“At least it's not Denmark,” was what Iceland led with, after letting them sit in silence for the entire twenty-minute commute to Norway’s place. Only after Norway had cut the engine, and the horizon had gone purple, had he deigned to speak.

There was a nervous energy about him (even more so than usual). His fingers thrummed against the arm rest, toyed with the locking mechanism inside the car door. Beneath the austere interior light of Norway’s car, he only saw the faint reflection of Iceland’s face in the passenger window, the haunting ghost of his brother.

If Norway was being honest, he didn't know what to make of any of this. Iceland was… fragile, to say the least, even if Iceland didn't like to think so. He even looked fragile, with his wet, violet eyes and his porcelain skin. He would’ve almost been doll-like, if not for the marginal muscle tone he’d gotten from endless outdoor hikes. Norway could see the outline of it through Iceland’s jeans as his knee bobbed up and down. Along Iceland’s chest, and his arms, now that his suit jacket was neatly folded beside his suitcase in the backseat.

The kiss had been brief. Passionate, but brief. The fact that it took place at a UN meeting shouldn't have bothered Norway (whatever they said about athletes getting it on during the Olympics, the nations themselves were on another plane entirely). He wouldn’t have even seen it, had he not glanced at the door right when Turkey had walked through it--had he not caught the impish upturn of Iceland’s lips, or the way they’d puckered as he’d grabbed Turkey by the tie and tugged him down to his height.

“Please, this is worse than Denmark,” Norway said, though he wasn't quite convinced it was true (a testament to Denmark's infamy, and nothing else). “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking he's been a perfect gentleman every time I've been with him,” Iceland pointed out. Then, when he glanced back to see whatever tension must have overtaken Norway, a smile crossed his face. “And he's not bad with his tongue, either—”

“Please stop.” There was a wrench that screwed Norway's stomach tight, and it decided to twist another half-turn. His whole body was rigid. Faintly, he was aware that his foot hadn't left the brake, that one fist still clenched around the steering wheel, the other pinching his keys so tightly they stung. He flung the keys into the cupholder between them and scrubbed a hand over his face. Then, he forced a deep breath and leaned back, inch by agonizing inch, against the leather seat.

This only seemed to egg Iceland on. “Oh no, your little brother has sex! Oh no, how will you survive? Your sweet little brother gets breakfast in bed and morning blowjobs from Turkey, your poor little virgin eyes and ears—”

“It's not that….”

Iceland paused and gave Norway an incredulous look. “Then what?”

Norway ached to pull Iceland in himself, to shock him so deeply that the wrinkle between his brows smoothed and his eyes went wide.

Instead, he took the more obvious route. “You haven't seen what he's like.”

And it was true. Denmark and Sweden aside, Iceland had never seen these old empires in all their terrible glory. He didn’t know the way England or Japan or Turkey looked, when they were drunk on the power of their own armies. Sometimes, Norway’s blood still curdled when he remembered the times he’d seen England at the height of his influence. He couldn’t imagine Turkey had been much different—and Turkey reached his heights much earlier than England had.

It was just that this wasn’t actually Norway’s concern at all. Iceland was fragile, but he wasn’t naive. And certainly, living under Denmark had given him all the background he really needed.

Iceland rolled his eyes. “What, so the last few centuries I’ve known him didn't count?”

“You only saw the surface.”

“He's better now. Come on, Nore, he's no Sweden. He's not gonna declare me his wife and kidnap me.”

“The Ottoman Empire conquered far more than Sweden, back in the day.”

“Well, it's a good thing he's rebranded, then.”

“He was an empire, and he took plenty of vassal states. And if things were still like that, he wouldn't think twice about taking you, either.”

At that, Iceland snorted with derision and looked away from Norway, though Norway caught the edge of a smile before Iceland fully obscured his face.

There was a moment where Norway wondered what he’d said to make Iceland smile, and then the euphemism hit him with the force of a storm. His cheeks caught flame at the mental image of Turkey taking Iceland. “I'm serious.”

“I just don't understand. And Turkey's still not worse than Denmark on, like, any scale that matters. Maybe LEGO-building or bike-riding.”

Norway’s foot tapped against the brake again. “You've seen everything there is to see about Denmark, is all I'm saying.”

“I've seen plenty of Turkey—”

“Is—”

“Nore!” The name hurtled from Iceland’s lips and seared against Norway’s ribs, sharp and edged in fire. There was a distinct difference between Iceland’s typically irritated tone (which was commonplace and ruffled no feathers, puffin notwithstanding) when compared with the tone he took on when he was genuinely upset. This was the latter, and it sent pangs through Norway’s body.

Helpless against it, Norway folded his hands in his lap (instead of taking Iceland’s) and looked out at the great beyond of his own yard—the shadows of wildflowers and grasses lining a rocky shore. A strong breeze hit the car, discernible only by the rushing sound of it against the car’s windows, the groan of its frame beneath it. Only in moments like these did Norway even notice how old his car was, though Sweden was wont to point it out every time he visited.

The sky was quickly fading from purple to black, and there wasn’t much to be done about it. His home was backlit, and then, as the silence stretched on, it became a lantern-lit whisper.

Finally, Iceland spoke up. “What is this actually about? Because it sure as hell is not about Turkey.”

Norway stared down at his own hands. They clung to each other, white-knuckled. “It's nothing.”

There was an intake of breath, and Norway braced himself for any number of penetrating questions. Instead, there was nothing, and then there was a sigh.

Norway turned to look at Iceland. Briefly, he wondered if Iceland understood. Iceland’s eyes snapped into focus against his for just a moment, and Norway sweltered under the fire in them.

But Iceland squelched it just as quickly. He blew his overgrown bangs off his eyes and muttered, “Well, you can have fun thinking about nothing yourself, then. I need dinner.” With that, he opened the car door and slid out, the car shaking beneath his feet.

Norway considered taking a moment to gather himself, or to prepare a longer lecture about the demerits of Turkey. But the silence had begun to choke him, and Iceland was right, really. They needed dinner.