Takes Two to Tango
Summary: In which Norway and Iceland waltz and Iceland tries to assert their masculinity.
A/N: I tried to make something long and awesome and detailed and it ended up being short as hell because I didn't want to explicitly state anything. Yep.
Also, I plan on writing a multi-chaptered fic (possibly Spamano, possibly no pairings) soon, so I'll probably need a beta, since I hardly ever proofread. Even a co-author would be awesome. So... Any volunteers? (I wouldn't be surprised if no one took me up on this offer... OTL)
They danced in the stillness of the dimly lit room, pressed close like lovers. They avoided each other's eyes as they stepped together, spinning in controlled circles. Their movements corresponded with the soft music of an old CD player. They turned once more and performed three right closed changes, and they pivoted to begin the six counter-clockwise turns.
The dance was intimate in its proximity, but the 'woman' of the pair felt they were anything but. Eyes the color of amethysts peeked at their partner every so often through thick eyelashes, trying not to look directly at him for fear of ruining the moment.
They finished with the three left closed changes, and they parted, one more reluctantly than perhaps he should have been.
Iceland swallowed, looking away. The situation should have been at least a bit romantic, but it wasn't really; he was sure that he would remember it as so, though. He did not acknowledge the understanding, choosing instead to fidget and stare at the large bookshelf occupying half of a wall.
Norway's brows furrowed slightly as he observed his brother. His murky blue eyes missed nothing; he took in the faint flush dusting Iceland's cheeks, the way his violet eyes gleamed with anxiety, how he favored the right side of his lip as he bit it in trepidation, and a quick glance downward revealed his weight was mostly on his left leg, his right foot tapping the wood floor.
He reached out as if to touch him, but quickly snatched his hand back. He had no words to say. He wanted to ask why Iceland was so nervous―had he done anything to put him off?―but he was afraid of the answer. With a sigh, he patted his sibling's shoulder; Iceland jumped slightly, looking back at him with wide eyes, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Norway pressed their foreheads together, slouching somewhat to make up for the few inches of height difference. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
Iceland's breath hitched, and, at a loss of what else to do, pushed the man away, backing up. "Nothing," he replied loudly, almost desperately. Glancing at Norway's vaguely hurt expression, he repeated, softer, "It's nothing, stór bróðir."
Norway's face clearly said he thought he was lying.
"Really," Iceland insisted. Why did the Scandinavian have to be so perceptive? For the first (and hopefully last) time of his life, Iceland wished that Norway was Denmark instead. The Dane wouldn't have noticed anything was amiss.
Norway tilted his head to the side slightly, somehow managing to make Iceland feel as though he was undergoing an interrogation. "If you're sure..." He was still disbelieving, but he let the matter drop, though he made a mental note to find out what it was about later. If it was something his brother was unwilling to share, then it had to be important.
"I am." Iceland was relieved; no explaining today, no sirree. He was free for another day at least. He wasn't quite in the mood to have a chick-flick moment and spill his inner turmoil before melting in a puddle of goo in Norway's strong arms, as they would undoubtedly embrace in a decidedly un-brotherly-like fashion.
Ridiculous. They would never be caught in that sort of position. They were men―they might not be as manly as Sweden, true, but they were still male, and (most) males were not the sort to give in to their feminine side and be all mushy and the type to get raped in alleyways if they weren't careful when walking at night.
He paused, and peered at his dear sibling. "You're going to ask me about this later, aren't you." It was phrased as a question, but uttered as a statement; he knew it would be true.
Norway knew he did, and so he inclined his head in a you-already-know-the-answer way. Iceland thought he saw a small smirk, but you could never really be sure with him. The stoic country glanced at the grandfather clock. "It's getting late."
The island nation blinked in surprise. Whatever he had been expecting Norway to say, it hadn't been that. "Er... Yeah. Denmark should be worried about the amount of time we've spent here. We should probably go back."
He nearly offered his hand before realizing it probably wasn't a good thing to do, as he had just been thinking about manliness. Instead, he gave Norway a minuscule smile and walked to the door and opened it, not bothering to check if Norway was following, since he most likely was.
As they went back to the living room where the rest of the Nordics probably were, their hands brushed, and a light pink hue rose to Iceland's face. Real men didn't blush, he told himself, but was unable to help a grin from gracing his face.
When they arrived, Denmark straightened up, staring at them incredulously. "What have you guys been doing?" he demanded. "If you'd been gone longer, I would have thought you were fu―"
"That's disgusting," Finland interrupted chidingly. "They weren't doing anything naughty, you pervert."
"Th'y're br'th'rs," Sweden added.
And everything was back to normal.