Yeah, I completely adore IcexLiech, and it saddens me that they get like, next to no love. ):
So I looked up the 100 themes challenge and thought I'd try one! :D
As for age, I'd say Iceland's six-seven in human years, while Liechtenstein's around five.
01 Introduction:
France always held the best Christmas parties. His propensity for impeccable hospitality and natural flair for entertainment made his place the default location to gather. The nations were slightly happy for this inclination, as his ready acceptance to continuously host the get-together let others off the hook with having to face the hassle of accommodating their large group of kin instead.
But yes, with convenience's sake put aside, the sheer grandness of France's parties made his home quite the hot spot during the holidays - this was common knowledge among the European nations.
"Ice, grab your puffin and let's go!"
"Where...?"
"Where? France's, course! It's Christmas!"
...Or, at least, it was now.
Iceland gazed upon the festively-decorated castle with apathetic eyes as he cradled a small puffling (conveniently dubbed 'Mr. Puffin') closer to his chest, his other hand clutching tightly at Norway's. The temperature in France wasn't nearly as cold as it was back at his house, but there was still snow on the ground; he huffed, burying the lower portion of his face into the thick wool of his scarf, and kicked at the snow lightly, watching it puff up and swirl in glittering white clouds as they waited for Denmark to hand the carriage over to the stable boy.
"Denmark, Norway! Welcome!" a voice sounded. Iceland turned to see France jovially bouncing towards them, his arms open wide and a large grin on his face. His taste for fashion portrayed itself in his suit, which was rightly casual considering the occasion, yet smart enough to be deemed worthy of his style. "How wonderful it is to see you! Thank you for coming!"
"Good to see you too, France!" Denmark greeted, returning the smile and shifting the gift in his hands (which was brought to thank the Parisian's hospitality) to clap a hand on the man's shoulder, wisely opting not to hug him and risk the chance of being felt up. Norway already had his hand outstretched for a shake by the time France even turned his hopeful attention to him; the man laughed in resignation and accepted, his fingers which had been bitten red from the cold standing out vibrantly against the black of Norway's glove.
Iceland, though having only met France a few times before, found himself without the desire to bother shaking the hand of the man whose flamboyant character was rarely spoken of seriously. That, and his fingers were quite warm, being nestled within his elder brother's hand and among Mr. Puffin's feathers. Instead, when France beamed down at him with a "And good evening to you, Iceland," he settled for returning the greeting with a nod.
"Well, you three arrived at a great time," France said, clapping his hands together and leading the way back into the castle. "Most everyone is here, and dinner will be ready in an hour."
Iceland and the other two Nordic nations allowed France to bring them inside and out of the cold, shuffling their feet briefly on the welcome mat to rid themselves of any clinging snow and gratefully handing their coats to a waiting servant. The boy could hear music and the sounds of conversation resonating off the walls, and with a glance down the hall, he identified a well-lit double doorway to be the source of the noise. Indeed, as soon as they were settled, France led them to that very room, standing to the side as they crossed the threshold.
The entertainment parlor was lavishly decorated with garlands, tinsel, and baubles, the sparkling gleams of which only added to the warmth presented by a crackling fire. In the corner stood a grand christmas tree, decked top to bottom with candles, gingerbread men, and glass ornaments that twinkled and shone and were positioned in such a way that drew Iceland's gaze up to the beautiful, child-like angel at its tip.
The source of the laughter and chatter, as expected, came from the fellow nations who filled the room, most of whom Iceland had previously been acquainted with. All paused upon their arrival and the room was momentarily filled with exclamations of welcome as Iceland's eyes immediately zoned in on two particularly familiar people making their way towards them.
"Merry Christmas!" a grinning Finland exclaimed, bending down to envelop the boy in a warm hug, who relinquished his grip on his brother's hand to return the embrace, receiving a grunt and a pat on the shoulder from the ever-stoic Sweden once released. Iceland was rarely gifted with the opportunity to see the other two Nordic countries, as Denmark, with whom he resided, harbored a strong dislike for the tall, bespectacled Sweden, which, while beginning to quell over the years, was unlikely to ever completely vanish and was mutually reciprocated by the recipient of his unpleasant feelings.
After greetings were made, the five migrated further into the room to catch up and exchange pleasantries; Iceland sighed, quickly deeming the conversation as boring and thus detaching his attention, instead busying himself with looking about the room once more. Excluding the small entourage of fiddlers in the corner and the occasional servant spotted among the throng, the parlor was filled with older nations who were all laughing and talking and taking advantage of the unspoken truce that Christmastime always magically brought around.
Iceland shifted as he watched on, finding himself restless with the desire to return outside and plazy in the snow with Mr. Puffin.
That is, until his eyes zeroed in on a figure much more close to his size, standing beside the nations Iceland knew to be Austria and Hungary, watching their conversation with Italy with a polite air of attentiveness. It was a small girl who seemed to be around his age, clothed in a simple, white lace dress with her blonde hair pulled back into two neat braids that hung over her shoulders.
Iceland cocked his head and stared, having never met nor seen her before. He watched as she brought a hand up to push aside a few of her bangs which had fallen into her face; as her pupils shifted between the three adults before her, outclassing his ability to pay attention to mature conversations rather superbly; as her respectfully interested visage gave way to one of the brightest grins Iceland was quite sure to have ever laid eyes on, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her lips parting over white teeth and her cheeks indenting slightly, creating a pair of small dimples.
And as Iceland looked on, watching her bashfully clasp her hands in the folds of her dress and reply to whatever Italy had addressed her with, he was surprised to find his mind suddenly occupied with one single thought: 'Wow, I really want to be her friend...'
"Hey, what're you looking at, Ice?"
Trust the voice strong and loud enough to carry over the babble to belong to a certain Danish companion of his. Iceland winced at Denmark's outburst, and then froze when, of all people, the girl herself cocked her head and turned to face his way. His eyes locked with hers, and Iceland found his muscles strangely having lost all motivation to function.
He didn't even flinch when he heard a soft voice chuckle and whisper in his ear: "Ah, mon ami, she is very beautiful, non?"
Iceland shrugged half-heartedly in response. His thoughts had not been voiced using France's exact words, but he realized that the man was right - she was very pretty. By now, Hungary had noticed the girl's reason for stalling and was also muttering in her ear with a certain knowing smile on her face. The girl just continued to stare at him, her eyes shy, yet curious; Iceland's cheeks begin to heat up.
"Go on and talk to her," France continued with a hushed tone and a small, sly smile, pressing his the pads of his fingertips to Iceland's shoulder blades and lightly propelling the boy forward. "Compliment her!"
And before Iceland could even think to say anything back, his feet were automatically leading him across the room and planted themselves right in front of her, refusing to budge. They stared at each other for a second longer, before Iceland took a deep breath through his nose and clutched Mr. Puffin tightly within the protective folds of his arms. "I... I like your braids," he said, his voice surprisingly coming out okay; not too soft and not too loud, "they're really pretty... the bows and everything."
The girl's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, most likely having not expected the compliment. And then she smiled, sweet as honeydew, and replied with a voice that was light and pleasant; her English was laced with an accent, as expected, but then again, Iceland had one too: "Thank you! I just got them the other day, as a Christmas present." She stepped forward to better speak with him above the chatter. "I really like your bird, too - he's very cute."
Iceland glanced down at the animal in his arms. "O-oh, thanks... His name's Mr. Puffin." He shifted the puffin and offered his arms to her.
"That's a good name," she stated with a nod and a smile, accepting the unspoken invitation and reaching forward to pet Mr. Puffin lightly on his head, burrowing her fingers into his feathers and giggling. "Wow, he's so soft!"
"Yeah, he is." Iceland glanced from his puffin to her and back again. "You know, we could go play... if you want. You can hold him; he won't mind once he's out of all this noise."
The girl's face lit up eagerly. "Really? I'd love to!" She pivoted on her heel and hopped back to Hungary and Austria, tugging on their sleeves and talking to them rapidly in what Iceland recognized as German. Hungary almost immediately gave her permission for excusal, Austria agreeing nonchalantly, and she returned to him with a grin on her face. Iceland would have taken her hand to escort her out, suddenly very concerned with looking like a gentleman, but she had already resumed petting Mr. Puffin as they walked, depriving him of the opportunity. He decided that he didn't mind too much, though; as they made their way through the throng of nations to the hallway, Iceland felt a strange surge of anxiousness and excitement; he'd never had a friend his age before.
"My name's Iceland, by the way," he said as he stepped forward to hold the door open for her.
The girl smiled sweetly, fingers pausing atop Mr. Puffin's head.
"I'm Liechtenstein."