Why.

He couldn't understand.

Why stóri bróðir Noregur liked Denmark better than him?

Why?

WHY?

WHY THE HELL, WHY!

Finland and Sweden, and Norway and Denmark. It had always been so. Finland bossing around that good-for-nothing Sweden, and Norway ignoring Denmark who flirted with him all the time.

But he knew.

He knew it.

He knew how much Norway loved that stupid asshole of a nation, fucking Denmark, and he hated him, hated, HATED.

And now he was living with him.

He remembered it far too clearly, the day Sweden took Norway away. Denmark had been bloody, leaning on his axe, not able to stand up without it. The big man had been bandaged and gritting his teeth so that he wouldn't scream from pain. Iceland had been afraid and powerless, a child not understanding why things were how they were.

And he remembered the screams.

The smell of blood.

The tears, the confusion, the grip on his hair as someone pulled his head up and held a cold blade against his throat. The words echoed in his ears: "If you want this little bastard to stay safe and sound, Norway, you're coming with us." Prussia. That sick son of a bitch. The albino nation had bent down to his ear, and huffed, breathing ragged: "I'd really like to take you with me, you know – that sweet ass of yours – ah, yeah, I'd really like to, but unfortunately England, that motherfucker, tells me to leave you to Denmark... Haha, like he'd get anything fun out of you."

And Norway, hungry and weak from the blockade and war, suffering when seeing his lover and brother being tortured, was leaving. He cried out he'd go with them, what ever, he'd do whatever they wanted him to. Prussia had grinned next to the icy nation's ear. He had smelled the war on the red-eyed nation's skin. Blood, sweat, and a somewhat sweet combination of smoke, dirt and alcohol. And he had felt it – he had felt the touches on his body, hands crawling on his skin, and he had cried out, begged for Norway to help him. "Noregur, Noregur!" he had called "Brother, help me!" And he had whined and moaned from the pain, the humiliation, the fear, not understanding why Prussia was doing such things. And Norway had shouted, screamed, begged on his knees for the silver-haired to stop, because he had known, he had seen, he had understood what the horrible, twisted man was doing to his brother, touching him like that. He had hated it, he had been disgusted, about to throw up.

Denmark, mad with rage, had tried to attack the albino holding his lover's brother. He hadn't made it far – after a few meters there had been a black boot on his way, and a rifle had hit his back, making him fall to the ground. Cold, hard green eyes, without any emotions, had looked to the man on the ground, despising the condition he was in. As Prussia had laughed, holding his sword's blade still on little Iceland's neck, England had stayed quiet, and so had Sweden.

"Why?" Denmark had growled, spitting blood. "Why are you doing this? We were best friends! Brothers! And this is how you betray me, you selfish son of a bitch?" He had been powerless. And it had scared Iceland. It had scared him to death, seeing the almighty Dane so weak.
"Because now you have everything" had Sweden answered, his voice cold and empty. "And I have nothing." And he had looked at Norway, and taken his arm into a firm grip. "And I'm taking your everything away from you. Brother."

Norway had screamed for Denmark, for Iceland. For Sweden to stop, for Prussia to let his little brother go. Anyone. Anything. Anywhere.

But it didn't help.
Iceland had cried out as Prussia had tossed him to the ground, laughing, thanking him for the treat. Saying he'd come again when the icy boy would be a bit older. And Iceland didn't understand. He had cried, tried to stand up, to reach for big brother. "Norge!" he had screamed. "Norge, big brother! Where are you going! Come back, Norge, please!"

He had felt strong arms wrapping around his small body, holding him against a warm chest. "It's okay, Iceland" Denmark had whispered, holding him so tight and close that he could feel the other nation's ice cold lips brushing against his ear, heart beating fast, like a bird wanting to get out from its cage. "It's okay. Big brother's only going to visit Sweden. I'll take care of you, we'll have fun together, okay? Don't worry, Iceland, big brother will be back soon. He will." But the reassuring words had only frightened him more, as he had felt the always so powerful Dane shaking, hot tears landing on his bear shoulder, big hands gripping his clothes like there was nothing he could hang on to.
And Norway had screamed.

And Iceland had screamed.

And they had cried and shouted, calling out for each other's names, hands reaching, not able to touch.

"Don't leave me" the white-haired child had whispered, voice ragged from screaming. "Don't go away, Norge, I don't want to be alone."
And little Iceland had watched as his brother was taken away from him, and somehow he had known.
Big brother was not coming back.