Note: This story assumes that all five Nordics live in the same house.


Saturday morning.

Usual routine. Get out of bed, stare at myself in the dresser mirror, be horrified at myself in the dresser mirror, fight with the others over access to the only bathroom on the second floor.

Everything was fine until that last part. I successfully managed to brush my teeth, comb my hair, wash the sleep out of my face and even take a shower without any older guys violently booting the door open. Maybe it was last night. They'd stayed up all night for drinks. I couldn't take alcohol (being physically 17 years old, I'm underage), so I had gone to bed early.

That, or I woke up late for once.

I left the bathroom and headed back to my room to get a change of clothes. Ever since that last time Denmark laughed at my PJs (he called me an oversized puffin all day even after I had taken it off), I had resolved never to allow myself be seen on my bedclothes in the lower levels of the house.

My wardrobe didn't offer a lot of variety. Twelve lopapeysas, several sets of uniforms and suits for World Conferences, various band t-shirts, jeans, the occasional normal shirt, some jackets and hoodies, all washed, ironed and neatly folded by Finland's gentle hands. I almost forced my way through the lopapeysas to get to the shirts.

Someone knocked on my bedroom door.

"Hold on! I'm coming out!" I called, hastily pulling on a generic blue t-shirt, followed by a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie. I found the nearest pair of shoes (a pair of black trainers), put them on and raced to the door. "Alright, what do you-"

There wasn't anyone at the door.

I glanced down the corridor, searching for a certain Dane escaping down the hall and giggling like a high-schooler.

Empty.

I was about to close the door when something tugged at my jeans leg.

I looked down.

And gasped in horror.

"...Big brother?"