Getting his left hand all the way through the sleeve of his shirt is a bit of a challenge, but Iceland manages. The small buttons down his front are easy even if his fingers do get a little lost under his cuffs at times. And, finally, he has dressed himself for the first time.
Denmark, kneeling in front of him, smiles, dazzlingly happy and proud in this moment. There's fraternal pride, as well as paternal.
"There ya go, Ice!"
Iceland doesn't smile back, but lowers his head a bit. He puts his hand to his neck, thinking that he needs a tie of some kind. This is his first Oxford shirt after all. "Mm. I've got it."
"Not yet! Just wait a moment," Denmark says. He rummages in his back pocket, pulls out a white ribbon. With a quick few moments he has it around Iceland's neck, tucked under his collar with his thumbs, and is making progress with tying it. Then he stops for a moment, lost. Iceland's small hands are gripping the backs of his own.
"Ah!" Denmark smiles, and then he is working again. With a final tug, he tilts his head and his hands return to his lap. "There we go. So cute!"
Iceland's hands touch the bow now tied at the base of his throat. He tries to imagine how he looks. "Hn…"
"Yer brother would hug ya 'nd squeeze ya 'til ya squeaked," Denmark says, still smiling. Always smiling—though tones have shifted, and even though Denmark is clearly in this moment, in 1898, Iceland suddenly feels displaced in the others presence. Uncomfortable, somehow uncertain, he shifts his weight and frowns. Denmark does not notice. Iceland is thinking of Norway, his brother who presently resides somewhere across the sea. Across the wind scourged Skagerrak, across gray waters he imagines as quickly, suddenly rising, rising almost up over his head.
"Nor used to tie his like this," Denmark says, putting a hand on Iceland's shoulder. "But he likes to have his collar closed. He's that kind of a stuffy guy, you know."
Any of the previous significant differences in the atmosphere is beyond Denmark, but he does feel how Iceland jumps under his touch. His instincts kick in. "Hey, Ice? You okay?"
"Yeah," Iceland says, looking away for a moment. Then he looks back, his features drawn tight by the earnestly intense seriousness of a youth. "Norway wouldn't baby me like this."
Denmark laughs again. It's a loud, amused, and hearty laugh, but this anxiety clenches Iceland's heart again. He thinks something like, I'm too young for this health problem. Dumb volcanoes. "Just wait 'til he sees ya," Denmark says.
Denmark is still smiling, smiling through what is one, two, three beats.
And then Iceland hugs Denmark. It's a full, good hug that's an embrace, small hands grasping fistfuls of coat above Denmark's shoulder blades. Iceland is comforting this man. He remembers Denmark's tears—Denmark used to cry sometimes, and he would hold Norway like this even when he was the one crying himself.
But Norway is not here.
And, he thinks, his own anxiety is connected to Denmark's use of the present tense, or a sure tense when referring to Norway. "Stop it," Iceland says into Denmark's shoulder. Stop. Stop, stopstopstop—
Breaking away, Denmark puts a hand on Iceland's head. "Oi, Ice! Ya don't have to be your brother."
Another beat. Iceland, looking out over Denmark's shoulder at his own bed, window, and small desk with its surface occupied by an open Danish and Icelandic Bible, cannot see if Denmark is smiling or not. "I don't understand."
Denmark is, however, rubbing his back. It is ridiculous how much of his back is covered by only one of Denmark's hands. His own hands on Denmark's back in comparison are so small. No use at all.
And then Denmark is up, smiling down at Iceland. "Come on, we're running late."
They've been ready for the day for a while now.
