Norway sits at the kitchen table in Denmark's house, idly skimming the other nation's newspaper. His hand curls around a steaming mug of coffee, occasionally bringing it to his lips. A thought plays in the back of his mind: Why do I still come here? They haven't shared a house in years, yet every so often, Norway somehow finds himself here. He still has his old key. Before he can answer, the question is driven from his mind by the stomping of heavy feet on wooden stairs.

Denmark is finally awake.

Norway glances at the clock on the microwave. Almost half past noon. An irritated puff of breath escapes him, though he should hardly be surprised. This is, in fact, early for Denmark. He resumes his perusal of the newspaper, pausing every so often to sip his coffee.

Denmark clomps into the kitchen and Norway wonders how he can possibly make that much noise in bare feet. Oh, wait, this is Denmark. Norway smirks to himself as he glances up at the Dane's arrival. The latter is, of course, dressed in his favorite morning outfit – a pair of plaid boxers and a ratty Danish flag T-shirt that Norway is sure must have been white at one time. His hair pokes up at odd angles all over his head.

"Mornin', Nor," Denmark cheerily offers upon seeing the other Nordic.

Norway's eyes narrow slightly. Denmark's chipper tone hardly surprises him – the Dane always was a morning person (or in this case, afternoon). No, what irks Norway is the casual, off-hand greeting, as if Denmark expected him to be there with coffee brewing and breakfast cooking. Nevermind the fact they haven't shared a house in years (and nevermind that, yes, the coffee has been brewed and as for breakfast, well….)

Norway turns a page, not wanting to think about the catastrophe that is Denmark's pantry. The Dane must never consult his pantry before running off to the market for food items. Somehow he has managed to accumulate at least five bags of flour, each one nowhere close to empty, multiple jars of mushroom sauce, two or three loaves of rye bread, and boxes upon boxes of cereal. It took Norway an hour just to find the coffee.

Denmark pours himself a mug and goes to sit beside the other Nordic when the reek of something foul assaults his senses.

"Oh my God! Norway!" Denmark clamps a hand over his nose and mouth. "Fut da huhl isdat muhl?"

"Stop being childish and take your hand away from your mouth," Norway says, eyes not leaving the newspaper. "I can't understand a single thing you're saying."

"I said: 'What the hell is that smell?'" Denmark pinches his nose. "Did you bathe this morning?"

"Of course I did. I'm not a slob like you."

Denmark smells his shirt then lifts his arm and sniffs under that, too. "Well it ain't me."

"It's your refrigerator, genius."

"Oh," Denmark says simply and gives the appliance an appraising stare. "Is that why there's no breakfast?"

Norway turns a page in response, keeping his eyes fixed intently on the paper. He's certain that if he looks at Denmark, the sheer force of his glare would implode the Dane's head. Well, actually, that could be interesting….But before Norway gets a chance to try, Denmark is already inspecting the outside of the fridge, his hands carefully feeling along the edges as if it's a bomb that could go off any moment.

"Why didn't you clean it?" Denmark asks.

"I'm not going in there," Norway scoffs. "It's bad enough I spent half the morning fighting my way through that war-zone you call a pantry."

Denmark pulls his shirt over his nose, improvising a face mask, and reaches a tremulous hand towards the refrigerator door. He wraps his fingers around it, glancing nervously at Norway. The other nation forces himself not to roll his eyes. He fully anticipates Denmark breaking out with some bravado-filled catch phrase along the lines of "All right, I'm goin' in." Instead, the Dane takes a deep breath and yanks open the door.

A sour odor wafts out and Norway is sure he heard something dribble onto the kitchen floor with a mushy plop.

Denmark stares into his refrigerator. "I don't know what it could be."

"It smells like spoiled milk," Norway concedes, covering his own nose and mouth with his hand.

"I don't have milk, do I?"

"Why are you asking me? It's your refrigerator!"

"Yeah, but the last time it was full was when you bought the groceries. How long ago was that?"

Norway drops his head into his palm. "That last time I was here was three months ago! You mean you haven't been to the market or-or fixed your own damn food since then?"

"That's not true!"

"Cereal doesn't count, Den."

"But I've been to the supermarket. See?" Denmark pulls the fridge door wider so Norway has a better view from his perch at the kitchen table.

And it's true. Denmark has been to the grocery store on more than one occasion, just like with his pantry. Unlike his pantry, however, Denmark's refrigerator is filled with cases and cases of things that have been opened and consumed.

"Beer," Norway says flatly. "Your fridge is filled with beer."

"Yeah, and there's no way it can go bad. I drink it too fast."

Norway presses his lips tight. His tolerance of the feckless Dane seems to grow shorter with each visit. God, why do I come here? Norway massages his temples, trying to keep his voice steady as he asks: "So, you've been living off of beer for the past three months?"

"Beer is liquid bread, Nor. No baking required. Just pop the top and you're ready!"

"….Right. Okay, let me in there," Norway sighs, exasperated. "I've got to see where that smell is coming from."

He slides off his chair and joins Denmark in front of the refrigerator.

Denmark's beer cache is larger than Norway first assumed. Every available space in the fridge is crammed with cases or bottles or cans of beer. But in between the stacks of cardboard, Norway catches a glimpse of what might possibly be (or have been) an actual food item. He instructs Denmark to remove the cases stacked like Jenga blocks, and as the other Nordic does, Norway sees something did, in fact, drip onto the floor. Denmark's milk carton had exploded and the bottom shelf is now covered in a greenish, curdled mess that smells as pleasant as it looks. Towards the back, Norway finds Tupperware containers that he knows he filled with leftover chicken casserole and pickled herring and spinach pudding from his visit a few months ago. From the looks of things, these are still the leftovers, but now….

"These containers are growing their own penicillin, Denmark! This is absolutely disgusting! How can you live like this?"

"It's no big deal, Nor. Just grab a trash bag and chuck the shit."

"If it's no big deal, why don't you do it?"

"Hey, I didn't even know the stuff was in there. I thought I'd finished off all the stuff you cooked for me."

"…Fine," Norway growls. "Where are your trash bags?"

"In the pantry, next to the coffee."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Norway says under his breath, already envisioning his next foray into that eternal void. For the love of God, why do I come here?

"I'm gonna go shower. I feel as gross as that fridge smells," Denmark says, already heading for the stairs. "Oh, hey, when you're done tossing that stuff, would you do me a huge favor? There's some stuff I need to get at the store, and if I'm not dressed yet, it' d be awesome if you could pick it up for me. Thanks, Nor. I owe ya one."

Denmark bounds up the stairs for the bathroom and it's not until Norway starts rummaging for trash bags through the endless supply of flour, bread, and cereal that he realizes what just happened.

"I hate you so much!"

But all Denmark can hear is the loud gush of hot water through the tap.

A/N:

Question: If Denmark's milk is three months old, what does he put in his cereal?

Answer: Beer, of course! XD

I just realized all of my one-shots involve/reference alcohol in some way. It doesn't mean I have a problem, though. Right? ::ducks head, embarrassed::

I'd been wanting to write a fic involving the Nordics for a while now, and this is what popped into my head. I have no idea where it came from. I think I just needed a laugh Thanks for reading my attempt at a humorous fic! I'd love to know what you guys think.