Norway loved the night.

He loved the way the stars would shine above the crisp white snow as the rare beauty of the northern lights shimmered and shifted in the heavens, a swirling dance of colour and beauty.

Sometimes Denmark would sit with him under a reindeer-fur blanket, Lukas would point out stars, and constellations, the inquisitive Dane absorbing the knowledge like an eager puppy. Then they would share a glass of hot cocoa (Which Denmark usually spiked with alchohol, but Norway didn't mind), and doze off together under the starry sky.

Iceland would bring out his sketchpad and water-colours, and together with Lukas, he would bring the fjords and mountains alive on the paper, along with the dazzling colours of the Aurora Borealis, they would draw for hours, not speaking, but content with just being.

When he was with Sweden, Norway would marvel silently at the way the usually stoic nation becamrelaxed and positivly friendly under the night stars, watching for hours and telling him stories about the different planets and stars they could see. There was a kind of magic that was both beautiful and errie.

Sometimes Finland joined them, and the little nation would cuddle up to Berwald, mittens hollding a mug of hot drink, and Hanatamago curled up by his side. And he would make up new stories, wonderful and fantastical ones, the likes of which Norway had never heard before.

There was a framed picture on his desk, a picture of the whole family sitting together on the snow covered grass, and it held its memories, of nights watching the stars together, memories precious and pure. Nowadays, his siblings were often busy, but still Norway would sit under the sky, watching and wondering.

Norway loved the night.