Norway takes a deep breath and exhales with a sharp sigh.
"You tell me what else it could be."
Denmark plucks at the hem of his tattered left glove. Norway's noticed that he's developed a lot of nervous tics since the first fires.
It isn't like him to be so on-edge. They aren't at war. Not now, anyway. The last time they boarded their warships was in Scania 100 years ago, and that hadn't even been a major conflict. No, they hadn't gotten the Scanian territories back. No, Sweden's ego hadn't been quite as devastated as Denmark had hoped. Still, Norway hardly blinks when he remembers the war now.
He does clench his jaw the slightest bit when he remembers that his constant fights with Denmark probably aren't talking him down very efficiently.
"If you're going, I'm coming along."
"No."
"Why?"
Norway taps his foot and crosses his arms, frowns and looks over his shoulder. Even inside, the air is warm and smothering, almost like ashy syrup. He's sure his lungs are coated with the stuff now.
"C'mon, Norway. You gotta talk to me. You don't talk to me anymore."
He doesn't have to talk to anyone.
"Please, Nor."
Especially someone who keeps him down on purpose.
"He's our colony, you know. Yours and mine. Ours."
Norway thinks about how to reply. Nothing good comes to mind immediately, so he keeps walking away, his shoes clacking on the tile floor. The sound echoes in the silence between Denmark's pleas and his own stifled coughs.
"Look, if it's this bad here—he'll be in pretty bad shape." Norway stops and glances over his shoulder at Denmark, who's biting his chapped bottom lip. He coughs once, twice, before starting again: "He'll need a lot of looking after, and I don't want you to have to take care of him alone there. It'll be dangerous and you're—well, you're—"
"Weak?"
"I mean—think about it like this, Norway—"
"You're not in the best shape yourself, you know."
"We've done a lot in Copenhagen. You should come see for yourself how much effort I've put in—we've been working double time since the fire to get everything twice as good as it was before." Denmark looks at his gloves again. "Y'know. Since it's our capital."
Norway scratches his knuckle. He's not sure if he wants an "our" anymore. Hell, he's not even sure he wanted an "our" in the first place.
All the same, he knows every moment he spends fighting with Denmark is a moment with Iceland wasted. He needs to hurry. Sharp pains shoot up his fingers and his stomach turns a little at the thought of the small country on the other side of the sea. He's just a child. He still lets Norway tuck him in at night, and he lets Norway hold his hand when they go for walks on the shore in the summer.
He can't just leave him there.
He's about to grumble at Denmark to go away and let him take care of Iceland alone—someone has to stay back and govern, and it might as well be him, since he's guarded his strength and superiority throughout the union as carefully as a bird watching its nest—when he sees that look in his eyes again. The look that usually makes him roll his eyes but that now makes him pause and stand still in the silence.
Denmark still hasn't forgotten those long months.
Denmark may never forget those days of holding sweaty hands and singing away fever dreams.
Norway can still hear his friend's lullabies in his ears.
For just a second, he imagines himself crying and giving in. But he doesn't like crying—it's such a bother—and if he doesn't do something, Denmark's going to fizzle into a puddle of tears and make a mess of himself and the whole matter, and he's got bigger things to worry about, like his baby brother and volcanoes and fuck it all, fine, Denmark can come if he wants, but he'd better not make a big mess of everything as he always does, okay?
Laki [5/7]
Norway takes a deep breath and exhales with a sharp sigh.
"You tell me what else it could be."
Denmark plucks at the hem of his tattered left glove. Norway's noticed that he's developed a lot of nervous tics since the first fires.
It isn't like him to be so on-edge. They aren't at war. Not now, anyway. The last time they boarded their warships was in Scania 100 years ago, and that hadn't even been a major conflict. No, they hadn't gotten the Scanian territories back. No, Sweden's ego hadn't been quite as devastated as Denmark had hoped. Still, Norway hardly blinks when he remembers the war now.
He does clench his jaw the slightest bit when he remembers that his constant fights with Denmark probably aren't talking him down very efficiently.
"If you're going, I'm coming along."
"No."
"Why?"
Norway taps his foot and crosses his arms, frowns and looks over his shoulder. Even inside, the air is warm and smothering, almost like ashy syrup. He's sure his lungs are coated with the stuff now.
"C'mon, Norway. You gotta talk to me. You don't talk to me anymore."
He doesn't have to talk to anyone.
"Please, Nor."
Especially someone who keeps him down on purpose.
"He's our colony, you know. Yours and mine. Ours."
Norway thinks about how to reply. Nothing good comes to mind immediately, so he keeps walking away, his shoes clacking on the tile floor. The sound echoes in the silence between Denmark's pleas and his own stifled coughs.
"Look, if it's this bad here—he'll be in pretty bad shape." Norway stops and glances over his shoulder at Denmark, who's biting his chapped bottom lip. He coughs once, twice, before starting again: "He'll need a lot of looking after, and I don't want you to have to take care of him alone there. It'll be dangerous and you're—well, you're—"
"Weak?"
"I mean—think about it like this, Norway—"
"You're not in the best shape yourself, you know."
"We've done a lot in Copenhagen. You should come see for yourself how much effort I've put in—we've been working double time since the fire to get everything twice as good as it was before." Denmark looks at his gloves again. "Y'know. Since it's our capital."
Norway scratches his knuckle. He's not sure if he wants an "our" anymore. Hell, he's not even sure he wanted an "our" in the first place.
All the same, he knows every moment he spends fighting with Denmark is a moment with Iceland wasted. He needs to hurry. Sharp pains shoot up his fingers and his stomach turns a little at the thought of the small country on the other side of the sea. He's just a child. He still lets Norway tuck him in at night, and he lets Norway hold his hand when they go for walks on the shore in the summer.
He can't just leave him there.
He's about to grumble at Denmark to go away and let him take care of Iceland alone—someone has to stay back and govern, and it might as well be him, since he's guarded his strength and superiority throughout the union as carefully as a bird watching its nest—when he sees that look in his eyes again. The look that usually makes him roll his eyes but that now makes him pause and stand still in the silence.
Denmark still hasn't forgotten those long months.
Denmark may never forget those days of holding sweaty hands and singing away fever dreams.
Norway can still hear his friend's lullabies in his ears.
For just a second, he imagines himself crying and giving in. But he doesn't like crying—it's such a bother—and if he doesn't do something, Denmark's going to fizzle into a puddle of tears and make a mess of himself and the whole matter, and he's got bigger things to worry about, like his baby brother and volcanoes and fuck it all, fine, Denmark can come if he wants, but he'd better not make a big mess of everything as he always does, okay?