That evening, Iceland is happy. Actually, truly happy.
The couch is soft. The blanket Finland wrapped around him is warm. The light is friendly and golden. And most importantly, all around him are the low voices and the quick, flashing smiles of everyone who loves him most. Just then, Iceland can’t remember having ever wanted anything other than this feeling—this relaxed, fuzzy, cozy feeling that he can only give a name to by borrowing one of Denmark’s words. Hygge. That's what it is.
It’s wonderful, like drinking a warm beverage on a cold winter’s day. And yet, he knows that there’s a huge unasked question lurking beneath the casualness. It’s not hard to tell—every now and then, somebody will edge closer to it, only to have one of the others quickly change the subject, as if to say ‘No, not yet, wait just a little longer.’
Iceland knows this, and he doesn’t care. Right now, he loves his brothers more than anything else in the world—more than his sanity, more than his secrets, more than the failing wall he’s built between himself and the pain in his past. It’s thanks to his brothers that he’s feeling better. Their loans have brought his fever down, and their Nordic brand of silent understanding kept him together when he felt like was falling apart. They have always been able to make him feel better, and he loves them so much. If they want to worm a secret out of him, let them do it. He owes them that.
As the conversation wears on and still nobody bluntly asks the question, Iceland begins to think about why he’s never told his brothers what happened. He knows his reasons well—but right now, they seem so stupid. Why can he not just tell them? They’ll make him feel better about it, about everything. And besides, they’ll get the answer out of him one way or another.
What’s stopping him from just telling them, right now?
Iceland toys with this idea for a long time. The thought of doing it makes his stomach twist up, but once it’s done…. He swallows.
“Hey guys? Can I tell you something?”
Sweden breaks off in the middle of his story about how Sealand is learning to ski. Four attentive—expectant, even—gazes settle on him.
And suddenly, words that had long lay frozen in deep Iceland’s chest spill out uncontrollably, like a huge chunk of ice breaking away and crashing into the sea.
---
“Are you cold, little one?”
Iceland wasn’t cold. He was dressed for sailing, and it was much warmer here than it was on the ocean. He also didn’t like being called ‘little one.’ It was a name that Denmark sometimes used, and was often accompanied by a horribly demeaning pat on the head. Iceland hated it when Denmark said it, and certainly didn’t want a stranger saying it.
But his voice seemed to be stuck in his throat, and so he did not respond.
Netherland’s arm snaked around his shoulders. Startled, Iceland pulled away, but the arm tightened, and Iceland felt his back come into contact with a solid torso.
“L-Let go!” he stammered.
Rough fingers found his hair. He cringed, and tried to duck away, but the hand around his shoulders only drew him closer.
“Relax,” said Netherlands gently, his voice low. “Don’t be afraid. This is something all big countries do.”
Iceland frowned “Really?” he asked. He had never liked physical contact. He always struggled when Denmark tried to hug him, and the greatest day of his life was the day that Norway discovered he’d grown too big for him to pick up and carry. But if it would make him a better country…
“Yeah, all the time.” Netherlands twirled a strand of hair around his finger.
Iceland shuddered. It felt so weird. “Do Norway and Denmark do it? Does Sweden do it?”
Netherlands laughed bitterly. “Oh yes,” he snickered. “Especially them. At the end of the day, after raiding and burning and destroying, there’s nothing they like better.”
Re: And Such Are The Consequences 4b/10
The couch is soft. The blanket Finland wrapped around him is warm. The light is friendly and golden. And most importantly, all around him are the low voices and the quick, flashing smiles of everyone who loves him most. Just then, Iceland can’t remember having ever wanted anything other than this feeling—this relaxed, fuzzy, cozy feeling that he can only give a name to by borrowing one of Denmark’s words. Hygge. That's what it is.
It’s wonderful, like drinking a warm beverage on a cold winter’s day. And yet, he knows that there’s a huge unasked question lurking beneath the casualness. It’s not hard to tell—every now and then, somebody will edge closer to it, only to have one of the others quickly change the subject, as if to say ‘No, not yet, wait just a little longer.’
Iceland knows this, and he doesn’t care. Right now, he loves his brothers more than anything else in the world—more than his sanity, more than his secrets, more than the failing wall he’s built between himself and the pain in his past. It’s thanks to his brothers that he’s feeling better. Their loans have brought his fever down, and their Nordic brand of silent understanding kept him together when he felt like was falling apart. They have always been able to make him feel better, and he loves them so much. If they want to worm a secret out of him, let them do it. He owes them that.
As the conversation wears on and still nobody bluntly asks the question, Iceland begins to think about why he’s never told his brothers what happened. He knows his reasons well—but right now, they seem so stupid. Why can he not just tell them? They’ll make him feel better about it, about everything. And besides, they’ll get the answer out of him one way or another.
What’s stopping him from just telling them, right now?
Iceland toys with this idea for a long time. The thought of doing it makes his stomach twist up, but once it’s done…. He swallows.
“Hey guys? Can I tell you something?”
Sweden breaks off in the middle of his story about how Sealand is learning to ski. Four attentive—expectant, even—gazes settle on him.
And suddenly, words that had long lay frozen in deep Iceland’s chest spill out uncontrollably, like a huge chunk of ice breaking away and crashing into the sea.
“Are you cold, little one?”
Iceland wasn’t cold. He was dressed for sailing, and it was much warmer here than it was on the ocean. He also didn’t like being called ‘little one.’ It was a name that Denmark sometimes used, and was often accompanied by a horribly demeaning pat on the head. Iceland hated it when Denmark said it, and certainly didn’t want a stranger saying it.
But his voice seemed to be stuck in his throat, and so he did not respond.
Netherland’s arm snaked around his shoulders. Startled, Iceland pulled away, but the arm tightened, and Iceland felt his back come into contact with a solid torso.
“L-Let go!” he stammered.
Rough fingers found his hair. He cringed, and tried to duck away, but the hand around his shoulders only drew him closer.
“Relax,” said Netherlands gently, his voice low. “Don’t be afraid. This is something all big countries do.”
Iceland frowned “Really?” he asked. He had never liked physical contact. He always struggled when Denmark tried to hug him, and the greatest day of his life was the day that Norway discovered he’d grown too big for him to pick up and carry. But if it would make him a better country…
“Yeah, all the time.” Netherlands twirled a strand of hair around his finger.
Iceland shuddered. It felt so weird. “Do Norway and Denmark do it? Does Sweden do it?”
Netherlands laughed bitterly. “Oh yes,” he snickered. “Especially them. At the end of the day, after raiding and burning and destroying, there’s nothing they like better.”