Title: Frosted Glass
Pairing: Norway x Iceland (+Denmark)
Prompt: Norway takes Iceland's virginity before giving him up to Denmark / written for Fukkafyla on LJ
Warning: Asphyxiation kink (requested by Jenniferplague on LJ)
Words: 1,630
They told him once that glass was like a liquid; that if it was left long enough in the windows of an old home, it would lose its shape. They said that if something, perhaps the twigs of an ancient tree, was pressed for years against its surface, the glass would flow around it, leaving rings and ripples, like water.
Ice is sharp, like glass.
Glass is fluid, like water.
Ice, frozen glass, blurred vision and breathlessness.
Things he did not want to remember.
--
He held the glass to his lips, taking a long, slow sip of akvavit as Denmark watched him intently.
"Drink, drink," he said cheerfully, his eyes crinkled in a lazy smile. The liquid burned down his throat as the taste of spice lingered in his mouth. He closed his eyes briefly to savour the heat; drink had grown on him like a dizzying comfort, distracting him from the snapshots that resurfaced in his mind. It was a sad thought, Norway would have said. He was still so very young, and not to remember was almost not to have lived. Denmark's smile, without the memories, seemed refreshingly sincere and warming in the coldness, like the clear liqueur sparkling in the firelight, casting shadows, playing on his features. The clink of glass as Denmark placed his drink down was distinct and sharp. He glanced up at him. Were the bruises from the last battle still visible just under pale surface of Denmark's skin? Or perhaps he just remembered them; with a tilt of his head they were gone, or back again. The light and drink played tricks on his mind, and his mind and vision wandered.
His eyes came to rest upon Norway's vacant chair, just at the corner of his sight. He smiled. This was a memory, perhaps worth holding onto. Small things like a smile or a whisper, the image of Denmark and Norway sitting together, no hard words or shattered glass. He saw it through a frosted window, panting after playing in the snow.
These were hard times, and small pleasures were all he had left. Small pleasures, and sweetly indistinct memories, nestled together, both good and bad. He had heard rumours of Norway, and Sweden: rumours of unexpected outspokenness, rumours of a desire to return to Denmark -- yet would he want to do that, really? Unless Norway had forgotten the words, words, words he had hurled at the tall man sitting here, unless those abuses had been nothing more than dramatic tears and lies. Something like the pain he felt; heartbeats pushing harder, harder against his chest as Denmark would sing bawdy songs with a drunken lilt and not glance his way. Loving in that indifference and that childish need for satisfaction, Denmark didn't know how to love, Iceland thought, or show his love, because in the dark nights all he wanted was touch and warmth and the feel of smooth skin under coarse hands. He could not express himself in any other way, not saying where he came short; he wouldn't say where he was strong without a sardonic smile, either...
"Alright there, Island?" Denmark asked, filling the glass again, "I don't have much else to eat, so drink up, drink up--"
So Iceland drank, and drank, singing jaunty songs and melancholy ballads so that he wouldn't have to remember where he was, what he was doing, while Denmark tooks his hand and lead him up to that cold, cold bedroom with the red and white drapes, soft pillows and frosted windows. He noticed only that Denmark looked battered but happy, nonchalant, not even remotely caring what the alcohol did to young bodies or fresh minds. It had been only thirty days since he arrived at Denmark's house, alone. Thirty days since he let go of Norway's hand.
Twenty-nine days exactly since everything changed: They had all been a blur.
--
He had hesitated, twenty-nine days ago, looking up into Norway's eyes. They were different, hooded, a dark shade of blue at midnight, moon high in the sky amongst the clouds. His thin, boyish limbs were trembling, cold under a thin layer of cloth. Norway sat next to him on the bed, coming to him late, awakening him. He sat up in greeting, opening his mouth to ask what had happened, why were his eyes so cold? He had been silenced. He could remember fondly the soft whisper of warm breath and a cold, thin-fingered hand tilting his head upwards. A finger hushed him before he spoke, before moist lips, gentle but firm, met his. He blushed, deeply. The feeling was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Something he'd only read and dreamed about, not fully knowing or understanding what it was. No, he did not understand, but he knew that he could.
He did not want Norway to break away, and yet, it would not last forever. It would be too stifling, and, to breathe --
"Island," Norway's face was so near to his, he had seen the tears welling before they fell. "Before you go, before he does this--"
He stretched an arm upward, running a hand through silky golden blond hair and feeling the tears as they fell against his skin. His fingers made their way slowly down the side of Norway's face, sliding gently, coming to rest softly on those lips, warm with his own heat.
"This?"
Norway turned his head away, breaking the gaze. "Forgive me, Island."
He was moving away, unbuttoning his shirt. Iceland could hear the rustle of the fabric as Norway let it fall gently to the hardwood floor. It was dark as the moon nestled behind a cloud, and he could only hear the bed creak and feel the mattress shift as Norway moved into the bed beside him. Quietly, an arm around his waist and push, forcing him down amongst the cotton sheets, surprisingly rough. Norway's expression was unreadable. Iceland didn't think he minded. No words. It had been a long time since he felt the harshness of Norway's hand, out of discipline or anger. Yet this time there was something different, something desperate in Norway's gaze. He lay back and closed his eyes, and laid himself bare. It was the right thing to do, after all, and he was old enough to understand.
He was old enough to understand, wasn't he?
Fingertips moved against his sides, steady at first before edging their way along his thighs, stroking and caressing painfully, painfully slow. It felt like hours, minutes, seconds were passing. The cold air whistled through the window outside, contrasting against warm breath and hot kisses, mouth open, almost begging for more and more and more. He spread his legs and let it happen, slowly at first, gradually wincing at the pain – before crying out, gasping in surprise at the twinge of pleasure and letting it simply overwhelm him. This was no soothing rhythm, no lullaby, nor punishment either. Arms out, almost forcefully embracing Norway, pulling him close -- as close as he could, before, with barely a warning, cold hands found his throat and he stiffened.
His breath hitched, shock sending slender arms writhing, fists clenching the sheets as pain blossomed in his chest, burning with the pain and desire elsewhere.
"N...Norge–"
"Island --" Norway whispered hoarsely, letting go only slightly, fingers still pressed hard against his neck and pulling him up so his voice resonated in his ears like hot lava, boiling. It hurt, hurt, don't move, he thought, don't move, you're still in me –
"What Denmark has done, what Denmark will do…I can't see you unprepared,"
He couldn't speak, couldn't twist those hands away. He wanted to scream, shout -- he didn't understand, he couldn't breathe, yet --
Tighter, tighter almost until he felt that he might die. Norway was speaking, he heard he tones, but he couldn't understand them. As Iceland yielded and his vision faded in hot pinpricks of light and darkness, Norway's face a kaleidoscope of colours through frosted glass; he realized with what consciousness he had left that both of them were crying.
--
And when he suddenly remembered that first night, the first time he had been in a drunken stupor with Denmark, breathless, damp in twisted sheets, he knew he had slowly brought his own hands up towards Denmark's neck, caressing it, telling him he already knew it and knew it all. Like he understood what he was doing, but only just that much, he told him he had been learning how not to breathe, told him that Norway already taught him what he needed to know. He remembered Denmark's satisfaction fading, his face turning from amusement to anger, to amusement again as he pushed him onto the bed, asking what Iceland knew, what he thought he knew. Needy, breathy, it was rougher, more painful, but his rosy cheeks and ice-blue eyes, were stained red and streaked with both tears and laughter.
He thought then that he had remembered the words on Norway's tongue: "I don't want to give you to him, Island. Perhaps it would be better if we died together, forgotten."
He closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the snow and the slam of the door, imagining the days when he slightest breath would freeze on the windows. He remembered sitting inside and watching Norway, or Denmark working in the cold outdoors and writing messages on them. He buried his face into his pillow. At times like this, he was never sure if he was laughing or crying.
When he woke up in the morning, there were only images through cracked glass as tree twigs cracked underfoot and the memory faded, like looking through a window, warped with time and frosted by breath barely there.
He does not always remember.
And perhaps it was better that way.
Note: I really have no idea what I've just written. Don't fucking ask me. Just uh. Yeah. Also, yes, I know glass isn't actually fluid (.org/wiki/Glass#Behavior_of_antique_glass). It's just-- i like the idea that it is...