The little child was shivering in his arms. Eyes wide, hands clutching at his too-large jumper. With a somewhat sad smile, Sindre silently thought that he felt pretty much the same way, nervous, scared and out of place. But he was a grown man, married and a father to the child in his arms, so it would be nowhere appropriate to clutch his husband's clothes and hide behind him, begging him with his eyes to get out of here. No, he would have to endure this.

Of course, their fears were triggered by different things. Eiríkur, the little darling, was afraid of the many people, the doctors and the things the doctors were going to do to him the next time he had to visit. Sindre on the other hand, was afraid of making the appointment and speaking. It hadn't been that long since they moved to England from Fauske, a little town in Norway, to London. Preben, Sindre's husband and Eiríkur's second parent, was an architect and had always worked from home, only leaving it when travelled for the commissions he worked on. But in November, an architecture bureau from London had contacted the Danish man, asking him whether he would want to work together with them. The pair had discussed the matter again and again. It would be a great opportunity for Preben, Sindre had realised. He would be able to work with other people, exchange ideas and work in an office where he would not be disturbed by a happy five-year old, who was eager to show his latest pencil drawing of yet another bird or the family. Not that Preben minded.

Yet the Dane had been hesitant to go, mostly because his husband had not mastered English yet. Preben himself had become fluent, with an accent, but still. It had been necessary to speak the language for his job, because most of his commissions were from rich people in countries further away from home, such as Germany, Switzerland and even America. But Sindre had always stayed home, playing with their child and cooking dinner in their little red house near the water. There had been no need to learn how to speak English, thus Sindre had not bothered to. Preben had been reluctant to take his little family to the unknown land and city, throwing them into the chaos in which they would not be able to communicate that well. Hours and hours of discussing, waging pros and cons, talking about the possibilities and looking at houses followed, sometimes ending in fights. Sindre didn't want to be the reason Preben missed this and Preben didn't want to put Sindre through the struggle of learning another language.

Eventually, they Sindre had convinced his husband decided to go. If Preben wanted to grow, make a career, this would be his chance. It would have been stupid to neglect it, only because Sindre felt uncomfortable with the sounds of English. Eiríkur would be able to learn the language at school soon enough. At 5 years old, it was a perfect age to start learning it. He would learn through playing with friends and at school. Writing and reading had not been taught to him that much yet, so he would get a fresh start and a lot of help, just like the children in his class. His Norwegian father, however, would have to study hard every night, practise with his husband, try and fail while buying butter and eggs at the store. They would manage somehow, Sindre decided.

The reason why they were in the hospital, was because their little adoptive son had fallen ill with the flu. His coughing and fever seemed not to go down, so the two worried parents had called the doctor and made an appointment. Or more, Preben had called. The appointment had gone quite okay, Eiríkur had been sitting on Sindre's lap the whole time, while the Dane had spoken to the doctor and asked the little Icelandic the questions in Norwegian, the language they spoke at home.

"Kjære, er torsdag klokken to OK?", (Darling, is Thursday at two okay?) Preben asked, looking at the man and the child, a soft smile playing around his mouth. He loved his husband and their little son. "Eller klokken ti?" (Or at ten?)

"Jeg tenker klokken ti er greit." (I think at ten is fine) Sindre felt a tug at his jumper and he looked down, meeting the deep blue, almost violet of their son.

"Far, hvofor snakke du ikke engelsk?", (Dad, why don't you speak English) the child asked.

"Fordi jeg fortsatt lærer", (Because I am still learning) he told Eiríkur, pressing a little kiss to his forehead that still felt very hot to the touch. Hopefully the fever would go down with the medicine they had been given by the doctors.

Preben had finished making the appointment and was walking towards them now, sneaking his arm around Sindre's slender waist. He waved at the woman behind the counter and guided his little family out of the sterile hallways, into the rain that seemed to always fall from the ever grey January skies. After they had strapped Eiríkur into his little seat, the tall Dane stole a kiss from his husband, smiling at him.

"I love you", he whispered, knowing that it would take his darling some time until he would understand what he had just said. The Norwegian was not too happy about the fact that he had said it in English, judging by the scowl on his face and the command to repeat it in Norwegian. When Preben refused, the smaller male poked his stomach until he could barely hold in the laughter. At home, Sindre would probably pull out the dictionary and sit on the couch, reading it and asking Preben to say it hundreds of times, until he would find it. Until then, Preben could tell him hundreds of times that he loved him.

Based on this post from une-pomm3 on tumblr.

Denmark and Norway adopt little tot Iceland.

They end up moving to an English speaking country far from home in order to follow Denmark's career. However, Norway doesn't speak the language very well (he finds it awkward in his mouth. He can understand a lot of it, but struggles to speak it). Anyway, little babs Iceland gets a Paediatrician to follow his care… now imagine them bringing Iceland to his appointments (regular check-ups) and on the way out booking follow-up appointments. Denmark trying to schedule something and turning to Norway who looks sort of lost and discussing times and days with him "*in Danish/Norwegian* Next Thursday at 2. Or do you like 10 am better? Let's come in the morning." Denmark has to be the responsible one (for once), and Norway is just soft spoken and quietly observes, holding Ice tight while Denmark sorts out the schedule.

Forgive me if my Norwegian is filled with mistakes, I am still learning and yeah... If you would point out my mistakes, I'd be very happy!

~Hana