
North was caught in a slight panic. He started washing himself briskly, pretending he hadn’t seen Ireland awakening, so he could keep the image of Ireland asleep clear in his brain for just a few moments more—the thought of looking him in the eyes after what he’d just been thinking felt wrong.
As Ireland's eyes adjusted, he first saw a burnt-red-haired figure looming in front of him, looking down at his ivory body with dark lashes as he drifted his hands over the side of his neck and arms. The overhead light shone behind his head; he appeared as an angel under the halo of bright shower mist.
He then blinked, rubbed his eyes, and saw his partner.
“North—what happened?” Ireland asked sleepily. He looked down at his own bare body. A look of shock crossed his face when he felt his head sting as he moved it, and his face began to flush.
North reached out to touch his scalp lightly, where he had been knocked out. “Does that hurt? You were knocked out by the mast when there was a huge gust of wind. I'm sorry I couldn't stop it from swinging.”
Ireland winced and let out a quiet yelp. “Ouch, and I fell in the water?”
“Yeah, I had to pull you out!” North laughed, “It was so cold.”
Ireland couldn’t laugh with him; he was still in a state of shock, feeling his head and giving his puppy stare.
“O God… How bad is it?” He asked.
“It doesn't look too bad; you’ll likely be healed by tomorrow.”
Ireland averted his gaze… that didn't sound right. Ever since the UK had suggested splitting Éire in two, Ireland had been healing much more slowly than he normally does and had been feeling sick more often than he had since the famine.
“It’ll be fine, Ireland,” North assured, noticing his sad, glowy eyes had returned. “I’d already washed off all your blood.”
Ireland still kept his head down, like a shameful dog cowering his ears. It was rare that he kept his mouth shut; North had assumed that if he woke up, he’d go on a ramble about the accident.
“You didn’t have to do that.” He said,
“What do you mean? Like I was gonna leave you there.” North scoffed sarcastically and smiled his pitying smile. A bit confused by the statement.
But you are going to leave me. Ireland wanted to say. It had become increasingly obvious that North would leave for his brothers and that Eire would split.
But he didn’t say it; he was afraid of North hating him for being so selfish. He knew that when North inevitably left him for the UK, he would just have to watch him go.
North didn’t see Ireland the way Ireland saw him. He just had to give up; let him fly away.
“Sorry, I meant cleaning me.” He picked his head up and laughed a sweet, light laugh. “I guess I’m just a bit embarrassed that you had to carry me here and give me a bath.”
Why would that be embarrassing? At least he knew Ireland didn’t see him as a brother either. Close friends or family wouldn’t be embarrassed about things like this. But then what was he to him after they had spent their lives together?
It was like Ireland was constantly trying to prove himself to North, and for what? The confusion he felt about their relationship made North want to leave him more and more, as it frustrated him.
“Don’t be embarrassed. You’d do it for me, too, right? So it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” North smiled gingerly
Ireland smiled back until his expression quickly soured as he took his hand to feel where he’d been hit on his scalp.
“Ah, it feels like my head is splitting!”
“Don’t touch it!” North grabbed his hand, pushing it back under the warm water. “I’ll get you a bandage and some ice; just let me dry your hair first.”
Ireland shamefully looked down again as North stepped out of the tub to grab a first aid kit from inside the cupboard. He wasn’t sure if anything was left in the kit, as they hadn’t used it in ages.
He clicked it open, and there was just the right amount of fabric left to wrap around Ireland's head.
“Here, keep your head down,” he said, stepping back into the bath as he placed the kit beside the tub to pick up a towel lying there.
Ireland ducked even lower as North began to scrunch his hair with the towel; orange strands, turned brown from the water, brushed against the cloth's ridges.
His eyes were stuck staring straight at North's abdomen as he worked; the sight made Ireland's head hurt even more, like a clamp was squeezing it tighter and tighter as he gazed about his body.
So Ireland looked further down under the bathwater; it was too foggy with their sand, salt, and Ireland's blood to see anything. But he could vaguely make out the beige of their legs as they brushed against each other under the water.
Part of Ireland wanted to grab North's waist, draw him closer until the lengths of their legs were flush together, wrap his arms around his tall back, and rest his aching head atop North's beating heart. Hold him tight in this bath forever. Then, maybe, his pain would alleviate. He didn’t want North to leave him.
What a selfish thought to have. Ireland felt a stab of guilt. He felt guilty for not wanting to leave this moment, for wanting to pry into North and keep him forever. He asked an impulsive question to silence his urges.
“Why didn't you wait?” He kept staring at the water
“What?”
“Why didn't you wait till I woke up to take a bath by yourself?”
Ireland was really frustrating North. Why was he taking this so seriously?
“I… wanted to clean you up as soon as possible so your head doesn't get infected. Anyway, I'm cold and bloody too, so…” North feigned a polite tone until he gave up. “Christ, Ireland, why are you asking weird questions? ”
Ireland sat silently. North stopped scrubbing his hair and sighed.
“What did you want me to say?” He pushed Ireland's head back with the towel to face him. And he saw those horrible, needy, bratty eyes again.
He saw those pretty eyes that pleaded and prayed and cared only for North. He suddenly felt responsible for all his pain and hunger again. He wanted to avert his gaze or to slap his silent face and leave him to prune and rot in the tub.
Ireland thought of an answer; he wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. Maybe that North missed the innocent, warm act of bathing together. That he loved Ireland dearly, and it hadn't crossed his mind to bathe alone.
“I don't know what this could mean to you, Ireland, but we're both dirty, and I’m just cleaning up, okay?
He was right. Ireland imagined North saying lovely words to him and felt pathetic. Delusional. He wanted to curl up and cry, but the only person he could see himself crying to was North; he was the only one Ireland wanted to understand.
But North was growing tired of him, and it was Ireland's fault he was different.
Ireland’s head was aching so hard he could hear his pulse; he winced and let out a noise as tears broke.
“O, Ireland, I’m sorry.” North pulled his head into his shoulder so they hugged with their upper bodies. “You’re exhausted; you must have hurt your head worse than I thought.”
That’s right. North thought. He hit his head too hard and can’t think straight.
Ireland muffled his sniffles and shook his head into where it lay on North’s traps. “I’m sorry,” Ireland apologized from the bottom of his heart. But the words relieved him of no shame.
North whispered "shhh" to him and wrapped his head in the bandage he drew from the kit.
North could feel the truth lingering deep in the back of his mind. He knew what Ireland wanted to hear. He felt the right words to make Ireland feel better lying on his tongue.
North knew that, concussed or not, Ireland loved him but wasn't brave enough to say it. North knew how to love him back and help him be brave.
But he didn’t say anything.
The hug was cold and hurried, and the bandage was wrapped too quickly. “You need to sleep now, yeah?” He said, lifting Ireland with him as he stood up.
Ireland nodded again, and they stepped out of the tub together. North passed him a towel, and they wrapped themselves tightly around their waists.
North patiently walked Ireland to his room, supporting him with his arm behind his back, and told him to wait on his bed while North got his clean clothes for Ireland to sleep in and dressed himself.
As North came back and handed Ireland his clothes, he looked at him one last time under the light seeping in from the hallway, and this time, all of him.
His naked frame was permanently damaged from the famine. North's was too, but he felt a different kind of emptiness from looking at Ireland than he did from looking at himself in the mirror.
Seeing the weakness in Ireland made him sick and frozen all over again; he watched him get dressed. Nearly everything about him had changed since they were young; the weight he had lost messed up his mannerisms.
North had the weird urge to give him bread… or a flower.
He recalled Ireland's question. Why hadn't he just waited to bathe separately? Did it make him feel good to take care of this hurt man while secretly siding with the nation that hurt him?
Ireland watched North watch him as he slid on his pants. As if waiting for North to realize he was staring. More so, it was as if he were asking for that flower.
There it is again. The look. Like he still had an empty stomach, and North was food being dangled in front of a starving dog.
Ireland stopped moving and stared into North as if trying to pull him in and eat him and feel full again; his eyes seemed black in the dark.
The pools of light were so desperate. North's heart was begging him to be Ireland’s food. He felt so gross and so right just standing there and looking at him.
Ireland could continue to say nothing for as long as he and North lived, but it could never be clearer, just from his eyes, what Ireland wanted.
Ireland wanted North.
As if stopping himself from falling forward, North snapped out of his trance. Shaking his head once, he grabbed Ireland's damp towel and slowly stepped out into the lit hallway
“G’night, Ireland.”
Ireland gently slumped back down on the bed in defeat and put on his sleep shirt.
“Oíche mhaith,” he said.
Ireland’s goodnight rang in North’s mind as he squirmed in his sheets. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was Ireland staring at him and the rigid, thin outline of his chest to his waist.
He kept tossing and turning the image away, focusing on the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, until his body grew tired.
North wouldn’t fall asleep hungry, and that's all that mattered.