I do not own Hetalia. The name of Hong Kong's panda (Niu) comes from chibi-excel, who used it in some of her own HongIce stories. All references to current events and the lands of Iceland and Hong Kong were frantically googled in the middle of writing.

Norway's front door slams, making its owner think that perhaps God does love him after all.

The reason, of course, is that Denmark—who, for quite some time now, has been trying to sneak up behind Norway and kiss his neck as the shorter man does dishes—immediately loses his grin and goes off to search for a weapon with which to meet the intruder. Norway knows it's nothing to worry about because he heard the key turn in the lock and assumes it's either his brother or Finland, who's trying to escape Sweden's embrace for just a bit. But Denmark doesn't need to know that just yet.

From the entryway, Norway hears Denmark's loud "FREEZE!" and rolls his eyes. Denmark has been following America's police shows far too much.

What is much more interesting is the way Denmark "oof"s and then—judging by the sound of it—falls onto the hardwood floor, dropping something heavy but not breakable. He must have found Norway's heavy-duty flashlight.

"Go away," snarls a voice. Said voice stomps past Denmark (who is moaning on the floor, hoping for sympathy points from "Norge") and into the kitchen, yanks out one of the kitchen chairs, and thrusts himself into it with a "harrumph" under his breath.

"Hello, Ice," says Norway. He doesn't even bother to look up from the pot he's been scrubbing for the past five minutes; thanks to Denmark's constant pestering, he's only just finishing.

Iceland says nothing. While he's not normally the cheeriest sort, Iceland is mostly manageable and compliant. Norway must have the rare pleasure of receiving him in a bad mood. Iceland's bad mood is Norway's good mood, because only then does Iceland have the strength and the initiative to harm Denmark.

Maybe Norway can milk some more out of this. "Are you so upset because you finally realized how wrong you've been?"

"What do you mean," Iceland says. It's not a question, but it isn't quite a threat as it would be with anybody else. In the entryway, Denmark hears that Norway hasn't been listening to him and gets up, sounding much less hurt than he did just a few seconds ago.

"You know how much you want to call me 'big brother,' Ice."

Just as Denmark enters the kitchen, Iceland sticks his foot and kicks him in the back of the shin. Norway can feel his brother's glare on the back of his head. Denmark howls.

"Ow! No fair, I didn't even do anything!"

"Shut up," mutters Iceland.

"If it's not that," says Norway, drying the last pot and turning to face his brother, "then what's the problem?"

Iceland stares down at the woodwork on the table. Sweden really has done quite a good job with his carpentry. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Yes you do," Norway deadpans. "You wouldn't make a trip to my place just to beat up Denmark. As much as I may approve."

"Aww, Norge," coos Denmark as he sits at the table and rubs where Iceland kicked him, "you know you love me. And you want Ice to love me too! Oh, so sweet…"

Norway makes a point of ignoring him and sits at the chair closest to Iceland—which is actually the seat furthest away from Denmark, so he's gotten lucky. He then begins his form of comforting.

Which is really doing nothing.

It's not that Norway doesn't care for his brother. It's just that Norway knows that, like himself, Iceland wants his space and his freedom. Prodding and poking like a certain Dane won't bring out anything before it's time for that thing to be brought out. So Norway sits and waits while Iceland stews.

Denmark looks between the two of them, confused. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Norway shrugs. "What good would it do?"

"I don't know—comfort your little brother?"

"He's not my—" Iceland begins, but stops when Norway looks at him expectantly. Damn. He'd almost said "big brother" just now.

"If you're so anxious to help," says Norway, steering Denmark away from a barrage of questions that will only postpone the process of interrogation, "you can make us some hot chocolate."

Neither brother will admit it, but each is rather fond of Denmark's hot chocolate. Denmark, being the southernmost Nordic, has the most access to all the chocolate of the continent, and that chocolate, combined with milk from his own goats, makes a pretty mean drink.

Denmark grins and sets about scavenging for chocolate in Norway's cupboards. Norway almost winces as Denmark knocks down many of his cans, but since Norway hasn't gone shopping in a while, at least Denmark will be preoccupied with finding supplies.

A few minutes later, after Denmark has finally found a few old chocolate bars and some milk, Iceland speaks. "It was China."

"Hmm?" says Norway.

"One of China's bureaucrats called my boss. She said that one of China's businessmen wants to buy some of my land."

Norway blinks. "Congratulations."

Iceland's face, which had relaxed a little at the mention of hot chocolate, reddens in anger again. "I don't want him to have any of my land. That means China will own it too."

"Why is that so bad?"

"Because he'll—he'll own some of my land!"

"But don't you want the income?"

Iceland sighs, still showing traces of anger. "Of course I do. But Noregur, I only have so much territory. He'll own .3 percent of my country."

"That's not too much, Ice."

"It's enough."

"Enough to what? Bring more tourists to your country?"

"How do you know that's what he's going to do?"

"What else would he do with it? And does it even matter? It'll be his land."

"It matters to me. It's my land."

"Alright, so let's imagine that you say no. Then what will happen? Your oil supplies can't last forever, Ice, and fishing can only take you so far. You might have to join the European Union."

"I would be alright if I did join," Iceland says, but neither brother believes the statement.

"Yes, I'm sure you would," Norway says sarcastically. "You can fight off France the pervert while taking directions from Germany the dictator. Britain is nearly as isolationist as you when it comes to the EU, so you can't benefit from his economy, and everybody else will be too busy trying to help Greece and the Italies to even spare you another glance."

"But at least you'll have me in the EU with you!" exclaims Denmark as he slides two mismatched mugs of hot chocolate in front of the brothers.

Norway and Iceland give each other weary glances in response to the Dane.

"So you're suggesting I either join the EU or submit to China," mutters Iceland as he takes a sip. "What wonderful choices."

"I never suggested that you join the EU," returns Norway.

"Why does one of China's citizens even want to buy part of me? How could such a large country want a tiny piece of land on the other side of the world?"

Iceland has a point, Norway admits. He naturally thinks of his brother as more than a small island, but China tends to lump all of the Nordics together, just as—before traveling and trade across the Pacific was common—Norway used to think China and India, the two most well-known Asian nations, were practically the same thing. Even with China industrializing and gaining wealth rather quickly, why would he target Iceland of all people as a point of expansion?

That is, if this were a mission of expansion. Norway's expression darkens a little. If China's intentions towards Iceland are any less than pure, Norway has no trouble sending a few trolls on the Asian nation's path.

"We'll have to talk," says Norway, more to himself than anybody.

"We will?" asks Iceland.

"Not you and me," clarifies Norway. "Me and China."

From across the table—keeping as much distance between himself and a cooling-down-but-still-angry Iceland as possible—Denmark's eyes narrow. "What do you want with China?"

"To see what his intentions are towards my brother."

Iceland's face turns as red as the lava from his volcanoes. "Noregur, I don't think it's like that," he says, whining almost like a teenager.

"Until I know what it really is like, I'm going to assume the worst," says Norway, and he nods to himself in affirmation. "I'll pull him aside at the next world meeting."

"Don't embarrass me," pleads Iceland. "Denmark already does that enough. I can handle this."

But there's no point in pleading—Norway's "older brother" instincts are kicking in, and suddenly protecting Iceland becomes much more important than letting him be an independent nation, as Iceland has been for decades.

Besides, Denmark sees an opportunity to bond with his precious Norge. "How about I help?" he offers. "My axe speaks pretty much every language, you know!"

"It can't even speak, idiot," Norway retorts.

"I meant that it threatens people! I was being poetic."

"Just because one of your citizens wrote fairy tales doesn't mean that you're a poet. Half of your mythology comes from me, anyway."

"I can't help it if your gods are so cool! And besides, I have Beowulf—"

"—written by England—"

"—and Hamlet—"

"—written by England—"

"—and your language is just an older version of mine, anyway!"

"We all borrowed from each other, idiot. Iceland's language is just an older version of mine—right, Ice?" Norway looks away for support to find an empty chair. The front door slams—not as hard as when Iceland arrived, but still rather harshly—and Norway finds himself alone with Denmark once again.

"He didn't even finish his hot chocolate," says Denmark in a pout. And then he gets a wicked gleam in his eyes. "So it looks like his cup will have to be washed, huh, Norge?"

"Yes, it will. You have fun taking care of it," says Norway, and he leaves before Denmark can try accosting him with neck kisses again. If Denmark wasn't so dismayed at his departure, he would have noticed that Norway at least took his mug of hot chocolate with him.

Iceland sits at the far end of the conference table, staring down any Asian nations he can find.

It has been two weeks since his call from China's people and his talk with Norway, and the world meeting is on its last day of business. While Norway has convinced himself that he would confront the matter, Iceland has decided to take matters into his own hands—in a less confrontational way, of course. He doesn't exactly want to scare away China and lose the deal entirely.

Now, it's not that Iceland doesn't want the land in question. Frankly, he loves every part of his territory, especially considering how friendly his people are, how much unspoiled nature he can enjoy, and how a large part of his country hosts the Northern Lights. His climate is actually quite tolerable thanks to natural hot springs and volcanoes, and his freshwater reserves are practically in excess to what his people need. He loves his country and doesn't want to lose a bit of it.

It's also not that he likes China. China tends to overlook the Nordics—and especially Iceland—in favor of getting in with the European powers and America. Normally Iceland would be fine with not having so much attention, but he can get a little bitter when China seems to look right through him as if he were Canada.

It's that Iceland really, really needs the money.

He hates to admit it to himself, and it's part of the reason why he doesn't want Norway's "help" in this matter. Norway thinks that Iceland can't survive without either China or the EU (or Norway himself) supporting him; Iceland wants to prove him wrong. His boss, however, is less picky about the means of earning money, and she's quite eager to shock Iceland into compliance with graphs of their deficits and models of their increasing debt. His boss says the 8.8 million dollars offered for the land is a good sum (and the tourism wouldn't hurt either), and Iceland really would like to take that money just to spite his "big brother". He just doesn't want to give a part of himself to China, of all people, to do so.

Iceland does have higher standards for himself, and he wants to make sure that China actually uses his land well—if Iceland ever lets his citizen buy the place at all, that is.

China respects subtlety, so that's the method Iceland chose to use to learn more. He can't just confront China about the matter, so for the past two days of the meeting, Iceland has been trying to find out from China's siblings. He was doomed to go back to the hotel each day (accompanied by the other four Nordics, who were oblivious to what he was doing) in disappointment.

He started on the first day with Japan, who was the most logical and polite of the Asians and was most likely to be discrete about the matter. Iceland stared at the cool and civil nation all throughout the meeting and cornered him at lunch. It turned out that Japan had no idea about China's motivations, especially given that—as Japan had respectfully pointed out—his and China's relationship was based almost purely on business these days, and therefore Japan was not privy to such personal information.

India, Iceland's next target, had been too busy focusing on his own business and his elephant to worry about what China was up to.

Thailand offered for Iceland to visit one of his many cities to learn more, but, given the (not exactly clean) reputation of Thailand's cities, Iceland passed.

Russia was not strictly Asian and could therefore be of no help—or so Iceland told himself so as not to go near the former communist.

North Korea—China's neighbor, for Odin's sake—just told him to go away.

Iceland didn't even bother with South Korea, who (once he caught Iceland staring at him and trying to figure out how to approach him) gave him a big wave in the middle of the meeting and then proceeded to gaze at his chest.

This morning, on the last day of the conference, Iceland tried talking to Vietnam and Taiwan, who were gossiping before the meeting. Theirs was the strangest reaction of all: when they realized he was approaching them, they began to giggle.

Iceland pressed on bravely. "Excuse me, ladies," he said. As the girls tried to stifle their laughter, he became more self-conscious of his accent. "Have you heard anything about one of China's businessmen trying to buy some land from me?"

"Of course we have," said Vietnam, exchanging knowing looks with Taiwan, who was still snickering.

Iceland wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not. "So…would you happen to know why he's interested?"

"Strictly speaking," said Taiwan, "I don't think it's China who's interested." And then Taiwan started laughing, and then Vietnam started laughing, and Iceland was left wondering exactly what was so funny.

"But I meant the businessman, not China," he said defensively. "Isn't that what you meant?"

But then Germany yelled at everyone—who had thus far been ignoring him—to take their seats, and now Iceland is sitting in the throes of boredom and anxiety as he waits for lunchtime to come.

Certainly, the news reports have their share of information: with the land, the Chinese businessman plans to make a resort and airport. Personally, Iceland thinks his airport in Reykjavik is sufficient; then again, he's a man of few needs and doesn't really see the benefit of a resort, either. Yes, tourism, yes, economy stimulation, yes, more jobs for his citizens (hopefully)—but how on earth is a resort going to show the beauty of his country? People would never leave the place; they would practically expect the Northern Lights to be brought to the breakfast buffet.

Not that Iceland is cynical. It's simply that, as so many countries try to industrialize and make more money, he's left behind wondering why anyone would prefer a towering building in a humongous city to a small cabin in the wilderness. The latter is simpler—certainly less noisy, at least. How would China feel if Iceland made camping grounds out of one of China's big cities, like Beijing or Shanghai or Hong Kong?

Wait…

Iceland searches the Asian section of the meeting table until he comes across the one person he hasn't thought to interrogate. Hong Kong sits with his pencil in his right hand and his head propped up by his left, staring (apparently) at Australia reporting on his reefs but (really) into oblivion. His slightly thick eyebrows are relaxed, and he looks as if he could fall asleep right there.

It's kind of cute.

Iceland shakes his head slightly at the thought, but he has to admit that Hong Kong would be a great candidate for information. Hong Kong practically lives with China, so he'd have a better chance of knowing the old nation's intentions than, say, India. Maybe Iceland can even open the conversation by complaining about older brothers; they have that much in common, even if Iceland loves Norway more than he cares to confess.

Australia ends his report, and Germany calls a break for lunch. Iceland's stomach rumbles like an earthquake. Alright, maybe something to eat before interrogation…but he had better hurry before the meeting ends and he misses his chance.

"China doesn't know," says Norway abruptly. He sits down at the other chair of the table that Iceland has taken in the café.

"China doesn't know what?" Iceland asks and sets down his almost-finished sandwich. He's still a little irritated that Norway interrogated the nation in the first place, but he feels better knowing that he has at least asked more people that Norway has.

"China doesn't know about any of this land-buying deal," says Norway. He takes a potato chip from Iceland's plate, and before popping it into his mouth, he says, "I'm not even sure he knew who I was when I asked him. And when I said your name, all he did was scoff a little."

Iceland chews over this. "I'm not surprised," he says after a moment.

Norway raises an eyebrow. "You're not?"

"I've been talking to some of the other Asians. Most of them didn't know what was going on either."

"Sweden saw you talking with North Korea," Norway says mildly. "He's not a good influence, you know. All this talk of new weapons."

"Taiwan and Vietnam, though," continues Iceland, "seem to know something."

"Well?"

"I couldn't find out. Germany started the meeting before I could dig deeper. But they did say that it wasn't really China who was interested. I thought they meant that it was more the businessman who wanted the land."

Norway shrugs. "Maybe it really is just the businessman. You could just be overreacting about all of this, you know. Maybe there's just a man who really likes your country and wants to let other people see it."

Iceland glares. "I'm not overreacting. It's still my land."

"Are you going to be angry again?"

"Now would be a perfect time," replies Iceland, regaining some of his cool as he gestures out the window of the café. "Here comes Denmark for me to kick."

Norway's face, if possible, becomes even colder. "I'm not here," he instructs before he gets up to retreat into the bathroom (which is, conveniently enough, hidden in the back of the building). Not a split second after Norway has disappeared into the hallway, Denmark sticks his head into the café and looks around.

"Hey Ice!" he calls before bounding over, disturbing many diners and earning the pair of them a few glares. "Have you seen Norge around here?"

Let's see: how much does Iceland like Norway today? He had, after all, been a little helpful in confronting China and getting more information—but he had also said Iceland was overreacting. And he had stolen one of Iceland's potato chips.

"Yes, he was just here," says Iceland, but then he leaves without telling Denmark where he had gone. That's enough of a compromise.

Iceland walks back to the conference building, and as he does so, he thinks. So China still doesn't know or care about him—alright, that's at least one worry taken care of. But Iceland suspects that there's still more to the story. Certainly Sweden or Finland would be more receptive to a resort built in their lands, and even Norway would at least tolerate it; why does this businessman want Iceland in particular?

Perhaps this deal no longer operates at an international level—it isn't China and Iceland involved, but instead Iceland's boss and a very rich Chinese man—but Iceland still wants to protect his land from being spoiled for as long as he can. And that involves talking to Hong Kong, his last resort before he has to contact the businessman in question. So much for subtlety.

Iceland enters the conference building and takes the elevator to the meeting rooms. His plan is to wait for the Asian group to come back from lunch, and then there will be fewer witnesses to interrupt Iceland's talk with Hong Kong. How he'll persuade Hong Kong to leave his family for a second is a matter that Iceland hasn't yet figured out.

But fortunately, it turns out that he doesn't have to plan anything. When Iceland steps into the conference room, he sees only Hong Kong.

At first the stoic nation doesn't notice his presence, so absorbed is he in playing with his phone. He's leaning back in his chair, propping his feet on the table in a manner that would disgrace China's centuries of formality and etiquette, were China here to be disgraced. His shoes, to Iceland's surprise, are Western-made, despite his otherwise traditional Chinese attire complete with loose sleeves and golden sash. The phone, too, looks suspiciously advanced for somebody related to China, Mr. Tradition himself.

Perhaps Iceland has been lumping Hong Kong with the other Asians too much. He had always thought of Japan as the most industrialized of all the countries, but if memory serves correctly, Hong Kong belonged to Britain for some hundred years before he was returned to China. Surely he picked up a few European tendencies—maybe he has even outdone his family with his knowledge of European business practices and cultural tendencies.

As Iceland stands in the doorway making these observations, Hong Kong becomes aware that he is no longer alone. His eyes flicker from his phone once, as if to dismiss whoever is there, but then they look up and stay the second time to take in Iceland's appearance. As he had been with Taiwan and Vietnam, Iceland becomes self-conscious under the Asian's inspection. It's on occasions like this that he really understands how much he hides behind the other Nordics, acknowledged by few others and befriended by almost nobody.

Finally Hong Kong seems to accept Iceland's presence, though only the latter would see it; Hong Kong has about as expressionless a face as Norway. "Did you come here to escape your brother?"

Iceland blinks. That was his opening line. "…Sort of, yes." A pause. "How did you know?"

"You rarely leave him," says Hong Kong as he sets his phone in his lap. His legs are still propped up. "You have to get bored of the others sometimes."

"And what about you?" returns Iceland.

"The same."

Oh. He probably should have guessed that. "So you came back here?"

"So did you."

Touché. Iceland is not the fluid conversationalist that he would like to be right now, so he has no retort and instead stands awkwardly at the doorway. He tries both to ignore Hong Kong's gaze and to think of how to phrase his questions without being as blunt as Denmark. The problem is that, under the pressure to speak to this strange nation (city? state?) that he had up until now been underestimating, he forgets what he was going to ask. His face heats up as he runs over and subsequently rejects every possible sentence in his head.

"You're cute when you blush, you know."

Iceland's racing thoughts stop, and he stares at Hong Kong in confusion. Maybe Hong Kong has as much trouble carrying a conversation as Iceland—who else would say such a thing and still be socially adept?

"I mean it," Hong Kong continues. "I saw South Korea looking at your breasts, and you were as red as my shirt." He gestures to his crimson robe.

"Is this meant to be some sort of comfort?" demands Iceland. His face does not revert to its normal shade, no matter how hard he wishes.

Hong Kong shrugs. "It's, like, really cute. What else can I say?"

"You can say—" But then Iceland stops himself. Subtlety, he reminds himself. He has to be subtle (when he remembers his question, that is). Hong Kong raises an eyebrow and puts his feet back on the ground. He uses his elbows to prop himself up on the conference table, like he had been doing when Iceland looked at him that morning.

"I can say what?" he asks.

"Nothing."

Hong Kong looks at him with a hint of skepticism. "You can just say it, you know," he says. "It's really annoying to have to dance around subjects when you could just get it over with."

"This coming from an Asian," points out Iceland. "Japan alone is notorious for his subtlety." Hong Kong's comments become more comforting; now that some of the pressure is off, his blush can die down.

"Sure, I use subtlety too. But not nearly as often."

And then Hong Kong does something odd. He gets up from his chair, meets Iceland at the door, and pulls at the latter's wrist so that they end up in the corner of the conference room, away from the door. At the physical contact (which he normally only receives from the Nordics and most often from Denmark), Iceland's face sets itself on fire again.

"Why—why did you do that?" he demands.

"You weren't going to get closer to me. So I'll come closer to you. Now talk."

Iceland stares at Hong Kong blankly. His question still hasn't come back into his head. Hong Kong stares at him levelly, waiting for something that isn't there to emerge. Iceland tries to avoid his gaze and ends up staring at the place where China sat during the meeting, which is how the question comes back to him.

"What do you know about one of China's citizens trying to buy my land?"

"It's not all of your land, you know. Less than a percent."

"So you do know," says Iceland, and he stares at Hong Kong with a bit of wonder. For the first time since—well, since they first met, really—Hong Kong loses a bit of his cool. The sign is barely noticeable, but it's there in his eyes, disguised in a bit of fear.

"Yeah, I know," he says.

"What can you tell me, then?"

"Nothing."

Iceland frowns. "You just said a minute ago that you don't like to dance around subjects."

"It's the phrasing," says Hong Kong. "I can't tell you anything. You have to ask me how much I will tell."

Iceland has to admire how direct the boy can be. Is. "How much will you tell me, then?"

"As much as I know."

"But…" His face is flushing again, but this time from other emotions.

"Wow. I didn't know you could, like, be angry."

"We're talking about the well-being of my country. Of course I'm angry!" exclaims Iceland. Hong Kong looks vaguely impressed. He would be, thinks Iceland bitterly, having only seen him bored in meetings. And now here is this boy playing with him and dodging questions and overall being a hypocrite.

Iceland takes a deep breath. He may have blown over subtlety, but he can at least be civil. "I can see that you're of about much help as your siblings," he says levelly. "Thank you, but I think I'll just call my boss and have her connect me to the businessman himself." He then turns to leave.

"He won't help you," says Hong Kong from behind him.

Iceland stops but doesn't turn back. "Why not?"

"I swore him to secrecy."

That gets Iceland's attention. He swivels around on his heel and turns to stand even closer to Hong Kong than before, glaring at the (slightly taller) boy with his arms folded. Bits of anger still trace his expression, but his face has almost reverted to the deadpan mask that looks so much like Norway's.

He tries to look intimidating, but he loses a bit of his ferocity when Hong Kong's lips quirk into a slight smile.

"So, like, you know how I think you're really cute?"

"You said my blush is cute. That's not the same thing."

"It pretty much is."

Iceland's face flushes for what must be the third time since he came here. Honestly, he has no idea why this boy's attention has such an effect.

Hong Kong's lips grow a little wider (which isn't saying much, but is still impressive). "See?"

"No. Keep talking."

The smile disappears, and Hong Kong sighs. "So anyway, China had a visitor a few months ago. His name was Huang Nubo, and he'd just come back from Iceland. And China didn't remember you, but I did. You're at, like, all the meetings," explains Hong Kong upon seeing Iceland tilt his head slightly in confusion, "sometimes with your puffin. It's really cute. I have a panda at home named Niu, and she's black and white like your puffin. I wonder if they'd like to meet…"

"Mr. Puffin doesn't leave home much," says Iceland. "He says there isn't enough fish for him when I go to meetings."

"See, that's, like, part of the problem. You never leave home or anything. You're always on your island, or you're with your brother and his boyfriend. So there was a billionaire at China's house talking about how much he loved your country, and I'm like, 'so why don't you buy a bit of it? You can afford it, and he needs the money.'"

Iceland doesn't change his indifferent expression, but his knuckles (still lost in his folded arms) begin to turn white. "So you gave him the idea," he says.

"Yeah."

"Because you wanted me to have more money."

"No."

"Then why." It's a question in the sort of tone that recommends saying the right answer or else—or else… Okay, so Iceland isn't very violent or vengeful, but he knows a very scary Swede and a Dane with an axe who would be fine with helping him out.

"Relax," says Hong Kong, noticing the white knuckles. "Okay, so I had him call your boss, but I made him say it was his idea, not mine. Because, if you're going to stay at your house so much, why can't I go there too? Thanks to Mr. Huang, China and I would have an excuse to visit. And besides, I want to see what's so great about your home that you won't leave it."

"For a start, it's not full of concrete buildings like yours is," snaps Iceland. He has to vent his frustration somehow. All this time, he was blaming China for causing him so much worry—when really it was some boy who is obsessed with his phone and can't stop calling him cute.

"Yeah, I was afraid you would say that," says Hong Kong, "because I want you to see my home too. I was serious about Niu and Mr. Puffin meeting, too."

An image of Mr. Puffin perched atop the head of a large panda pops into Iceland's head, and the cute simplicity of the picture pricks a hole in his anger. He examines Hong Kong, who is looking into his eyes with a barely-visible mixture of anxiety and sincerity, and he admits to himself that, in the ten or so minutes that he and Hong Kong have been talking, he has felt more emotions than he can remember feeling in a while.

He lives a life of calm simplicity at home, and with the other Nordics, the feelings morph into fondness mixed with irritation—which, overall, amounts to the same calm simplicity. Yet here he is, blushing and bantering with some foreigner who contradicts everything he thinks.

Part of him wants to throttle Hong Kong for frustrating him so much, but another part wants to put aside his pride to learn more about this boy.

"So," Iceland says, much of his anger gone, "why did you want to see me so much, then?"

"Like I said," and here Hong Kong sweeps aside his bangs so he can properly look at Iceland, "I think you're really cute. I want to spend time with you."

Damn it. Iceland blushes yet again. It feels like more of a rosy glow this time, though—none of that vivid flush of anger or embarrassment. "But why couldn't you have just said so?"

"Two reasons. I have to be subtle, in case China finds out I want to meet with an outsider. He doesn't like that kind of thing. And I thought you'd like me better if I tried to help your economy and all that."

Unable to vocalize for a moment, Iceland just shakes his head. "No. I like money, but I like my own land better."

"Well, how would I know?" asks Hong Kong. He has reached the closest thing to a pout that Iceland has ever seen on the boy.

"I would like you better," says Iceland, and he can't look Hong Kong in the eyes while saying that, "if you expressed interest in my land and not my economy. Everything is beautiful at home, after all, and—"

Iceland's words shrivel and dry in his throat as Hong Kong takes his hand. He only just now realizes that the distance he had first thought was confronting was really quite intimate, and Hong Kong intends to take advantage of it. His hand is a little clammy (nervousness and a generally cold home will do that), but Hong Kong doesn't seem to care.

"I'm expressing interest in you," says Hong Kong, and then he really does grin. "If you want to call it that."

Iceland is so concentrated—on the hand-holding, on the words, on the smile, on him—that he doesn't understand that the rest of the Asians have entered the room until Hong Kong has dropped his hand, stepped away, and hidden his grin.

"Hong Kong, there you are!" says Taiwan, and her smile widens as she sees Iceland—still with a blush as obvious as fireworks—standing in shock. She elbows Vietnam, and they giggle in glee. Hong Kong rolls his eyes.

"Are you feeling any better?" asks China. He comes over to feel Hong Kong's forehead, much like a doting mother.

"I'm much better now," says Hong Kong, looking like he wants to swat the hand away yet knows he shouldn't. "I just needed to relax a little."

China nods in understanding and then catches sight of Iceland, who stares at him in anticipation of pretty much any reaction. China glances between the Nordic and his charge. "Conversation with a foreigner isn't very relaxing, aru," says China with a frown.

"He's fine," says Hong Kong, and the two giggling girls squeal as if he has just made an innuendo. Hong Kong notices this and apparently decides to take the non-existing joke a little further. "In fact, he was just what I needed."

Talking above the girls—just what was in their drinks that made them laugh so much?—China expresses his concern. "We'll get you something to eat when we go back to the hotel, aru. In the meantime, let's just sit down." He herds his family to the Asian section of the room without another glance at Iceland, leaving the only Nordic standing in the corner waiting for something to happen. Hong Kong takes out his phone and seems to ignore everybody, including Iceland. It's this that Iceland can't stand—doesn't he even deserve a glance after being told something as… as… like that?—and so he decides to go out to the hall, where he gets a drink from the water cooler and avoids the fact that he's the only one on this floor who isn't Asian.

While sipping from his paper cup and wondering exactly what he would have said to Hong Kong, given the chance, he hears a loud announcement from inside the meeting room: "My flower fell out of my hair!"

"Go find it then, aru. Just be quick and don't talk to strangers."

South Korea and Vietnam chatter some more as a very vivid pink dress flounces out of the meeting room and into the hallway. Instead of going to the elevator to trace her steps, however, Taiwan saunters over to Iceland and the water cooler, humming in a way that's probably meant to be inconspicuous. Iceland looks at her warily, wondering what other incomprehensible thing he'll do to make her laugh.

She looks amused, certainly, but instead of laughing, she only presents a slip of paper to him with both hands. Iceland looks at it suspiciously to find a phone number. He looks up to Taiwan, who smiles sweetly at him.

Iceland is wary that this may be a trick—maybe this is actually Taiwan's phone number and she wants to laugh with Vietnam about any potential flirting he may try over texting—but ultimately decides to go along with it. She could, after all, be sent from Hong Kong. And he secretly hopes that that's the case.

He takes the paper with a nod of thanks. She straightens, and then from her sleeve she pulls a lone pink flower that she then places in her hair with a wink. "Found it!" she calls, still looking at Iceland.

"Good job," calls Vietnam sarcastically from the meeting room. But even Iceland can hear the hint of a smile. "Now tell South Korea that I'm the one who invented the nón lá!"

"It's a satgat, and it's mine, da ze!"

Taiwan giggles and flounces off, leaving Iceland standing at the water cooler. The chatter continues as Iceland stares down at the number. He supposes he can only hope that Hong Kong is behind this gesture. He takes out his phone—a flip-top phone that Norway made him get, nothing nearly as fancy as what Hong Kong has—and sends a test text to this new number:

You were saying?

He drinks another cup while waiting for a reply, which comes much faster than it took for him to write his own text.

Interested in u. Ur thoughts?

Iceland stares at the screen. It's Hong Kong, all right.

Right as the rest of the Nordic horde arrives from the elevator and greets him, he sends his response:

Mutual.

Another year finds Mr. Puffin and Niu meeting for the first time. Their owners have been texting and using Skype at ridiculous hours to keep in contact (just as friends for the moment), and they've even snuck away from their families to have dinner during world meetings. But this is the first time since Hong Kong's secret was revealed that he has a reason to visit Iceland's home and the confidence to bring his panda.

As Mr. Puffin starts grooming the panda (who is much smaller and cuter than Iceland had anticipated), Hong Kong brings up the reason for his visit. "So you're not accepting Mr. Huang's offer."

Iceland shakes his head. "He can't buy anything anyway. Citizens outside of Europe aren't allowed to buy my land."

"Not that you're happy about that."

"Not at all," Iceland deadpans. Then, more seriously: "It does save me some stress, though."

"What about the money?"

Iceland takes his eyes away from their pets to look at Hong Kong. "I can find other ways to prove to Noregur that I'm self-sufficient."

"Really. Like how?"

Iceland lowers his eyes and mutters something.

Hong Kong looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

Iceland has to repeat himself. "I want to improve my relations."

Hong Kong blinks. And then his eyes light up with amusement and—is that hope?

To avoid his eyes, Iceland reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single key on a keychain. He tosses it to Hong Kong, still not looking at him. "It's not so you can move in or anything," he says as his blush deepens. "But, um, if you want to visit me sometimes, then maybe I can—"

And once again—like always, actually—Hong Kong takes him by surprise. He reaches over to the slightly shorter man and pulls him close with one arm into a sideways sort of hug. As Iceland keeps his eyes trained on Niu and Mr. Puffin, Hong Kong plants a kiss on his head.

"You're so cute."

Iceland can't help but smile.

I did it. I actually posted a Hetalia story. I've been following the archives for years, stalking and gathering favorites and leaving the occasional gushing review - but now I've posted! Gosh, this feels so strange. But I did know about this deal with Huang Nubo for several years, and somehow my love of HongIce crept into my mind and intertwined with that random tidbit of knowledge, and...ta-da.

This story and a few others like it have been sitting in my computer since May. Why did I post this now? The fandom says it's Hong Kong's birthday today. Yes, I adore Canada and want to post something wonderful for him, but I actually have a story for Hong Kong! So I'll just post this and run, shall I?