Disclaimer: I Don't Own Hetalia / Ailateh Nwo T'nod I
Warnings: some language
AN: A part of Fill the Gaps: Cannoli Style (read about it on my profile). Head-Cannons were generously used in the making of this one-shot. Any history used is historically accurate. Usually people envision Iceland around 17, but in this fic, he is around 20. (Hell, Iceland was colonized in the 9th century, he is a decent age.) This was written with neither friendship nor romance in the favor, so that area is up to reader's decision. Really, what is the difference between a close friendship and a relationship besides finding the other person sexually attractive? Philosophy aside, please enjoy~
Subjecting water to a frozen environment causes ice; blazing it with heat causes steam. However, both ice and steam is H2O.
.:v:.
Having a national boarder on the coast always has its advantages. Historically, it allowed for easier mapping. Internationally, it allows for simpler trade. Domestically, it allows for an abundance of natural resources. Leisurely, it allows for a calm weekend of baiting hooks, casting the metal 'J's into the blue universe, and counting the number of ringlets made from the broken surface tension before dinner is given a new swimming path onto the wooden sloop.
Being maritime countries, an economy and lifestyle built up from the curls of waves, Iceland and Romano have spent a majority of their lives within eyesight of that curved horizon whether it was from sitting on a rocky coast or working in a land-locked office about improving ocean health. With a gentle breeze on the starboard side, their first fishing trip together caught nothing more than the knowledge of Emil preferring his haddock simply boiled and Lovino enjoying the succulent taste of tuna with tomatoes. The ocean won't evaporate in one revolution about the Earth's axis and their rods won't start a strike and leave.
With names being longer than one syllable, and the general fondness people attach to friends, it is not a wonder that Iceland and Romano would be given nicknames. Especially if one of the people they hang out with fire neurons 24/7. Disappointingly, the nicknames are rather uncreative shortenings of their usual names. Icey, as if the silverette was some type of flavored, frozen drink, forever plagues the Nordic nation whenever he comes into contact with the other four in his family. Lovi, following the brunette since the Roman Empire, has yet to shrivel and die in the presence of people willing to take a tongue lashing. Maybe it is not fondness Denmark and Spain wish to convey; perhaps, they just like to piss the two hotheads off.
Civilizations of coughing industrial plants and cookie-cutter subdivisions has spoiled miles of pristine beauty. The naturally stunning chains of snow-topped mountains under favored for red-wood forests of steel, glass, concrete. Modernism requires these economy-pumping infrastructures, but most nations can't help but to remember their early years of existence on the frontier, before when feeding meant hunting amongst the trees instead of navigating the aisles of a local grocery. To reignite themselves back to this lifestyle would be silly, for the rest of the world would quickly leave them behind; however, they can sit on their favorite perch within their boarders and let the sweet embraces of sentimentalization cloud reality. Mesmerization of some part of their little niche in the world is no different for Romano and Iceland.
In a rolling sea of swaying knee-high, sun-baked grass, grass heated by the same star that tans his body, sits the ancient meadow of Romano's nostalgia. Untouched by time and the rest of Lazio, even his other half Feliciano, Romano journeys the no trail path to this field, encased by gash-covered trees, where Nonno Rome use to teach him the art of swordsmanship, a skill he solely hones here to honor the great, fallen man when some stress needs to be let loose. Since BC times, three people have had the privilege to waltz with the little daisies that dot the ground of the Italian paradise: the empire who discovered it, the current protector of the meadow, and the Nordic nation who claimed he didn't belong amongst the masquerade until his Italian friend told him to shut up and enjoy the day.
Similarly, Iceland has that one meaningful location to escape the horrors of tax proposals and noise pollution. With frigid ice flows nipping the toes and steamy geysers heating the cheeks, the costal, green-clad rock of the Icelandic man lies on his northern boarder, only available to those with knowledge of the area. It is not the X-axis that captivates the quiet man, but casting his eyes to the lightened heavens reveals ribbons of crystal blues, vibrant violets, and pale greens. As he maps the vibrating glows, eyes changing from a light blue with barely visible green specks to shocking violets of varying shades, the nostalgia of the place flows in like the river above. Just as Norway brought him to this clean space centuries ago to witness his first, true viewing of the aurora borealis before they were to move in with Denmark the following day, Iceland's expression must have mirrored the same dilated eyes, open mouth, and absolute enchantment to the fairy tale raging above as his Italian guest was doing now.
When a nation develops a close bond with an animal, that particular animal begins to absorb the power given off by the nation. This power, derived from a booming economy, healthy land, and thriving populations, morphologically changes the animal's DNA into that similar of a personification tied to the land of it's owner when enough is drawn. Side by side, the nation and their companion can live for centuries so long as the nation's people survive. Some notable examples include England and Flying Mint Bunny, Prussia and Gilbird, and Iceland and Mr. Puffin.
Just because one loves something does not negate their obnoxious tag, especially when Iceland is trying to cook some fish, leaves the seafood in the pan to collect some herbs, and returns to the stove to find an empty pan and noticeably fatter puffin lying on the kitchen table. He questions why he puts up with the black bird's melody of swears and impulsive attitude, but can come to no conclusions. Those were just some of his favorite traits about his bow-tied companion. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Puffin and Romano get along well. Too well, sometimes, as once the bird and the Italian threatened each other with where one will be sleeping tonight while making a list of names. During this business meeting, Iceland just sat in his favorite chair with his favorite coffee cup containing his favorite type of coffee and calmly exchanging quips with his favorite wolf, Lunetta.
Lunetta, a female Italian Wolf born in the Apennine Mountains centuries ago (also named centuries ago when she was still a small pup), is the Nation Companion of Italia Romano, a fact few people know about. One, introducing people to your pet (though Lunetta would snap the wrist of anyone who deems her below her companion) wolf is an awkward situation. Two, Lunetta is a bitch. Both literally and figuratively. Instead of staying inside the house and eating from a bowl like some domesticated pussy, such as Italia Veneziano's cat-companion Pookie, she comes and goes as a free-spirit, the way wolves were born, often leaving the boned remains of one of her previous meals in the living room of the Italy's house just to annoy them and remind Romano that she is still alive and kicking. But it was her calm, elusive outwards nature of gentle licks to battle wounds and passionate inside animal of endless wit to his sardonicism that attracted the Italian. It is true that opposites attract, but you need some things in common to stand being around someone, otherwise, there is nothing else to do than just stare at each other.
To help protect Iceland in any way possible, Norway, with the help of local fairies, crafted a thin strip of plain, white silk stitched with magical spells to help ward against minor bad luck. When Iceland received this ribbon, his older brother tying it around his neck in a bow-like fashion until the silverette decided it would look better tucked under his shirt, he did not believe there was any luck to be brought into life from some scrap of fabric. After all, the following day Norway and himself were to be evicted to Denmark. Once the final knot was pulled, the sky exploded into uncontrollable colors, a sight he will remember for the ages. Iceland does not believe in trolls that asked too many questions nor a series of made up words can cure cancer or any magic in general. And those flashes of color in his peripheries or shadows behind a bush that suddenly disappear the next blink are not magical creatures, but to keep his promise to Norway about leaving the offending silk wrapped around his neck, Iceland would deal with the condescending cracks against his maturity and let the 'magic bow' grow on him.
Back in the age of the Roman Empire, one would often see a boisterous man, little golden rosary arrogantly swinging around his neck, strolling the cobblestoned roads cradling a young child in each arm. This man knew that the beings he carried were destined to outlive and carry on his legacy. Being an old nation smartened by building from dust to the Colosseum, he knew the tricks and secrets to running a polished nation. It took a good balance of the domestic arts to enlighten the citizens and trained military to protect and expand the home-front. Each of his grand-children showed promise in one of the fields, the younger being an excellent painter and the older showing a good understanding of basic battle tactics and leadership. Spending the time to train both of his protégés at the same time became too taxing, neither could fully develop their assets. To remedy the time issue, for the Roman Empire felt the constrictions on his heart tighten every day, he decided to devote a time period of full training to each of the little ones individually, starting with Feliciano. Because Romano was out for the entire day with one of the generals, and the Roman Empire had knack for being impatient and impulsive, he decided to leave immediately with Feliciano. Before the front door saw its last pass of the empire, he wanted to leave a note for Romano explaining his hasty departure, but the brunette could not find any ink nor paper. With a low level of understanding to the consequences, Roman Empire left something he was confident Romano would understand all the thoughts he was trying to convey through it. Centuries later, the Southern Italian sits at his kitchen table fiddling a little, golden rosary, questioning why Nonno didn't love him enough to stay.
Both nations have a precious neckwear, given to them in compensation for a loss by a beloved family member, that they refuse to remove. Whether that reason is from a promise or a hope of return, at World Summits a white ribbon is proudly displayed while a golden rosary is hidden underneath a pin-striped shirt.
Pride is a fickle sweet poison that can drive one person to success or plummet another to the bottom of a bottle. Every nation, even the quietest ones, have their boastful moments about some new world-saving invention that comes from the mind of one of their people. It is pride that causes World Summits to spiral into anarchy and prevents the words stóri bróðir and fratellone to be spoken to Norway, Spain, and France.
While Romano would be sleeping with the fishes six feet under pushing daisies with a kicked bucket before he admits any relations to two-thirds of the perverted Bad Touch Trio, Iceland half-caved once when he first discovered he has a biological brother. Sadly, a mumbled big brother sounds too much like a garbage disposal and the other four Nordics couldn't decipher the phrase.
Pride is not the only thing that prevents Norway, Spain, and France from hearing their dreams, it is just plain amusement for the youngsters to hear the elder 'wise and mature' nations beg for their attention like puppies. It is a confidence stroker that can be renewed at every decline. The two of them even have a bet running on who will go the greatest lengths to get their fix, so far France is in the lead with the rose stunt of 1984. They may not say big brother, but they certainly feel it when the elder nations randomly check up on them. And they reply by going to their older brothers for advice.
Some countries are lucky to be in the middle of a continental plate, away from the fault lines that cause violent volcanic eruptions and sudden earthquakes, but for the countries that do cross a delve into the crust, shit can get bad quickly. Iceland is settled right on top of the fault line between the North American plate and the Eurasian plate that splits the island in two and the personification often feels like he is on that one torture device that slowly pulls the victims limps apart.
Italy, being carved by one fault running North-South along the Apennine Mountains and another crossing East-West north of Naples, the both of them often feel unscratchable itches when the land moves a fraction and fractures of the bone when the land moves too much, especially the Southerner because of the additional fault line and the majority of volcanoes in his boarders. The rippling sensations and hot flashes become second nature over time, but Iceland and Romano often confine in each other when that heated pit in their limbs begins to bubble and move or the muscles beneath the skin shift the slightest, causing an awkward bulge. These small events and instincts work better than any seismograph and both nations have saved countless citizen lives due to earlier detection from their connection with the land. Neither would give up these precious seconds for a painless week.
One would probably ask how two people who tend to distance others would ever be in the same room (let alone talk and actually try in the conversation instead of just nodding a head and hoping it wasn't a question), and the answer, as anticlimactic as it sounds, would be by using that ten-foot pole to push others away together. Instead of going with Hong Kong to the latest firecracker expo and steeling himself for the emotionless small talk, Iceland would use the business meeting excuse to go Skype Romano who used the leave me the fuck alone excuse to get out of watching the latest soap opera with Prussia, France, and Spain. They both felt safer and understood speaking to the other emotionally fucked nation. Sure, it is redundant to seek self-time with another, but the thought of being alone with nothing more than the dirt between their soles causes a greater fear than any dark room or hairy spider can produce.
Better to carpool the solo express than be caught in the backed-up, single driver's lane.
Honestly, they don't like to be isolated from the rest of the world, the latest gossip can warm their souls, but the encompassing force field they produce is permeable to only those who truly care. The trustworthy people willing to put up with aloof sarcasm and cynical surliness are the ones who won't smash your heart into jagged, unfixable shards.
There are at least two-hundred nations spread across the entire planet like icing on a cake. Despite being representatives of their land's beliefs, customs, and wishes, trying to fit at least two-hundred speeches into a respectable time-frame that allows for rest and leisure is nearly impossible. Even if each presentation is only eight minutes long. Boredom triumphs all.
Being a small island, Iceland rarely ever has the chance for any input more than a few sentences at World Summits, unless it has to do with fishing or ocean health, but many of the world powers rarely hear out that spit of land above the United Kingdom. Perhaps those few empty sentences he preaches to a nail-picking Philippines and doodling Australia about a new reef preservation technique is the worlds way of being fair.
Fair as in politically treating the two halves of Italy as polarized opposites when it is only the flip of a compass needle that separates their standings. Surrounded by the personifications of every type of person catalyzes the reaction of North and South Italy being separated into Italy and Romano. Italy, a leader in all forms of the arts, science, and tourism and it's by-product Romano. Presentations do not need two voices, that would only serve a plate of confusion with a sprinkling of redundancy on top. Surely Romano could stomp his foot on the tiled floor and demand that his ideas be examined, but his brother is always guaranteed a listened address to the world and, when the air-head dehydrogenises his brain, the more creative idealist puts forth a show that benefits them both. Standing beside his brother, the Northerner's pleas explained in the form of diagrams and hand gestures (with the occasional input of the Southerner to make it look like he does something), is simpler than trying to shift the eyes of a hundred some independents from the optimist to the pessimist.
Truthfully, Romano and Iceland just can't find it in their Republic hearts to care at times; both would much rather accumulate annoyed stares and headed glares from their snickering at the shared rants strung together about the douchbags of the world. Call them hypocrites, but it is not like their veto of some global policy will be taken seriously. Besides, Denmark and America are too busy building snowmen out of their stash of smuggled snow and Germany is lecturing the Northern half of Italy about the importance of making one's bed every morning. Neither of them have the time nor patience to spare an isolated island and a second-rate half nation a minute of a precious speaking slot. It's not discrimination, just time-management.
Inferiority complexes are not built in a day, they result from a pattern of habits and interpretations of someone with a low self-esteem. A harmless, good-intentions jest can be improperly skewed into a violent smack to the face when shipped through the self-conscious goggles that cover a person's mind. For some people, those goggles are thicker while others are nearly transparent.
Spain with his endearment and Nonno Rome with his trust... after all, Feliciano was the one Spain wanted cleaning his floors and Feliciano was the one Nonno chose to reside at his death bed. Sure, Romano could easily blend numerous spices coherently and sharp-shoot a target from 2000 meters, but this day and age prefers sweet and peaceful. Even though Feliciano was everything Romano wished he was, he could never hate his brother. Or even dislike the little idiot, someone would have to be ruthlessly cold to find those doe eyes and innocent smile intolerable. He would have formed his own country instead of dealing with the whole Italian Unification had he held any resentment for his other half. Wordlessly, the facts of life that the Southerner has come to swallow is that Feliciano is more loved and that he will never be like the Northerner. And the third part that Iceland once added: 'And I'm glad the first two are true because I don't have to fight the world for your attention and everyone's ears would fall off if another babbler existed.' He may not start tying flowers into headdresses, but Romano can start a new leaf by being a little nicer in the future.
Iceland knows what an inferiority complex feels like, those periods of self-hatred and envy boiling beneath the skin. He is a little island of volcanoes amongst titanic continents brimming with countries of rich history. He doesn't even have indigenous people, an existence sprouted from Norwegian colonization. As interesting as flocks of puffins are, people prefer the more well-known wonders of pyramids, Broadway plays, and Italian fountains. Low tourism is the nice way of saying uninteresting. The dwindling number of people visiting his land for the pristine landscape and Reykjavík worries the Icelander, is he truly needed in this world? The answer is still blurry to the silverette, but Romano once said that he would copy Orpheus and descend into the underworld to drag his ass back if he ever disappeared. Physically or mentally. Instead of looking back at the past, he should start looking towards the future and enjoy the small things that make him Iceland.
.:^:.
So yes, there are many similarities between Iceland and Romano, but the fact that Nordic crystallizes through Emil's veins and Lovino's land is scorched by the sun causes a small difference ...
"God damn it Emil, are you trying to freeze our balls off? Either stuff your ass in the refrigerator or go outside!"
"Get a blanket or something, Lovino, because it is way to freaking hot in here."
... in the common level the thermostat should be set at.
AN:
To those who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving aka Turkey Day! Lets all wear our masks and shout 'I'M GOING TO CRUSH YOU!' If you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, start a petition and happy November 22nd!
And Prussia is a total closet watcher of soap operas. They are his knight in dramatic, shining armor and one of the few things he deems at his level of awesome. Germany is so cranky all the time because he has to constantly clean up Prussia's Kleenex piles. The current soap he is watching is about an extremely hot girl named Otterberries and her quest to find her true love, A Well Written Story. To win the heart of AWWS, she must seduce him with reviews. Prussia has yet to finish this tale, but he prays that Otterberries and AWWS will hook up.