NORWAY

"Sometimes, I don't know what to do with you." Norway's words were icy as he spoke them, which is exactly how he intended. He was furious. Beyond furious. Beyond anger and rage and fury and hatred and agony and despair. And yet it seems that his oldest friend, the one person who should be completely behind him in everything, who should help him and care about him and want to see him happy had completely destroyed everything that he was trying to accomplish at that meeting all over a show of testosterone and stupidity. He put a hand against his own face, the soft velvet of his gloves brushing his skin. "You realize what you did, right?"

Denmark was sulking like a child, Norway realized as he stood in Denmark's bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest in a desperate attempt to not beat the complete hell out of the man. His face was looking pointedly at the ground, his hands gripping the sides of the seat of the chair and he refused to even make eye contact with Norway. "I know it was him, Norge," he grumbled, kicking his toe into the carpet in a show of what could have almost been embarrassment. Norway took a deep breath to keep himself calm before leaning over the chair into Denmark's face and staring at him silently. Denmark said nothing, still unable to even meet Norway's eyes.

He shook his head, deciding that yelling wasn't going to get him anywhere, and by this point all the damage was already done. "You could've ruined everything." Denmark finally looked at him, his blue eyes incredibly sad and for a moment Norway felt a twinge of sadness that had nothing to do with his brother. But no, at that moment, he couldn't afford to let anything get in his way. He couldn't let anything knock him off the track of finding Iceland. Nothing at all. "But all is not lost," he added after a moment of being unable to tear his eyes away from Denmark. "Romano, Prussia, America. Not exactly the cream of the crop but they'll do."

Norway turned and started to pace, his heavy black shoes making dull thuds on the carpeted floor. For a moment Denmark didn't reply, his eyebrows furrowed almost in confusion, before asking, "Why are you always like that?" Norway turned to look at him, his eyes slightly narrowed. He had no idea what the man was asking and he tilted his head slightly, waiting for him to continue. "People want to help you, and you're kind of being a dick about it. Romano is kind of an idiot sometimes but he's brave when it counts. Prussia is smarter than people give him credit for. America is persistent and helpful if he needs to be. And you know what?"

"What's that?" Norway was beginning to lose his patience, not that it would show in his voice or face. How dare Denmark talk to him like this? Like he was some sort of child that needed to be explained a simple concept. As if Norway was the one who didn't understand more than anything else at this moment in time the necessity of bonding with other countries to meet a common goal. And if he had to beg, and plead, and bribe, and cheat and steal to gain their help then he would. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get Iceland back.

"They all have brothers too, ya know." Whatever he was expecting Denmark to say, it certainly wasn't that. He dropped his hands, staring at Denmark for a moment in complete and total awe. Romano and Italy. Prussia and Germany. America and Canada. Could that be why? Could that be the reason why they, of all people, volunteered to help with such a thing when no one else would? It was overly sentimental, and yet...

Norway was incredibly shocked that he hadn't seen it before and let himself sit down on Denmark's bed, unsure of what to say. Denmark moved from the chair so he could sit down next to him and put an arm around his waist. "You can be pretty harsh sometimes Norge," he said, pressing a kiss to Norway's cheek with the single most charming smile he had ever had on his face. "You should learn to be a little nicer."

The feeling in his chest was cold, the atmosphere around him was cold, his entire body was distanced and cold. And that was how he liked it. A person could remain cold their entire life and in tact, whole, unscathed. No matter how many battles or how many wars, how much destruction or how much strife, a person could remain whole if they just didn't let themselves feel anything. Norway had Iceland, the one thing in this world he let himself care about more than anything else, a spot of sun in the blizzard in his chest, and he was determined to get him back.

But the lips on his cheek were warm as a breeze on a summer day and the spot where they pressed was left tingling. Denmark smelled like grass and beer and clean sheets, like the outdoors and like home. The arms he placed around Norway's waist were strong, so sure, and he couldn't help but feel almost sorry for them both. He pushed a hand against Denmark's face and shoved him away derisively, saying in his typical monotone, "You're so irritating, Danmark." He just laughed and leaned back on the balls of his hands, wiggling his eyebrows at Norway before letting out a sigh, his face turning serious.

"Back to the search then?" he asked quietly, picking at a thread on his comforter aimlessly. The loss of Iceland had not been easy on any of them, Norway knew. Finland had been an anxious mess more visibly than the rest of them, but he had Sweden to anchor him through all of this, despite the fact that he, too, was shaken. Denmark, despite all his teasing and picking on Iceland, cared very much about his little brother, more than Norway had ever previously anticipated or could have guessed. He had been the first to reach out to help, came all the way from Denmark, traveled with him to Iceland, and the two searched and searched until they were beyond exhaustion.

Norway didn't want to remember those days, the agony and the pain so evident on his face when he was normally able to retain so much control. Denmark had said nothing about it, and yet the way he looked at him now had changed. He supposed when you have to carry someone home after they refused to leave freezing cold temperatures, after that person had not eaten in days and was delirious, covered in dirt and tears, it tended to change your perspective on them. Though he could not bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not even a little bit. Somehow, in front of Denmark, it had been all right.

As for Norway...

He hadn't slept in days, though he did manage to keep himself in better shape than before. He was living on coffee and the hope that even after scouring the island for two weeks his little brother would show up somewhere they hadn't yet checked. Iceland wasn't a large area of land, and yet they were exhausting themselves looking for him. Did it mean he wasn't on the island anymore? Should they expand their search? Norway didn't know. He didn't know what to do anymore, how he could help. Suddenly he felt sick, leaning over and putting his face in his hands, the urge to cry prickling at his eyes and clogging his throat.

Denmark placed a hand on Norway's back, comforting, and he didn't shrug it off like he tended to under normal circumstances. Like he usually wanted to. Right now, he needed this and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he needed Denmark more than anyone else in the world. Giving in, just this once, Norway leaned to the side and rested his head and shoulders in Denmark's lap, closing his eyes and wondering what else he could do to embarrass himself today. Denmark simply brushed back his hair from his face, carding his fingers through the blonde locks, and humming lightly under his breath a song that Norway could not identify.

"Dan," he said quietly, rolling onto his back so he could look up at the man. Denmark watched him silently and seemed to understand what he was asking when their eyes met. He leaned over and kissed Norway gently on the mouth in such a reassuring fashion that he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. Of all the countries, of all the men and women in the entire world, the one person who could make him feel this way was the biggest idiot on the planet. And was Norway grateful for him right then, for being with him no matter what, no matter how he acted or didn't act, the way he fought and the way he loved.

"Jeg elsker dig," Denmark offered quietly, not for the first time, and Norway turned his face away, unable to say the words back for the thousandth time he'd heard them from the man. But Denmark did not care that the phrase was not returned once again as he held Norway quietly, and the world faded away into night slowly as they lay there. Guilt gnawed at his chest and Norway sat up suddenly, startling Denmark. Denmark's face was unsure, but Norway did not give him a chance to respond before he gripped his shoulders and crushed their mouths together.

Denmark allowed himself to be shoved on his back as Norway straddled his hips, tugging off his tie and unbuttoning his red collared shirt with practiced ease. The pile of clothes on the floor was a tangled mess of black and red and blue, at the very top sat a shining silver hair clip in the shape of a cross and a tiny black garrison cap. Denmark was so warm, the feel of his hands and his chest and his legs wrapping Norway up in a bubble of bliss and contentment that he never felt anywhere else. He knew the right spots to press his mouth and where to trail his fingertips, he knew Norway's body perhaps better than he knew it himself.

He escaped to this place more and more often lately, he mused as Denmark pressed his mouth in fluttering kisses down his neck, biting gently at the skin in a way that made Norway's fingers clench and his held breath escape shakily. But it was the only time Norway ever felt like he was home, in a place that was safe and warm and kind. In a place where he belonged. He'd known it for a long time now, that he belonged with Denmark. It was the kind of certainty that brought a mixture of fear and elation to his heart, and it was something he was unable to admit to himself for the past couple of centuries.

So he allowed himself this, this closeness without attachment, the love without the admission, and being home without the commitment. Because sometimes there was always so much more to lose when you allowed yourself those things, and it was almost never worth it. But Denmark, behind closed doors when there was no one else around but Norway, was kind, Denmark was gentle and sweet and almost too perfect for him to the point of paining Norway. But he would never admit that of course. He couldn't allow himself that sort of happiness because it was always just a breeze away from being gone.

The rest of the night was spent in the throes of passion and in the warm embrace of each other, and Norway couldn't help but pray for the morning to never come.

AN: Since I received this question about Italy/Veneziano and Romano, here is an answer!

I feel like the only person who would really make the distinction between Romano and his brother being Italy Romano and Italy Veneziano would be Romano himself, since most of the characters refer to Veneziano as Italy, despite the fact that Romano is also a part of Italy.