Bergen, Norway, 1998.
Iceland was cramped into the taxi seat, his brown clothes rumpled from travel, his legs crossed and pressed up against the empty shotgun seat. He stared out the window blandly into the blinding-yet-gray morning sky of Bergen, watching rows of colorful houses seem to roll by. His eyes were near crossed, unfocused. The houses, blurred, red and yellow and upright, looked just like his.
Norway was his older brother. It was proven fact... Everyone was saying how alike they were. He couldn't deny that they were similar in build (scrawny, perhaps, and compared to Denmark, short), and that their history and politics and language were variations on a theme, but couldn't one say the same for Sweden? Denmark? Sometimes, that's what it felt like. A tie to someone that felt out of place.
Alike in history maybe, but Iceland found they didn't act the same at all. If they were, he wouldn't constantly feel the need to improve himself. He wouldn't ask his older brother to stop demanding him to call him 'stóri bróðir' all of the few times they spoke at meetings, because he couldn't live up to that.
The taxi stopped at an intersection, and Iceland sighed, sinking lower into the crunched-up position he'd slumped into as the time passed. He'd only glimpsed his brother at meetings. Even when they both agreed to continue hunting whales—to Europe's disgust—that was the most he'd heard his brother say for practically a century.
It used to be worse. For the first twenty years of his independence, he was afraid that Denmark's happy-go-lucky façade would break, that if he even looked at Norway, Denmark's subconscious would take out his frustration on him for losing Norway in the first place. But it wore off; Denmark stopped viewing Iceland as his. The years passed, and new generations thought differently. All connections were on the mend… but his and Norway's.
They were closer than anything at the beginning. He had fond memories of walking, inches from Norway's side, down these very streets he was being driven down. They had looked entirely different, yet the old city of Bergen was still there. He'd crawled under Norway's covers in the middle of the night and taken comfort in the warmth and protection that'd scare away his worst fears. He told Norway everything.
But Norway left and they both changed. Iceland couldn't tell what he was thinking anymore. At meetings, he'd notice Norway staring at him, but for what? So he'd duck out, not wanting to worry about what the man he called his brother thought of him. Perhaps it was stupid, done out of childish self-consciousness. They seemed as far apart as they were on the map, how oddly appropriate.
Still, Iceland, he'd gotten braver, hadn't he? He'd stood up to Denmark, he had, grabbed every tiny little law he could until he was free. Nature tried to kick his ass, but he made it. He made it. He'd survived with no one but Denmark's hauntingly cheerful comments to comfort him. He kept standing back up.
That aside, this was harder than anything.
The cab stopped and Iceland was jolted out of his thoughts.
He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out money he didn't recognize to pay the driver with. He grabbed his small bag, and walked up to the door. His hands were trembling. A new thought worried him; what if the man wasn't home? His address was current, but what if he had more than one house? Was out at some meeting Iceland wasn't aware about? He pushed the thoughts aside and knocked three times.
Silence.
He knocked again, slightly louder.
This time he heard soft steps coming from behind the door. He shifted uneasily.
The door cracked open, and he saw Norway in a thick wool sweater and flannel pants, his hair rumpled, half his bangs pulled back messily. His hair was only like that when he fell asleep in the middle of the day, he remembered vaguely. Iceland didn't know this man anymore. Norway's eyes were wide; he stood and stared wordlessly. Whatever Iceland had planned to say—not much—was escaping him in anxiety.
"I, I hope I didn't, I mean, I didn't want to interrupt—"
Norway pulled Iceland towards him suddenly, wrapping his arms around him as if trying to keep him from moving. Norway smelled slightly different than he once had, but still the salty smell of the ocean lingered, as well as the smell of the wool. It was uncomfortable, awkward, unsettlingly emotional, familiar.
After a long silence, his brother's voice was barely a whisper near his ear. Calm, and slightly scripted. Perhaps scripted for a long time.
"You don't know how long I've been waiting to meet you again, Island."
They'd weathered, but they didn't change.