Cold Shoulder
Summary: "I was descended from Viking warriors. I had no excuse to be scared of a Belarusian blonde in a maid costume;" Denmark pressures an irritated Iceland into discussing foreign relations with Belarus at the world meeting. Needless to say, when the two nations don't see eye to eye Natalia's knives get involved. One-shot, slight Iceland/Belarus
Pairing(s): Possible hints of Iceland/Belarus, Sweden/Finland, Canada/Ukraine, and Denmark/Norway if you squint
A/N: So, this is my brain on Hetalia. I've never read an Iceland/Belarus story before, but I've seen stranger and I think they make for an interesting couple. I couldn't find anything about the political relationship between the two countries, so please feel free to correct me if I made a mistake (political or grammatical). I'd also like to note that this story started as an angst-ridden, unrequited romance, but then Denmark and France popped up and all hell broke loose.
I should have known from the moment I saw Denmark (of all people) waiting outside of my house when I returned from grocery shopping that something strange was bound to happen. As close as I was to the nation, there was no denying that trouble has a habit of following him, much in the manner of that fluffball dog that trails Tino.
Even if Denmark certainly does make for interesting company, I was in no mood to be entertaining. The recent near-collapse of my economy still had me seeing vertigo spots, which was making me crabbier than usual and was why I was less than thrilled, to say the least, to have a visitor. However, since I was already halfway to the door, I figured there wasn't a whole lot I could do to avoid the aggressive Dane and so continued the walk to my house.
"Ice! Ice!" I sighed and attempted to brush a tuft of hair out of my eyes. I scoffed at any thoughts I had entertained of Denmark actually helping me with the bags I was juggling as he refused to budge from his position on the top step. He was, however, grinning quite widely at me, waving with one hand and swinging his battle axe leisurely with the other.
The giant axe is in no way compensation for anything… or so I've been told… many, many times.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" I asked sarcastically, sounding less venomous than I had intended.
"Geez, Ice, is that any way to greet your oldest pal?" Denmark questioned in return, his gleeful face falling a fraction. "Aren't you going to invite me in for a Coke or something?"
"OK," I seethed, shifting my grocery bags with an obvious rustle. "Would you like to come inside my home and sit for a while?"
"No thanks, I'm good." I merely gawked at the oblivious Dane. "What? It's nice out," he added once he noticed my confusion.
"Um," I said, looking at the snow-stuffed clouds above and the wind-whipped plains surrounding us. "Sure. Would you like a Coca-Cola then?"
Denmark tsk-tsked. "Iceland, Iceland," he condescended, "if you don't stop drinking so much pop your teeth are going to rot out of your head."
"If you came here to loiter on my porch and criticize my beverage choices then you have succeeded wonderfully," I praised mockingly.
"Thanks," Denmark replied, ignoring my jab. "Hey listen, since we have another world meeting coming up, I came here to talk about your foreign relations."
"Excuse me," I asked coolly, glaring at my guest, "but since when are my actions your concern?"
Denmark shrugged. "1814? Here," he added, finally taking the hint, "let me help you with those." The tall nation swooped the loads of food right out my arms and propped the bags up underneath the doorbell for me to retrieve later. He turned back to me, dusting his hands off as if the task he had just completed was extremely strenuous.
"Thanks," I snarled. "Maybe you ought to brush up on your own foreign affairs since I declared my independence roughly 65 years ago."
"Maybe," Denmark shrugged, stepping towards me and slinging his free arm across my shoulders, "but we're still friends, right?"
I glared at him, letting an awkward silence pass before clearing my throat. My self-proclaimed "friend" took the hint, putting a good amount of distance between us once more. Looking up, I was greeted by a near-nervous grimace on the usually jovial nation's face. "What?" I asked, assuming I had offended him somehow.
"What," Denmark answered, shuffling his feet, "can you blame a guy for trying to check up on one of his oldest friends? And I mean oldest," he repeated earnestly, "we've known each other for, like, forever!"
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I made the connections with an agitated groan. "Is that what this is all about? That you're jealous of my 'new friend' Russia?"
"What?" I Denmark answered again, doing a great job of looking bewildered. "No! No, no, of course not… but now that you've brought it up, how is the big guy?"
"I don't know," I said flatly, "all we've talked about lately is money."
The eager Dane nodded. "I see you've got some catching up to do at the meeting. Hey, speaking of Ivan, I was wondering how your relations are with his sisters."
"Okay, I guess," I replied after meditating on the subject for a minute. "Ukraine contacted me and we've kept in touch for a while now, and, um…" I should have considered my answer before responding as I was now drawing a blank on the younger sister's name.
"Forgetting someone are we?" Denmark smirked, not deterred the slightest by the evil expression I had fixed upon him. "It's Belarus, by the way, and that's exactly what I came here to talk to you about."
"You want me to consider strengthening my relations with Belarus," I stated, not even bothering to make it sound like a question.
Denmark jerked his head in an abrupt nod. "I just think it's odd. I mean, her brother likes you, and she likes her brother… a lot…" We both paused to shudder at this statement. "I think it would be in your best interest to have good relations with all three of them. Think of it as like the trifecta of, um, sibling nations in Eurasia!"
"Thanks but no thanks," I replied, memories of this Belarus character suddenly reemerging. "I'll stick with the sane ones."
Denmark cocked his head. "You think Ivan is sane? You must be sicker than I thought." A wicked grin suddenly lit up his features. "You wouldn't consider talking to Natalia even if I let it slip she has the hots for you?"
It was my turn to look at Denmark as if he had lost his mind. "No she doesn't," I refuted, "everyone knows how much she loves Ivan."
"Maybe –"
"Everyone," I repeated slowly in case I wasn't clear the first time.
"Maybe," Denmark insisted, "it's a cover. She's been going after Russia for so long, it would really scare people if she went after the nation she truly likes. Or she doesn't want to admit her true feelings! See, she's so stubborn, just like you!"
I stared at the Dane for a good five minutes, trying to assess his mentality and possibly figure out exactly which "chick flick" he had garnered this implausible plot from. In the end I settled for replying with:
"She seems kind of... feisty."
"The term I prefer is 'off her rocker,' but sure, 'feisty' works too. I for one was hoping you would volunteer to be a calming influence for her," Denmark noted with another trademark shrug and conniving grin. "Know something else you two would have in common?"
Before I could respond, Denmark had reached out and flipped the bow on my collar up into my face. "You can be bow buddies!" he exclaimed proudly.
"That," I sputtered, "is ridiculous."
"Now I'm not saying you have to get married and start a family," Denmark rationalized, putting his arm around my shoulders once more, "because you are nations and that probably wouldn't work out so well, not to mention I have a feeling your kids would be extremely pale and angry-looking. But the way I see it, you could both use someone special, you deserve someone who understands isolation, and rejection, and, well, now you're just scaring me with that freakish stare, which kind of reminds me of Belarus in a way, but what do you think?" he finished, turning to look at me with concern.
"I think" I announced, "I need to go inside and lie down." Already I could feel the start of a blistering headache that only a Nordic nation could produce.
"Was that a 'yes?'" the tall blond chirped, swinging his axe in excitement.
"Well," I sighed in resignation, ready for my impromptu guest to depart, "it wasn't a 'no.'"
"So you'll think about it?"
"I will think about it," I stated, already fully aware that this commitment would in all likelihood come back to 'bite me in the butt,' as they say.
Denmark grinned once more, this time with genuine happiness. "Great! See you soon, little buddy!" With a friendly – albeit painful – slap on the shoulder, the excitable nation sauntered off, battle axe a-swinging.
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Almost two weeks passed before I ran into Denmark again at the World Meeting, unfortunately hosted by France. I've nothing against the country in general but being cornered by its randy personification has never ranked high on my list of things to do while visiting Europe.
On a break from our actual debates, I had tuned the taller blond out in favor of gazing blankly around at the few nations who had remained in the conference room; it being a gorgeous and unusually sunny day, most had wandered outside to eat lunch. I scanned past Finland joking with Sweden and Sealand and Ukraine doting on a nation who looked strikingly like America but certainly was not. A few seats away from her sister sat a sullen Belarus, who had been staring at the door across the room for her entire meal.
A sinister-looking figure in the corner caught my attention. Immediately I made out the distinctive red-and-black ensemble of Denmark, the glare off his giant axe quickly blinding me. When my eyes readjusted, I noticed that he was motioning for me.
Rather than leave the talkative France, I furrowed my brow at him. What?
Eyes wide, Denmark silently pointed emphatically at the lone Belarus, who was still staring at the door.
I started to shake my head in refusal but caught myself. When I stopped to consider what Denmark had said, what was the worst that could happen? Even if she refused to work on our foreign relations, I had Russia and Ukraine to vouch for me.
I was descended from Viking warriors. I had no excuse to be scared of a Belarusian blonde in what appears to be a maid's costume.
Quickly, I tore my gaze from Denmark and noticed France had reached a lull in our conversation.
"Francis," I began in an irritated tone, "I don't mean to be rude but I really need to speak with Natalia."
"Ah!" the older nation interjected, raising an open hand as if to stop me. "Say no more, for I was once a youthful maker of such flimsy excuses."
I blinked, momentarily stunned by his flowery language. "Come again?"
A knowing smile spread across the European's features. "Don't think I do not detect the look of love in your impassive eyes."
Gritting my teeth, I simply nodded. I wasn't sure if Denmark had clued the amorous nation into his "chick flick" schemes or if France was just being France but I wasn't going to waste time arguing. I excused myself silently and strode over to Belarus, feeling France's eyes on me the whole time.
By this time, Natalia had stood up as if to leave although she was still staring at the heavy wood doors. Viewing her frilly ensemble and porcelain skin I was reminded of an icily intense china doll. There was certainly something about her… not that I would ever admit I thought so.
"Belarus," I stated, my careful monotone causing her to whirl around with a flash of platinum hair. I cursed the fact that she was taller than me – and wearing heels, no less – since it gave her an extra edge of intimidation. Her piercing blue eyes were suddenly making it harder to string together my sentences. "I'd like to talk to you about our foreign relations… or lack thereof."
"Not now," Belarus replied in what I assumed was her usual clipped tone, "I'm waiting for Brother."
Careful not to let my posture betray my disappointment, I took another step towards the nation. "I see. Actually Russia is the one who, er, inspired me to talk to you." I stole a glance at Denmark, who was still grinning manically in his corner. "You know since he's been helping me with my financial troubles, I thought… um, what's wrong?"
Something I said had caught Belarus's attention as she was now giving me her undivided attention. "You have been speaking with Ivan?"
"Yes," I acknowledged, "but just so you know he was the one who initiated contact."
Natalia's eyes narrowed. "He has asked you to become one, hasn't he?"
"No," I admitted, both relieved and confused that I had been spared that question lately.
"Then you are trying to steal him away from me," Belarus concluded.
"What? No," I corrected calmly, "I'm thankful for the help he's given me lately, but I don't –"
"I should have known!" Belarus seethed, turning her face away from me. "Here I was, worrying about those infernal Baltics when really I should have been keeping an eye on you scheming Nordics." At this point she let out something akin to a wail of pain. "I should have known one of you would be the one to steal Ivan away from me!"
"We're just friends," I replied icily, taking a step backwards.
"Admit it," she growled, closing the miniscule space I had put between us in a heartbeat. "This is exactly what you want, what you planned. I sincerely doubt any of the other numskulls in your pathetic little family could have set up something like this."
If I were any less of a gentleman I would have called her a bitch to her face. Coincidentally, I did hear Sweden and Finland's adoptive micro-nation deem her a few choice words when her back was turned.
"Belarus," I began, rising to my full height, "I'm sorry to have alarmed you, but I think you should know that your brother has the right to associate with whoever he chooses."
The nation eyed me warily, almost as if my display of a backbone caught her off guard. "No," she said with an air of finality. "I think you need to admit this was your fault."
"You know," I replied, "the more you insist, the less inclined I am to comply with your request."
"In that case," Belarus growled, "I am not nor ever will be interested in forming formal social or political relations with your country, and I will do everything in my power to prevent you from becoming one with Russia."
"Oh sure," I said, finally snapping. "Do everything in your power, not to keep me away but to keep your mind off exactly how much closer I am to your brother."
Something within Belarus shifted; her eyes widened, her lower lip quivered, even her bow drooped. For a moment she looked positively angelic. "What are you saying?" she asked.
"I'm saying you'll never become one with Russia!" I practically shouted.
I swore I heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. Immediately I wished I could take my declaration back, not because I was embarrassed by any means but because Belarus angry was far from a pretty sight. The gloves were definitely off… metaphorically speaking. My well-worn pair will have to pried off my cold dead hands.
Speaking of cold, dead things, at this point I was fully expecting to be killed in a matter of minutes because Belarus had miraculously produced a set of knives. I wasn't even sure I wanted to know, but I opened my mouth to ask what was going on anyway; my query was cut off by a feral scream and the sound of steel whipping past my ear.
Well fuck.
"Belarus!" Ukraine thundered, standing up to yell at her sister. I took the opportunity to step backwards, but Natalia was faster, the blade in her hand slashing the left breast of my jacket.
"Hey!" I dodged another slice aimed at my face, grabbing her wrist to twist the knife away. Behind the snarling blonde's head, I noticed Sealand standing on his chair applauding. I smiled briefly to myself; Cheeky little fellow. Sweden gave a silent nod of approval, while Finland, although quite pale-looking, managed a grin.
Unfortunately, my split-second distraction gave Belarus the opportunity she desired. With the strength of a nation twice her size, she spun me around and neatly pinned my sleeve to the large conference table. She darted off to retrieve the first weapon that had missed me while I was left to stare at my arm, dumbstruck.
"Quick, Iceland!" I heard someone cry out as the enraged woman approached me once more. "Use the chair!"
I ducked and twisted and mulled over what the hell was meant by that. Was that a boxing move of some sort? No, definitely a wrestling move… could I really use a choreographed fight technique against a poor, unsuspecting girl?
One look at Belarus's enraged face gave me a pretty definitive answer.
Tentatively, I reached down for the closest leg of the chair behind me. Natalia, however, was two steps ahead of my plan; with a shriek she pitched forward, burying one of her daggers in the wood where my hand had been. I had swiftly jumped out of her reach, banging my ribcage on the conference table.
"Belarus!" Ukraine yelled again, coming around the table in an attempt to stop her vicious sister. Unfortunately, the nation in question chose to ignore her sister and instead made another stab at me.
In one terrifying moment, I yanked my coat sleeve free with a sickening tear and flew backwards, out of Natalia's reach. Free from the danger of her knives, I stumbled backwards right over the chair I had just been instructed to use, my head hitting the floor with a thud.
In the moments before I blacked out I came to the realization that I the voice who had called out to "Use the chair!" was, in all likelihood, that bastard Denmark. I also came to the realization that no matter how bad the head injury I got from this ordeal was, I was going to kill that damn nation quite thoroughly.
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"Denmark, you fucking moron!" my usually conservative brother bellowed across the hospital waiting room, and if I wasn't in so much pain I might have laughed at his outburst. "I know this is your fault. What on freakin' Earth made you think sending my poor, sick brother – who you know is especially weak due to his freakin' economy and the fact that you were just in Iceland – to deal with Miss Incest International was a good idea?!"
"In my defense I didn't know he was going to take my advice seriously," Denmark retorted before shooting me a sympathetic look and ruffling my hair. "I mean, I can't believe you actually did that, little buddy!"
" 's alright," I groaned, pressing the soothing icepack harder against my bruised torso. I felt like a complete and angered idiot for not realizing Denmark was just looking for a way to provoke Belarus, but I was in a forgiving mood at the present time. This was probably due to the fact that Denmark had requested the doctors give me "the good drugs" when we got here, but I wasn't complaining.
Norway sighed, plopping down into one of the hard plastic chairs on the other side of Denmark. "So how extensive was the damage you caused this time?"
Denmark flipped through several pages of my medical chart, which he had snatched when the doctors weren't looking. "Bruised torso, but the ribs are fine. Banged up head and slightly twisted ankle from when you fell over that chair backwards." He laughed to himself as if remembering the incident but an icy glare from Norway silenced him. "Uh, four knife wounds, all of which were superficial, which I think means she wasn't really trying to hurt you that badly. Oh!" The eager Dane looked up at me with a hopeful grin. "That means you still have a chance with her!"
"If it's fine by you," I said, "I think I will sit this generous opportunity out."
"That is an excellent idea," Norway seconded, glaring at Denmark who had opened his mouth to reply. Far from being deterred, the larger nation, who refused to shut his mouth, turned to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Did you at least get a look up her skirt when she took the knives out?" he asked in all seriousness.
The noise of Norway's hand slapping his forehead in frustration echoed throughout the room. I sighed deeply through my nose and resisted the strong urge to roll my eyes before looking an exuberant Denmark in the eyes.
"No," I stated slowly, "I was too busy trying not to get stabbed to look up my attacker's dress."
"Oh," Denmark replied, his face falling slightly. "Okay." He fidgeted for a moment before turning back to me. "I think there's a vending machine down the hall. Want me to get you a Pepsi?"
"… No thank you."
A/N: Due to this story, "Sealand" has been added to my Word Processor's dictionary. I feel proud for the little guy. Reviewers will be spared a painful slashing by Belarus, but I can't make any promises for the others.