Because vickitata14 asked for more of Norway and Iceland. :)
And because I was in an airport this morning. There's that, too.
He'd never tell Norway, but Iceland loved sitting in airports with his brother.
Part of it was the bitter tang of the airport coffee they drank together while waiting for their planes to arrive, and the way the steam swirled around Norway's dark blue eyes and blond curls. Part of it, too, was the way Norway waited, silent, on the other end of the security checkpoint while Iceland struggled with his bag, his shoes, his coat. Not offering to help, for whatever reason. Not snickering when his boarding pass slipped from between his fingers and disappeared beneath a table. Just waiting.
It was here in these airports that he felt closest to his brother, here in these liminal spaces. Everyone else running off to destinations across the world, everyone following the narratives of their own stories that intersected for moments just long enough for self-awareness. Long enough to recognize their own ephemeral existence, but still too short to reach out past the limits of time.
But as all these stories and lives ricocheted and crossed throughout the airport, Norway remained. He remained with all his annoying insistence on being called "older brother," his penchant for over-protectiveness, and that mysterious smirk on his face that only Iceland could conjure. Even when he annoyed Iceland, he was someone constant amidst the rush of people, of stories, of existence. He was there. Sitting straight and strong, with his warm white scarf and blue hat with the loose thread where Denmark had pulled on it once. And while Iceland would never see any of these other people again, he'd have countless more years to watch Norway swirl his coffee cup, run his fingers along the smooth plastic rim, and sip the grainy dregs of his espresso.
And there was a strange shared love beneath all of this constancy, even if Iceland thought it faded temporarily when Norway met Iceland's gaze and patted him on the head.
"C'mon," Norway said as Iceland made a face. "We should head to our gate."
He threw away their coffee cups and gestured over his shoulder for Iceland to follow him down the concourse.
On that short walk, Iceland would drop his boarding pass again and panic for a second as he tried to find it amidst the crowd of feet on the scuffed floor.
But when he stood up, bag slipping down his shoulder, Norway'd be standing there, tall and sturdy.
Still waiting.