No one had noticed that Norway was gone until the 3rd of May, or the day of the first septannual European conference of the year.

They didn't expect his unexplainable absence. Norway was quite responsible. After all, he did have the decency to call Sweden ahead of time to tell him that, unfortunately, he would not be able to make it to the biannual international conference earlier that year. Regardless, he drove Europe mad trying to find him.

They tried his work number, his other work number, his personal number, and even his fake civilian number. They contacted the rest: The Middle East, Northern Africa, Southern Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, East Asia, and the Americas one by one to try to get ahold of him.

Then Iceland calmly looked up from the DS he hadn't taken his eyes off from in three hours to ask them if they had contacted Norway's government.

Obviously, they had not.

So Finland called a contact he met on a business trip once and, in pretty, fluent norwegian, asked if they knew Mr. Norway's whereabouts.

"He asked to go on vacation, sir. But I'm afraid I—"

Finland snapped his ancient excuse of a phone shut with more force than necessary.

"Well, someone has to go find him," he sighed. Then, suddenly remembering how a certain someone had drank all the whisky in the cupboard thirteen years ago, he asked,"Why don't you go, Denmark?"

And because the others didn't really want to spend an entire weekend tracking down the ever elusive Norway, Denmark was outvoted.

Thus, he found himself half awake in a little rented car, cruising down the roads of somewhere in Norway.

By now, he had developed a formula. He would drive into a town or a neighborhood, look for the friendliest looking person nearby, and the launch into a ten minute story about how his friend had gone missing, that he had no idea at all where he was, and that no, calling to police is unnecessary, no, he was not a murderer and no, Mr. Hansen is definitely not dead.

Then, to his disappointment, he would receive a suspicious glance and a polite apology of how sorry they were that they did not know where Mr. Hansen was.

Denmark desperately hoped that Norway had not left the country. He was already three days behind with his work, and he did not want to go through the rest of the world.

As he neared the small fishing town, he repeated the speech over and over to himself. Hello, my name is Mathias, I was wondering if you have seen my friend…

He could see a quaint cottage not too far off. It had a derelict appearance from what he could see, and he would've assumed that it was abandoned had the lights been off.

He climbed out of the car and prepared his practiced smile.

"Hello," he started as the red door swung open, "my—"

He froze,and stared incredulously at the man before him.

No fucking way.

Also: Of course Norway had blue-striped bathrobes.

"What the fuck you," Denmark said eloquently.

Norway blinked blearily. He brought a chipped mug to his lips and sipped his coffee calmly. It was one in the morning.

"Ah, it's you. Come on in, I suppose." Norway nodded and returned to the welcoming arms of the run down house.

Denmark followed him, his polished black shoes squeaking on the old wooden floorboards.

"You could have told us," Denmark said, drumming his fingers against his cup of coffee.

"Your coffee's getting cold."

Denmark glanced at the mug dismissively. It was brightly painted in reds and greens, and somehow a little too tall and a little too angular. It was ugly.

"Seriously, that's not cool. You could've told us. Do you how long it took me to find you?"

"Do you know how I don't give a shit, Denmark? The cake should be done now. Do you want some?" Norway stood up and trudged over to the open kitchen and took out his masterpiece. The rich, buttery smell filled the room. Norway made excellent cakes.

"I am days behind. Days! Now I can't go to that bar with Ned anymore," Denmark said as he broke off a generous section of the cake and stuffed it in his mouth. Norway made fucking excellent cakes.

"Like I said: I don't give a shit, Denmark. Why are we talking about work, anyway?"

"How are you going to catch up? I mean, look at this," Denmark wailed as he pulled up a thick stack of files from his briefcase.. "We're supposed to fill them in by July." He glared at them with self pity. The other glanced at it with disinterest.

"We should ask Germany for a therapist," Norway remarked dryly. Then, he said, "let's go for a walk."

"Nor, it's one thirty in the morning. And I had four hours of sleep in the last two days."

"I offered you coffee," Norway shrugged as he went to fill a thermos with what is basically his caffeinated drug, "let's go."

"It's nice," Denmark said when they sat down on the rickety wooden bench, watching the sun appear over the ocean.

"It is, isn't it?" Norway hummed as wrapped the bathrobe more tightly around himself.

They didn't talk for a while, admiring the soft golden glow of a foggy sunrise.

"Where are we, anyway?" Denmark asked to end the awkward silence with awkward conversation.

"Hell if I know," Norway shrugged.

"Why'd you buy the house?" he asked again.

"Rented."

"Ah," Denmark nodded when he realised Norway did not want to talk. He resigned to counting the sand on the ground, grain by grain.

After a while, Norway took pity on him.

"Look there," he said, nodding at a cove in the distance, "remember that?"

Denmark shook his head, and Norway sighed in exasperation.

"Thirteen years ago, you almost drowned there. Do you remember that?"

Denmark searched his memory for a near death experience (or, however close you could get to death when you couldn't die), but he found nothing. Norway sighed again.

"We were there, and then the tide came in."

"Shouldn't I've seen the water rise?"

"No, you were drank an entire mini fridge of beer and convinced that you saw a mermaid to remodel the statue after."

"I did that?" Denmark asked, amused.

"Yeah, you stayed underneath for seven minutes."

"Were you worried?" He added, playful.

"Not at the time," Norway answered after a few seconds. His voice was very quiet, and he wouldn't look at the man next to him.

"What do you mean?"

Norway didn't respond and instead chose to sip from his thermos.

Denmark cleared his throat. "Hey, you do know that we can't, you know, right?"

"Yes," Norway paused again. Then, he turned to Denmark and said, "can I tell you something?"

He nodded, so Norway continued.

"You know the last conference last year? The one in mid December? I," Norway hesitated, "I saw Prussia in the hallways."

"So?" Denmark said impatiently.

"He tripped. He hurt himself quite a bit, I think: his foot caught on a nail, and I think it twisted. I was standing behind him, and," Norway licked his lips nervously, "And, there is about two hours until the first break, but I saw him limping a little. You wouldn't notice unless you were paying attention."

"Nor—" Denmark started. But Norway ploughed on.

"But later, I started looking at him, and he kept glancing at his arm, and I think he's not getting better anymore. I mean," he lowered his voice even more, "I think he's dying."

And then I remembered that time you almost drowned and I was terrified and I can't believe I've been focusing on work when I could die any day, and—! I'm wasting away at my desk filing stupid papers for my country and I—"

"Oh Nor," Denmark sighed, reaching over to give Norway a one-armed hug, "you love your country, and your country needs you."

"And I know you've told me this before, I know I'm not him, but I need to tell you that I really love you, and I can't handle the thought of you dying and," Norway gasped, his voice getting more hysterical by the second, "I hate this, I hate having other people live through me, waking up is a burden, I can't end this but I can't stand it anymore, I can't, Den!" Denmark's arm slackened and he drew it back. Not the L-word.

"Norway, I can't, you know I can't. Please, I've told you before."

"I'm dying, Den. You're dying, everyone is dying, please. Just say it, just once."

"You're a really close friend of mine, Nor. And we have the casual thing. I really care about you, but please don't tell me to do that. I'm so sorry, I will do anything for you, but I—"

"You don't even remember his face," Norway tried to quiet his tears.

"I don't," Denmark said sadly, looking at his feet, "and we shouldn't be talking about this. Why don't we go back and pretend this didn't happened, Nor? I care for you a lot, but I can't…" he ended his sentence abruptly in favor of rubbing Norway's shoulder comfortingly.

"I know," Norway replied, once again calm and composed.

It was silent again.

"A kiss?"

"What?"

"Can you give me a kiss, Den? You've kissed me before."

And he was right. They had kissed before, and his kisses held no love, so he leaned over and they kissed to the gentle crash of the waves.