let me answer this...

The Nordic house was bustling with activity as usual. Norway and Iceland were quietly bickering over a map, Sweden was silently crafting a new piece of furniture, and Finland hummed cheerfully as he set up the table for fika.

Denmark burst into the room like a storm, his broad grin plastered across his face and his usual, overconfident swagger in full force.

“Finland!” he bellowed, clapping his hands together loudly. Everyone stopped what they were doing.

“Denmark?” Finland asked, pausing mid-step, a plate of cinnamon buns in his hand.

“I’ve been thinking, you and me should totally go out sometime!” Denmark declared, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest proudly.

The room went dead silent. Sweden’s hammer froze mid-air. Iceland’s mouth opened slightly, and Norway raised an eyebrow, his face a mask of stoic disbelief.

Finland blinked, then let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, that’s... um… sweet of you, Denmark, but you know I’m with Sweden, right?”

Denmark waved a dismissive hand, his grin unfaltering. “Yeah, yeah, but come on, who wouldn’t want to go out with me? I’m fun, I’m charming, I’m—"

“—interrupting,” Sweden interjected, his deep voice cutting through the room like a knife. He put down his hammer and turned to face Denmark, his usual stoic expression just a shade darker.

“Ah, Sve!” Denmark said, seemingly unfazed, though he took a half-step back. “I was just, uh, making a suggestion to Finland! Nothing wrong with that, right?”

Finland, in a rare show of mischief, smiled innocently and said, “Oh, it’s okay, Sweden. Denmark here just wants to take me on a date. Isn’t that cute?”

Sweden narrowed his eyes slightly, and Denmark laughed nervously. “I mean, not like that! Just, you know, a casual thing. Like two friends hanging out! Right, Finland?”

“Oh, is that what you meant?” Finland said, tilting his head, his tone dripping with mock confusion. “Because it really sounded like you were asking me out romantically.”

Denmark flushed slightly, a rare occurrence. “Well, uh…”

Norway finally chimed in, his voice laced with dry amusement. “Perhaps you should work on your delivery, Denmark. That was embarrassing even for you.”

Iceland smirked. “It was entertaining, though. Do it again.”

Denmark huffed, trying to regain his composure. “Okay, okay, I get it! Bad timing, bad idea. No need to gang up on me!” He turned to Finland with a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that, Fin. You know I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Finland gave him a kind smile, though the glint in his eyes suggested he wasn’t letting him off the hook completely. “It’s fine, Denmark. Just remember next time to think before you speak. Especially around Sweden.”

Denmark glanced nervously at Sweden, who was now back to crafting, though the faintest smirk on his lips betrayed his satisfaction at how things had played out.

“Yeah, I’ll… keep that in mind,” Denmark muttered, retreating quickly.

As the door slammed behind him, Finland set down the plate of buns and turned to Sweden with a grin. “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Mm,” Sweden murmured, his gaze softening as he looked at Finland.

Norway leaned over to Iceland, muttering, “You’d think he’d learn by now.”

It was a rare sunny evening, and the Nordics had gathered around a small fire near the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking the sea. Norway, Denmark, and Sweden had insisted on regaling Iceland with tales from their Viking days. Iceland, reluctant as always, sat cross-legged on a log, his expression a perfect mix of skepticism and quiet curiosity.

Denmark slapped his knee with a hearty laugh, holding his mug of beer aloft. "Back in the day, I was the best Viking around! The fastest ships, the most treasure, and definitely the most women!" He winked shamelessly at Iceland, who gave him a withering glare.

Sweden, sitting stoically next to Denmark, adjusted his glasses and muttered, "Doubt that. Y're usually th' loudest, not th' best."

"Excuse me?!" Denmark whipped around to face Sweden, nearly spilling his drink.

"He's not wrong," Norway said flatly, sipping his own beer. "I always had to clean up after you. Pillaging a village isn't just about yelling and waving an axe around, you know."

"I strategize!" Denmark defended, puffing out his chest. "Besides, who was it that stole that entire chest of gold from the King of England? Oh yeah, me."

"That was me," Norway corrected, looking unimpressed. "You tripped over a chicken and fell in the mud before you even made it to the treasure."

Denmark turned bright red, but Iceland could hardly suppress a snort of laughter. Denmark turned his attention to him with a grin. "Hey, Ice! You'd have loved the Viking days. The thrill of the sea, the raid on enemy shores, the endless drinking!"

Iceland, who had been inching his hand toward Norway's beer while everyone was distracted, froze mid-sip when he realized all eyes were now on him.

"Wait, is that my beer?" Norway asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Iceland quickly wiped his mouth and tried to look innocent. "No. I don't even like beer."

Denmark squinted at him suspiciously, then burst out laughing. "Oh, you sneaky little bastard! Trying to become a real Viking, huh?" He slid his mug closer to himself protectively. "Good luck stealing my beer, though."

Challenge accepted.

As Denmark launched into another exaggerated story—this time about wrestling a bear with his bare hands—Iceland casually leaned back and edged closer to Norway's mug again. He thought he was being slick, but the moment he tipped the mug toward his mouth, Norway snatched it away.

"Seriously?" Norway questioned, his expression unreadable but his tone tinged with faint amusement.

"I'm just...testing it for poison," Iceland said with an awkward cough.

"Ah, that's a classic Viking move!" Denmark crowed, slamming his own mug down on the table. "Alright, kid, you can have a sip of mine. Just to see if you’ve got the stomach for it." He shoved the mug toward Iceland, who hesitated before taking a cautious sip.

The beer was stronger than he expected, and he coughed, which only made Denmark laugh harder.

"Not bad!" Denmark declared, clapping him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him off his log. "But you'd never survive a proper Viking feast if you can’t handle that!"

Sweden, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, finally spoke up. "Y're all forgettin'. Bein' a Viking wasn't just 'bout drinkin' 'n raidin'. There was farm work, shipbuildin', tradin'... and keepin' Denmark outta trouble."

"Hey!" Denmark protested, clearly offended. "I didn't need anyone to keep me out of trouble!"

Norway smirked. "Oh really? What about the time you set your own longship on fire because you thought it’d make for a dramatic entrance?"

"That... was an accident," Denmark muttered, sinking into his seat.

Iceland finally let out a genuine laugh, his guard slipping for just a moment. The sight of the usually stoic young nation laughing made Denmark, Norway, and even Sweden exchange a brief look of fondness.

"See? You would've made a great Viking," Denmark said, grinning. "All the sneaking, stealing, and sass? You’d fit right in."

Iceland rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he reached for Norway's beer again, only to find the mug empty. Norway silently held up the drained mug, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips.

"I hate all of you," Iceland muttered, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a smile.

The Nordic house was quiet, save for the steady crackling of the fireplace. Iceland sat on the couch, his legs curled under him, his usual stoic expression set as he focused on the book in his hands. Snow had begun to fall again, a soft layer dusting the window ledges outside.

Sweden entered the room, his tall frame nearly brushing the top of the doorframe. He carried an armful of freshly chopped wood, his movements deliberate and steady. He set the wood by the hearth, dusted his hands off, and glanced at Iceland.

"Book good?" Sweden asked, his deep voice breaking the silence. It was gruff but gentle, as if he were trying not to disturb the calm too much.

Iceland looked up briefly, his silvery hair catching the warm glow of the fire. "It’s fine," he replied tersely, then went back to reading.

Sweden didn’t mind the curt response. He had long since learned to recognize the younger nation’s quiet affection hidden behind his cool demeanor. He moved to the window, looking out at the snow. The wind was picking up.

"Storm’s comin’," Sweden noted.

Iceland merely hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes still on the page. He didn’t like making a fuss about the weather; storms were part of his everyday life.

Sweden’s gaze lingered on Iceland for a moment. The younger nation’s frame seemed even smaller in the oversized sweater he wore, and it struck Sweden just how much of a height difference there was between them. He let out a low chuckle, which caught Iceland’s attention.

"What?" Iceland asked, suspicious. He marked his place in the book and narrowed his eyes at Sweden.

"Y’r tiny," Sweden said simply, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Iceland scowled, cheeks flushing faintly. "I’m not that short. You’re just unnaturally tall."

Sweden crossed the room, looming over Iceland in an almost comical way. He tilted his head, as if measuring the younger nation with his eyes.

"Still small," he said matter-of-factly.

"Am not!" Iceland shot back, standing up now. He barely reached Sweden’s chest. The sight made Sweden’s lips twitch with amusement.

"Prove it," Sweden challenged, his blue eyes sparkling with rare playfulness.

Before Iceland could respond, Sweden leaned down and scooped him up with ease, one arm under Iceland’s knees and the other supporting his back. Iceland let out a startled yelp, his book falling to the floor.

"What the—Sweden, put me down!" Iceland protested, squirming. His pale face turned crimson, though whether from anger or embarrassment, even he wasn’t sure.

"Y’r lighter than I thought," Sweden remarked, completely unfazed by Iceland’s protests. He adjusted his hold slightly, cradling the younger nation as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Let me go!" Iceland demanded, his voice rising. But there was no real anger in his tone—just a mix of flustered annoyance and something he didn’t want to admit was…fondness?

Sweden didn’t respond, instead turning in a slow circle as if showing off. "Perfect fit," he said with a rare smirk.

Iceland groaned, covering his face with his hands. "You’re impossible."

Sweden chuckled softly, the deep sound reverberating in his chest. After a moment, he set Iceland back on his feet, though he kept one hand on the younger nation’s shoulder to steady him.

"There. Big ‘nough now?" Sweden teased, a faint warmth in his tone.

Iceland glanced up at him, his usual deadpan expression softened by a faint, reluctant smile. "You’re an idiot," he muttered, but the words lacked bite.

Sweden simply nodded, a contented glint in his eyes. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and steady.

The elevator jolted to a stop with a groan, pitching Finland forward slightly. He caught himself on the mirrored wall, glancing at Sweden, who remained steady as a stone in the cramped space.

“Well, this is... less than ideal,” Finland said lightly, brushing his hands off and giving the control panel a wary glance. “Looks like we’re stuck.”

“Mm,” Sweden rumbled in agreement. He pressed the emergency button, but it only emitted a faint buzz. His brow furrowed, the corner of his mouth tightening as he stared at the unresponsive panel.

Finland sighed, settling back against the wall. “Of course. Just our luck, huh? At least it’s not the stairs, I suppose.”

Sweden nodded, his silence filling the small space. Finland shifted, trying to make himself comfortable. Though they had stood side by side countless times, something about being trapped in such close quarters made him acutely aware of Sweden’s presence—the sheer size of him, the quiet strength radiating off him like the warmth of a fire on a cold night.

“Not much we can do but wait,” Finland said, glancing up at him. “You okay?”

“...Fine,” Sweden replied, his voice low and steady. His gaze flicked down to Finland, and for a brief moment, something unspoken lingered in the air. Then, almost awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Finland tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You didn’t break the elevator, did you?”

Sweden shook his head, but his hand rubbed the back of his neck in a rare show of uncertainty. “...For bein’ here with me. ‘S small. Uncomfortable.”

Finland blinked, then let out a laugh. “What? You think I’d rather be stuck with Denmark? Or Russia? Honestly, I think I lucked out.”

A faint pink crept up Sweden’s ears, and he averted his gaze. Finland stepped closer, leaning slightly against the mirrored wall to study him better. “Hey, it’s not that bad. Actually...” He paused, his voice softening. “I feel safer with you here.”

Sweden glanced at him sharply, his blue eyes searching Finland’s face. His hand twitched at his side, as if unsure whether to reach out or stay still. Finland caught the movement, his own confidence faltering under the weight of Sweden’s gaze.

“Ber—uh, Sweden,” Finland began, his cheeks warming. “You’re staring.”

“...Hard not t’.” Sweden’s response was quiet but firm, his eyes unwavering.

Finland felt his breath hitch. His laugh came out shaky, more a nervous exhale than anything else. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“...Sorry,” Sweden murmured, though there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his voice.

The space between them felt smaller, more charged. Finland tilted his head up slightly to meet Sweden’s gaze, his heart pounding in a way he couldn’t ignore. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sweden’s hand moved, deliberate but hesitant, until it cupped Finland’s cheek. His touch was warm, grounding, and Finland found himself leaning into it instinctively.

“‘S good... bein’ here with you,” Sweden said, his voice rough but tender. His thumb brushed lightly over Finland’s cheek, and the gesture sent a shiver down Finland’s spine.

Before he could overthink it, Finland closed the distance, his lips pressing softly against Sweden’s. The kiss was timorous at first, but as Sweden’s arm wrapped around Finland’s waist, pulling him closer, it deepened into something more certain, more anchored.

The crackle of the elevator speaker startled them apart, both glancing at it as if caught in the act. A static-laden voice announced, “We’re working on getting the elevator moving again. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Finland exhaled a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against Sweden’s chest as the tension dissolved into something lighter. “Of course. Timing, right?”

“Mm,” Sweden hummed, his arms not loosening.

The elevator jerked, then slowly resumed its ascent. Finland smiled, his hand resting on Sweden’s chest as he looked up at him. “You know,” he said, his tone teasing but fond, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you planned this.”

“Didn’t,” Sweden said gruffly, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. “...But wouldn’t mind if I did.”

Finland chuckled, the sound warm and bright. When the elevator doors finally slid open, neither made a move to step out immediately.

“Ready?” Finland asked, tilting his head with a sweet grin.

“Only if y’ are,” Sweden replied, his hand brushing Finland’s as they walked out together.

Waiting just outside the elevator was Denmark, a knowingly toothy grin plastered across his face. “Took you two long enough. Did the elevator actually break, or was this just an excuse for some alone time?”

Finland flushed, laughing nervously as he glanced at Sweden, who merely adjusted his glasses with a stoic expression.

Snow drifted softly against the frosted windows of Finland and Sweden’s home, a cozy cabin glowing with the warmth of Christmas cheer. Nations bustled around the room, chatting, sipping mulled wine, and exchanging gifts, laughter weaving through the festive air.

Iceland stood near the tree, clutching a glass of sparkling cider and watching from a distance as Norway and Denmark shared a lively conversation near the fireplace.

Denmark’s loud laugh echoed across the room, and Iceland winced, wishing he could tune it out. Norway, ever serene, tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into one of his rare smiles. It was a smile that Iceland had dreamed of being directed at him, but it wasn’t. It was for Denmark. It was always for Denmark.

Iceland adjusted the scarf around his neck, a gift Norway had given him last Christmas. He could still remember the softness in Norway’s voice when he handed it to him, a quiet reminder to stay warm. It had felt intimate, like a secret meant just for them.

But now, watching Norway lean slightly toward Denmark, Iceland felt foolish. Norway’s attention was elsewhere, and it was painfully obvious.

Finland’s cheerful voice brought Iceland back to the present. “Iceland! Have you opened your gift yet?” He gestured to a small box under the tree with Iceland’s name on it.

“No, not yet,” Iceland replied, his voice quiet but steady. He moved toward the tree, his steps slow as if reluctant to leave his vantage point. He wanted to look away from Norway and Denmark, but his gaze was drawn back like a magnet. Denmark was saying something animatedly, his hands gesturing wildly, and Norway—stoic, composed Norway—was laughing. Truly laughing.

It hurt.

Iceland unwrapped the box mechanically, his fingers shaking slightly. Inside was a small carved puffin, its details delicate and intricate.

Finland smiled brightly. “Sweden made it. Thought it’d be something you’d like.” Iceland nodded, forcing a smile in return. It was a thoughtful gift, but it didn’t ease the ache in his chest.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, setting the puffin on a nearby table. His eyes darted back to Norway, who was now leaning closer to Denmark. He whispered something in Denmark’s ear, and the taller nation grinned, slinging an arm around Norway’s shoulders. Iceland looked away, unable to bear it.

Time passed in a blur. Iceland floated through the party, exchanging polite conversation but never truly present. Eventually, the crowd thinned, and the fire burned lower. Denmark stood by the doorway, waving goodbye to a group of nations as they left. Iceland found himself alone with Norway by the fireplace, the room quieter now, the weight of unsaid words hanging between them.

“Are you leaving soon?” Norway asked, his voice calm but tinged with concern. His indigo eyes met Iceland’s lavender, and for a moment, it felt like the world slowed.

Iceland hesitated, his heart pounding. He wanted to say everything—that he loved Norway, that it tore him apart to see him with Denmark, that he wished he could be the one to make him smile like that. But he couldn’t. Instead, he looked down at his hands, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you… like him?”

Norway blinked, caught off guard. “Denmark?”

Iceland nodded, his chest tightening. Norway’s expression softened, and he looked away, staring into the dying embers of the fire.

“He’s… important to me,” Norway admitted. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

Hope sparked faintly in Iceland’s chest. “Then… what way?”

Norway turned back to him, his gaze steady. “He’s my friend. Someone I trust. But if you’re asking whether I have feelings for him… no.” His voice was gentle, as if he’d sensed Iceland’s turmoil all along.

Iceland’s breath caught. “Oh.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Norway stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You mean something different to me. I’m just not always good at showing it.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. Iceland looked up, meeting Norway’s gaze. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his eyes. It wasn’t a confession, not entirely, but it was enough. Enough to soothe the ache, enough to make Iceland believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t invisible to Norway after all.

As the clock struck midnight, Norway reached out, adjusting the scarf around Iceland’s neck, his fingers brushing lightly against his skin. “Stay warm,” he murmured, the same words he’d said a year ago, but this time, they carried a promise.

Iceland nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I will.”

Norway’s footsteps echoed through the hotel hallway, each step heavy, deliberate, as though his boots carried the weight of the North Sea itself. He didn’t belong here—he knew that—but there was nowhere else he could go. The room number hung in his mind like an anchor: 505.

He should have been in Oslo. Iceland had told him as much in that calm, cutting way of his. Yet the thought of spending another evening in that silence, wrapped in cold logic and careful words, had been unbearable. So here he was, chasing the heat he’d sworn to leave behind.

The door was cracked open—of course it was. Denmark was never one for caution or subtlety. Although Norway suspected this was less carelessness and more invitation. His hand hesitated on the frame, fingertips brushing the wood. The room smelled of beer and salt, of sweat and something sweeter, headier.

"You gonna stand out there all night, or are you coming in?" Denmark’s voice called from inside, light but with an edge that twisted in Norway’s chest.

He stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Denmark was sprawled across the bed, arms behind his head, shirt rumpled and half-buttoned. His hair was a mess of gold, his grin sharper than it had any right to be.

"Took you long enough," Denmark drawled, though his eyes, bright and electric, betrayed something deeper. Relief? Anticipation?

Norway crossed the room but didn’t sit, keeping a deliberate distance. "You shouldn’t have called me."

"And yet, you came," Denmark countered, sitting up. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if closing the gap between them might make Norway stay longer. "Couldn’t resist me, huh?"

Norway’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t look away. "This is the last time."

Denmark laughed, soft and low, the sound vibrating in the quiet space. "You’ve said that before."

And he had. Every time. Yet here they were.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged. Norway’s hands were in his pockets, knuckles brushing the smooth stone he always carried, a ward against choices like these. But it did nothing to stop the memories—Denmark’s hands, his mouth, the way he filled the emptiness with fire until it burned too hot to bear.

"You look like hell," Denmark said finally, though his voice softened, concern slipping through the bravado.

"Didn’t come here to talk about me," Norway replied, though he knew that wasn’t entirely true. He came because he was drowning, and Denmark—reckless, infuriating Denmark—was the only one who knew how to pull him out.

Denmark stood, closing the distance between them with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, but there was hesitation in his movements, as if waiting for Norway to push him away. When Norway didn’t, Denmark’s hand found his chin, tilting his face up so their eyes met.

"You should stop running," Denmark said, the words softer than expected. His thumb brushed against the corner of Norway’s mouth, an unspoken question hanging between them.

Norway’s breath caught, and for a moment, he let himself forget. Forget Iceland’s disappointed gaze, the storm brewing back home, the guilt that clawed at him every time he stepped into this room. He kissed Denmark, hard and unyielding, as if punishing him for being everything Norway wanted and everything he couldn’t have.

The kiss deepened, and the world narrowed to the taste of Denmark’s mouth, the way his hands gripped Norway’s hips like he was afraid to let go. The bed creaked beneath them, the space between confessions and mistakes shrinking until it didn’t exist at all.

After, Norway lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling, while Denmark lit a cigarette and leaned against the headboard. Smoke curled in lazy patterns above them, and for a moment, neither spoke.

"You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?" Denmark said, breaking the silence.

Norway flinched, but he didn’t deny it. Iceland was always there, a ghost between them, though he’d never stepped foot in this room.

"Do you love him?" Denmark asked, voice carefully neutral.

"I don’t know," Norway admitted, hating the way the words felt like betrayal.

Denmark sighed, leaning over to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. "You’re always halfway gone, Norge. Even when you’re here."

Norway turned his head, the weight of Denmark’s words pressing on his chest. He didn’t know how to explain it, how to say that it wasn’t just Iceland or guilt or duty that kept pulling him away. It was fear—of what he might become if he stayed, of how much he might lose if he didn’t.

"I shouldn’t have come," Norway said, sitting up.

"But you did," Denmark replied, his voice tinged with something that sounded too much like hope.

And that was the problem. Norway wanted to stay, wanted to let himself drown in Denmark’s fire, but he didn’t know how to stop running. So he stood, reaching for his coat, and Denmark didn’t try to stop him.

The dance floor was alive, pulsing with neon lights and pounding bass. Denmark was in the middle of it all, spinning, shouting, laughing—a whirlwind of chaos and charisma that drew everyone into his orbit. His blonde hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, and his grin as infectious as ever.

At the edge of the room, Norway nursed a glass of something bitter. His gaze was steady on the one person he told himself he wasn’t here for. He’d only come because Sweden had bailed on keeping Denmark in check, or at least that’s what he kept repeating to himself. But watching Denmark like this—vivid and uncontainable—made it harder to deny the truth.

Denmark caught his eye across the room, his grin widening. “Norge!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the music. “You’re just standing there! Come dance!”

Norway shook his head, already regretting his decision to come. “I don’t dance.”

Denmark didn’t take no for an answer. He bounded over, his energy an unstoppable force, and grabbed Norway’s arm. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve said that before. But tonight’s the night you’re gonna prove yourself wrong!”

Before Norway could protest, Denmark dragged him into the throng. The lights flashed erratically, the music pulsed through his chest, and Denmark was all grins and wild energy. “Loosen up, Norge!” Denmark laughed, spinning him around with no regard for rhythm.

Despite himself, Norway let out a soft laugh, a sound he barely recognized as his own.

Denmark froze mid-spin, staring at him with wide eyes. “Did you just laugh?” he asked, his voice carrying enough that a few people nearby turned to look. “No way! Do it again!”

“Shut up, Danmark,” Norway muttered, his cheeks heating.

But Denmark wasn’t listening. His blue eyes locked on Norway’s face, the teasing grin softening into something more earnest. He stepped closer, so close that Norway could feel the warmth of his breath. “See? You’re having fun already.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to just them. The music, the crowd, the lights—they all faded. Denmark’s hand lingered on Norway’s wrist, his gaze intense in a way that made Norway’s chest tighten.

But then, just as quickly, Denmark pulled back. “Be right back!” he called over his shoulder, twirling away to shout at someone else across the room.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Norway retreated to the edge of the room, watching Denmark throw himself deeper into the chaos. Another drink, another laugh, another reckless moment. It was Denmark’s usual pattern—louder, wilder, and more. But something about tonight felt different, heavier, and Norway couldn’t shake the tightness in his chest.

When Denmark stumbled, laughing too hard to stay upright, Norway caught him. “You’ve had enough,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Aw, Norge, don’t be boring,” Denmark slurred, though he leaned heavily into Norway’s hold. “I’m just… having fun. Forgetting stuff, you know?”

“Forgetting what?” Norway wanted to ask, but the vulnerability in Denmark’s voice stopped him.

He didn’t press. Instead, he guided Denmark out of the crowded room and into the cool night air.

The walk home was quiet. Denmark stumbled a few times, but Norway kept a steady hand on his arm, his grip firm but gentle.

“You always do this,” Norway said finally, breaking the silence.

“Do what?” Denmark asked, his usual bravado dimmed.

“Run yourself ragged. Pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Denmark stopped walking, forcing Norway to turn and face him. His blue eyes were raw, unguarded in a way that made Norway’s stomach twist. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I hate being alone? That I don’t know what to do when I’m not the life of the party?” His voice cracked, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Norway stared, his chest tightening. “You’re not alone, Danmark.”

Denmark laughed, but it was bitter, nothing like his usual carefree sound. “Aren’t I? Feels like it sometimes. Even with you.”

The words hit like a punch. Norway opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling to find the right words.

“You don’t get it,” Denmark continued, his voice quieter now. “You’re always so distant. So untouchable. How am I supposed to…” He trailed off, looking away.

“To what?” Norway asked, his heart hammering.

Denmark didn’t answer. The silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken.

When they reached Norway’s house, Denmark collapsed onto the couch with a groan. Norway lingered by the doorway, the air between them thick with tension.

“I’m not good at this,” Norway said finally, his voice soft but steady. “Talking. Feelings. But you’re wrong.”

Denmark turned to him, confusion and something like hope flickering in his eyes.

“You’re not alone,” Norway continued. “I’ve always been here. Maybe I don’t show it the way you want, but…” He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. “You mean more to me than anyone.”

Denmark blinked, sitting up straighter. “Are you serious?”

Norway rolled his eyes, though his cheeks flushed. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Denmark laughed—a quiet, disbelieving sound—and then he leaned forward, hesitating just long enough for Norway to close the distance between them.

The kiss was tentative at first. Soft and uncertain, but it deepened quickly. Years of unspoken feelings pouring into the space between them.

When they finally pulled apart, Denmark was grinning, his usual energy returning but softer, warmer. “Took you long enough.”

“Shut up, Danmark,” Norway muttered, though there was no real irritation in his voice.

Denmark’s laughter filled the room, and for once, Norway didn’t mind.

At the next party, Denmark was just as wild, his laugh just as loud. But this time, Norway wasn’t watching from the sidelines.

Instead, he was beside him, dancing in his own quiet way, their hands brushing and their smiles reserved only for each other.

It had been years since Norway had last set foot in Iceland’s apartment. The place hadn’t changed much—still cozy, a little cold, with soft lighting that made the shadows dance in the corners. The air smelled faintly of pine trees, a scent that always reminded Norway of home. But everything felt different now.

He stood in the doorway, staring at Iceland, who was sitting on the couch, tapping away on his phone. The young man didn’t look up, not even when Norway cleared his throat.

"You’re back," Iceland said, his voice quiet, almost nonchalant.

Norway nodded, stepping further into the apartment. "I’m here."

"I thought you were done with this place."

"I was."

The two of them hadn’t spoken in months. It had been easier that way. Easier to pretend nothing had changed, easier to pretend they weren’t both lying to themselves about what they wanted. But now… Now, something had shifted between them.

Iceland looked up at Norway, his sharp eyes filled with that familiar mix of irritation and concern. "Why now? Why after everything?"

Norway didn't have a clear answer. Maybe it was because of Denmark—the way he’d been hovering around Iceland, making things tense. Maybe it was just the weight of years pushing him to say something before he lost the chance.

"I don’t know," he said finally, voice softer than he intended. "I just… I needed to see you."

Iceland leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "You really should’ve stayed gone."

That stung, but Norway couldn’t bring himself to argue. Instead, he stood there, waiting for something, anything that might bring them back to what they had been—before all the misunderstandings, before the distance.

The silence stretched between them, and then, just as Norway was about to turn and leave, the door swung open.

Denmark’s broad frame filled the doorway, his usual grin plastered on his face. "Well, well, well, look who’s come crawling back," he said with a wink, but his eyes weren’t as playful as usual.

Iceland didn’t even flinch. "You’re too late."

Denmark didn’t take his eyes off Norway. "What do you think you’re doing here? Thought you were done with us, Norway."

"I’m not here to fight," Norway said, his voice cold and distant. "I just… need to talk to him."

Denmark stepped inside, blocking the door. "You’ve been gone too long to just walk back in like nothing’s changed."

"Nothing has changed," Iceland said, his voice flat. "Not for you, not for me. You two always make it this way, dragging me into your nonsense. But it was never about me, was it?"

"Don't make this about you," Denmark snapped, the usual lightness in his tone gone. "This isn’t about me or Norway. It’s about what you need."

Iceland stood up, looking past both of them. "You don’t understand," he said quietly. "None of you do. Things… things aren’t the same anymore. Not between any of us."

Norway’s heart ached. The years apart had been painful, but the distance had become an unbearable chasm now, so wide that he couldn’t even see the other side. He had tried to move on, to let go of the past, but he had never been able to forget.

"I don’t want things to be like this," Norway said, his voice cracking slightly. "I just want things to be like they were."

Iceland’s gaze softened, just a little. "It’s not that simple. We can't go back, not after everything."

Denmark stepped closer, his earlier anger fading. "Iceland, we’re all stuck in the past, aren't we? But none of us know how to move forward."

The silence in the room was deafening. Norway looked at both of them—his brother, the one who had been a part of his life for so long, and Denmark, the one who always seemed to keep pushing, pushing for something he couldn’t explain.

But for Iceland, it was always a struggle. A push and pull between wanting to be free and wanting to keep everyone close. His isolation had always been his defense, but now it seemed to be suffocating him.

"I’m not asking you to go back," Norway said, taking a step toward Iceland. "I’m asking if we can stop pretending nothing’s changed. Can we… Can we just start again?"

Iceland’s eyes flicked to Denmark for a moment before looking back at Norway. "I don’t know. I don’t know if we can."

Denmark watched the two of them for a long moment before speaking up. "Maybe… maybe that’s okay. Maybe the past isn’t something we can fix. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop trying."

Iceland sighed, rubbing his face. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe it's not about going back. Maybe it’s about finding something new."

As the night dragged on, the three of them talked. It wasn’t the reunion they had all expected, but it was something. For now, it was enough.

Denmark leaned back in the rocking chair, spinning one of Iceland's tiny socks around his finger. “How hard can it be? He’s just a baby! Feed him, keep him entertained, and we’re golden.”

Norway, arms crossed and already regretting every decision leading up to this moment, sighed. “He’s curious. Curious and fast. Don’t underestimate him.”

From the corner of the room, baby Iceland was proving Norway’s point. The toddler had managed to wiggle out of his blanket cocoon and was crawling at alarming speed toward the bookshelf.

“See?” Norway gestured. “He’s going to—”

CRASH.

Books toppled to the floor as Iceland sat proudly among the mess, babbling something that sounded suspiciously like a victory cheer.

Denmark sprang to his feet. “Hey, little guy, you’ve got some strong Viking energy there!” He scooped Iceland up, only for the baby to immediately grab a handful of his hair.

“Ow! Norway, help!” Denmark exclaimed, trying to gently untangle tiny fingers from his blond locks.

Norway simply watched, unimpressed. “Told you. He likes shiny things. And apparently, your hair qualifies.”

Once free, Denmark plopped Iceland into his lap and waved a brightly colored toy in front of him. “Here, how about this instead of my hair?”

Iceland’s eyes lit up, but instead of playing with the toy, he launched himself at the table where Norway’s coffee sat steaming.

Norway lunged, grabbing the mug just in time. “I told you to keep an eye on him! He’s like a goat—he’ll eat anything!”

As if to prove this, Iceland picked up one of Denmark’s socks from the floor and stuffed it into his mouth.

“NO!” Both adults shouted in unison.

Denmark fished the soggy sock out of Iceland’s mouth. “Okay, okay, new plan! We need containment.” He set Iceland in a playpen and surrounded him with pillows and toys.

For a moment, it seemed like peace had been restored. Iceland happily gurgled and waved his arms around, content in his fortress of fluff.

“That wasn’t so hard,” Denmark said, smugly.

Norway narrowed his eyes. “You just jinxed it.”

And, of course, Norway was right. Moments later, Iceland was scaling the side of the playpen like a mountaineer, determined to escape.

“How is he this strong?!” Denmark shouted, rushing to catch the baby before he toppled over the side.

Norway, finally cracking a small smile, shook his head. “He’s determined. That’s why.”

As the chaos continued—blocks being hurled, giggles echoing, and Denmark nearly tripping over a toy—Norway finally sat down, surprisingly calm.

“Why are you so relaxed?” Denmark asked, balancing Iceland on one hip as the baby tugged on his scarf.

“Because you said this would be easy,” Norway replied dryly. “This is your problem now.”

Denmark groaned, but even as Iceland stuck a sticky hand on his face, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay, you win, little Viking. You’re the boss!”