Iceland can't remember the feeling of cold water on his tongue anymore, nor the feeling of comfort and cool sleep and sweet dreams that keep him safe as he dozes late into the summer morning. He's long since stopped missing Norway and Denmark. Missing is a feeling, and his mind and heart are too heavy, too dull, to feel.
He breathes hot smoke and stinging ash. Sometimes he thinks he's just crawled on the beach after a swim in the hot springs, but attempts to bury his hands in the warm sand remind him that he's still stuck in bed, slick with sweat and wrapped in disheveled sheets and burning deep in his bones.
He dozes a little, as much as he can. He dreams of winter, of perfect snowflakes falling and sticking, one by one, to his window. He dreams of holding Norway's hand outside and sticking his tongue out to catch the falling crystals on his tongue. He blinks and then there are orange-yellow fireworks in the sky and ash, not snow, falling in his mouth. The earth wobbles and sinks beneath him, and he awakes to his bedroom door squealing on its hinges and someone sitting down on his bed beside him.
Rough, strong hands cup his face and brush his forehead and cheeks. Someone whispers his name in a smooth but shaking voice.
"Ice, hey, Ice."
An arm supports his shoulders and helps him sit upright. And then—water. Sweet, cold water. He drinks so much so fast that he almost chokes. Someone rubs his back as he coughs and hacks up ash and phlegm. Then he is breathing again. He holds out his arms and whines for more water. Within moments he has a second glass held to his lips, and he slurps down every last drop. Someone picks him up, then, and a few blinks later, he is in Denmark's arms.
"Heya, Icey," Denmark says with a smile. "Sh, just be quiet. Norway's here, too. He's gonna remake your bed and then we're gonna get you settled again, okay?"
Iceland doesn't understand, but he nuzzles his head into Denmark's shoulder and clings to his shirt anyway. His body aches, but Denmark's large hands rubbing his back take the edge off the pain, and his thick arms are cool against Iceland's burning skin.
"I'll take him now."
Norway's smooth voice drifts into Iceland's mind, and then his arms are pulling him away from Denmark and into his chest. He smiles and wipes sweaty grey curls away from Iceland's forehead, then sets him down on his bed, on a blue blanket instead of a red checkered one. Norway wrings out a wet cloth and brushes it against Iceland's arm.
When he gasps at the cold water running down his skin, something flickers in Norway's eyes.
"Does that hurt?"
Iceland shakes his head. Denmark kneels down beside him, puts a hand on his head.
"Norway's just going to get you cooled off, okay, little guy?"
Iceland nods. Norway gently strokes his burning skin with the soft cloth, and slowly, slowly, Iceland begins to fall asleep, limp against Denmark's arm keeping him upright. But he wakes up in time to ask Norway to tuck him in.
Norway chuckles, a faint smile softening his face, and obliges, pulling the thin blue blanket up to Iceland's chin and giving him a little kiss on the forehead. Iceland reaches for his hand, his bony fingers wrapping around Norway's thumb, and asks him if he'll stay.
"Yes," Norway says as he sits down on Iceland's bed, Denmark kneeling beside him. He doesn't pry Iceland's fingers off his hand, and Iceland falls asleep to the soft sound of Norway's humming and the feel of his large hand cupping Iceland's small one.
Laki [6/7]
He breathes hot smoke and stinging ash. Sometimes he thinks he's just crawled on the beach after a swim in the hot springs, but attempts to bury his hands in the warm sand remind him that he's still stuck in bed, slick with sweat and wrapped in disheveled sheets and burning deep in his bones.
He dozes a little, as much as he can. He dreams of winter, of perfect snowflakes falling and sticking, one by one, to his window. He dreams of holding Norway's hand outside and sticking his tongue out to catch the falling crystals on his tongue. He blinks and then there are orange-yellow fireworks in the sky and ash, not snow, falling in his mouth. The earth wobbles and sinks beneath him, and he awakes to his bedroom door squealing on its hinges and someone sitting down on his bed beside him.
Rough, strong hands cup his face and brush his forehead and cheeks. Someone whispers his name in a smooth but shaking voice.
"Ice, hey, Ice."
An arm supports his shoulders and helps him sit upright. And then—water. Sweet, cold water. He drinks so much so fast that he almost chokes. Someone rubs his back as he coughs and hacks up ash and phlegm.
Then he is breathing again. He holds out his arms and whines for more water. Within moments he has a second glass held to his lips, and he slurps down every last drop. Someone picks him up, then, and a few blinks later, he is in Denmark's arms.
"Heya, Icey," Denmark says with a smile. "Sh, just be quiet. Norway's here, too. He's gonna remake your bed and then we're gonna get you settled again, okay?"
Iceland doesn't understand, but he nuzzles his head into Denmark's shoulder and clings to his shirt anyway. His body aches, but Denmark's large hands rubbing his back take the edge off the pain, and his thick arms are cool against Iceland's burning skin.
"I'll take him now."
Norway's smooth voice drifts into Iceland's mind, and then his arms are pulling him away from Denmark and into his chest. He smiles and wipes sweaty grey curls away from Iceland's forehead, then sets him down on his bed, on a blue blanket instead of a red checkered one. Norway wrings out a wet cloth and brushes it against Iceland's arm.
When he gasps at the cold water running down his skin, something flickers in Norway's eyes.
"Does that hurt?"
Iceland shakes his head. Denmark kneels down beside him, puts a hand on his head.
"Norway's just going to get you cooled off, okay, little guy?"
Iceland nods. Norway gently strokes his burning skin with the soft cloth, and slowly, slowly, Iceland begins to fall asleep, limp against Denmark's arm keeping him upright. But he wakes up in time to ask Norway to tuck him in.
Norway chuckles, a faint smile softening his face, and obliges, pulling the thin blue blanket up to Iceland's chin and giving him a little kiss on the forehead. Iceland reaches for his hand, his bony fingers wrapping around Norway's thumb, and asks him if he'll stay.
"Yes," Norway says as he sits down on Iceland's bed, Denmark kneeling beside him. He doesn't pry Iceland's fingers off his hand, and Iceland falls asleep to the soft sound of Norway's humming and the feel of his large hand cupping Iceland's small one.