He allows Denmark to carry him for a little over a kilometer, until the bunker it out of sight, before he squirms out of his arms and insists on walking beside him instead, his pride not low enough yet to warrant being hauled around but still too nervous to let go of Denmark's hand, his fingers laced tight around the other man's as they begin their slow trek across the ragged terrain.

When Denmark told him that everything had burnt up, Peter had no trouble believing him. Based on his memories of the heat from the flashes, he never once doubted that things would be charred and ashy, but now, seeing it for the first time, it makes his heart ache in a way he has never felt before. It isn't just a flat wasteland like he had been expecting. He had thought that whole mountains would have been blown away and forests would have been leveled and that everything would just be gone, swallowed up by The Calamity and it's furious temperatures and left in a state of empty nothingness surrounded by black water. He hadn't been expecting to see anything.

But everything is very much still there.

Trees are still upright, thin and black like used toothpicks poking out of the rough soil in spindly twists of naked wood that reach into the gray sky, choked with heavy, dark clouds that send a perpetual shower of ember and ash swirling around them as they go, the falling cinder muffling what little sound there is, reminding Peter of winter when the snow used to quiet the world. It only takes him a while to realize that the clouds are in fact smoke and not clouds at all and that the ash is falling because everything is still on fire, and if he looks hard enough into the distance, he can just faintly see the orange glow of something far away stuck in a long smolder.

"Probably a car lot," Denmark tells him when he asks about it.

Cars, too, are still present. They line the main road, most of them twisted and bent and flipped onto their backs or sides and coated in a layer of dust and ash so thick that Sealand can no longer see the paint. Their windows are all broken and the warped pavement beneath their feet is scattered with the remains of shattered glass and soft puffs of interior. As they pass each car, Denmark pulls him forward to walk in front of him, both hands placed on his shoulders as they weave through the crooked remains of the automobile graveyard.

"Never go near the cars if you can help it," he points to the cracked windshield of an overturned delivery truck. "All of these have already been raided for supplies, but people sometimes hide in the bigger ones." He looks down when Peter nervously shifts closer to him and he squeezes his shoulder. "We just have a little further to go and we can get off the main drag. Don't worry."

But Peter does worry. Everything is so silent in their monochrome little world that each time their boots crunch against glass or the gun stock clacks against Denmark's bag, he nearly jumps out of his skin, expecting someone to burst from the shadowed insides of the dead cars. He has only seen people in the shelters and none of them had ever looked very well and the image his brain conjures up of raiders and the people who have been living on the outside is nothing short of horrifying. He imagines them with sunken eyes and greasy, loose skin, bits of bone and hair tied around their belts and clothes as trophies, maybe with mutated features like the characters in the video games Sweden never allowed him to play…

"Hey," Denmark's voice snaps him out of his worried thoughts and he peers up at him as he steers them off of the waves of melted pavement and onto the dusty ground near the off ramp. "We're going to take this way for now. It's a local route, so there won't be as many cars."

Sealand nods and watches as his feet sink into the ash with each step he takes, kicking up tiny clouds of gray. "Where are we going?"

"I'd like to try and make it to the outskirts if we can. Maybe the Lochhausen area." He shields his eyes with a hand and stares up into the bleak sky. "We've gotten an early enough start that we should be able to make it before it gets dark if we hurry."

Peter glances down at Denmark's right leg, watching his slightly gimped steps with a curious eye. He is walking at a fair pace, but it isn't exactly what Sealand would call hurrying. Not that he is going much faster. His lungs are still throbbing painfully and he can't go more than a few minutes without stopping before he is winded enough to be breathing hard, his hand gripped around the front of his jacket as he struggles to keep up with Denmark's purposeful strides.

The Dane never lets him walk behind, however, and keeps a hand on him at all times; whether he has their fingers laced together or his palm flat against his shoulders, Denmark keeps him within reach and patiently stops every time Peter needs to take a break to catch his breath or rest his feet. After so much time spent in inactivity in the shelter, his legs are burning. The blanket of ash on the ground makes the road look soft, but each step goes straight through his worn shoes and by the time they stop for lunch, he is sure he won't be able to go much further.

Denmark pulls him to sit down on top of an old tire and motions for him to lift his foot. "We're gonna need to find you some different shoes," he mumbles as he inspects the soles of the old sneakers. "If you step on any nails or anything, they're gonna go right through your foot." He sets Peter's leg down and lets his pack slip off of his shoulder and onto the ground beside him. He flips the top open and pulls a half empty bottle of water from the front pocket along with a granola bar, which he snaps down the middle and hands to him. "Here."

Sealand takes it and pulls his bandana down enough to nibble on it while he watches Denmark open the map again and drag his finger along the road they are on. He keeps his half of the bar balanced on his knee and after a moment, he unwinds his head wrap and begins to eat as well, shifting to sit next to Peter and drawing the map up into both of their laps.

"Do you know how to read a map?"

Peter nods. "Arthur showed me a long time ago." He points to Poland. "We're going North-East right?"

"Right," Denmark grins around the granola bar held between his teeth. "And do you know how to tell which way is North without a compass?"

"Yeah. Finland taught me how to use a stick and the sun to do it, but I know how to do it with a watch too." He crumples up the wrapper and stuffs it away in his pocket. "I don't have a watch though. Is the sun even ever out enough to use shadows?"

"Nope." Denmark polishes off the last of his bar and folds the map back up. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small, plastic compass and presses it into his hands. "It's not always completely accurate, but it's better than nothing." He smiles. "Why don't you carry it?"

He takes it, hesitantly, and looks down at it. The surface is cracked and smeared with ash, but the red arrow is still in one piece and pointing in the right direction. "What if I lose it?"

Denmark pats his knee and stands up. "You won't lose it." He begins to rewind the sheet over his mouth, pausing to wipe his goggles off with one corner. Once he's tucked it down, he stoops down and picks up his bag again, taking Peter's as well before he can protest. "Your feet hurt, right? I can carry it."

Sealand huffs and scoots off of the deflated tire. "My feet are fine," he grumbles. "I can carry my own backpack." He extends his arm to take it, but Denmark shakes his head and just takes his hand in his own and starts to pull him back toward the road.

"You've only been outside for a day. You gotta get used to it before you can push yourself too hard. If you go too fast, you'll hurt yourself." He gives him a friendly elbow. "First rule of the end of the world: only strain yourself when you have to. It's not worth it to screw yourself up over something little when you're gonna need to be in top shape when it counts."

Sealand carefully steps over the edge of the broken pavement. "How am I supposed to know when it counts?"

"You'll know."

-

Despite Denmark's optimism, they don't quite make it as far as they had hoped, and when it begins to get dark, he informs Peter that it's time to call it a day and they cautiously climb over precarious pieces of broken concrete to set up camp beneath what is left of a highway overpass. Between their frequent stops to rest and avoidance of the major roads, they haven't covered much ground, but they have put enough space between themselves and the bunker that Peter gets a certain feeling of finality every time he looks back and can only see the murky gray behind them. He isn't quite sure if it's a good feeling or not, but it makes his stomach hurt to think about how much further they have to go still.

It's gotten much colder now that night has started upon them and as he watches Denmark unpack their bedding inside the partially closed box of rubble, he can't help the shivers that ghost over his arms and legs. He tucks his legs up to his chest and tries to nonchalantly huddle into himself, but the gesture does not go unnoticed by the Dane and as soon as he has laid out the few blankets that they have, he shrugs out of his long trench coat and drapes it around Peter's shoulders.

"We should try to find a trading post tomorrow." He flops down next to Peter, crossing his legs, and pulls his pack into his lap, rummaging through it and inspecting several items. "We should be able to trade something in here for a coat and a pair of boots for you."

"Trading post?"

"Mm. A lot of big cities have 'em. Not everybody has lost their mind yet and sometimes you can find people with all kinds of scavenged shit that they want to trade." He pulls out a pair of binoculars and turns them over in his hand before shaking his head and putting them back. "They're kind of like flea markets, I guess. It's mostly just a bunch of people with a bunch of soggy boxes full of stuff they drug out of old department stores."

"Why don't we just find a department store?" He yawns and shifts closer to Denmark. "Wouldn't that be safer?"

"Yeah, but at this point, it's unlikely we'd find anything. Munich has a huge population and everyone pretty much looted the stores into the ground. Once we get further out, we'll stop to look in grocery stores and whatever else we find, but it's a pretty fruitless effort here."

His eyes droop and he starts to tip over against Denmark. "Oh."

Denmark slings an arm around his shoulder and scoops him up with the other, carefully stepping over the uneven ground to where he has set up their blankets. He sets Peter down and pulls the thin stack of covers over him, adjusting the large coat to make sure it falls over his feet before turning back to get their bags and hanging them above on a sharp outcropping of wire.

"Y'can have your coat back…" Peter murmurs as Denmark lies down beside him. "M'not that cold."

Denmark's quiet laugh is warm on the back of his neck. "Yeah you are. You're still shiverin'."

"Am not."

"Are too."

Sealand sighs deeply and gives up on arguing and settles for just rolling over to face Denmark, raising a curious eyebrow when his eyes adjust to the darkness. He has a strip of fabric tied around his nose and mouth. "You're gonna sleep with that on?" He shifts up slightly. "We're not in the ash."

"Habit."

"Should I…?"

"It's not a bad idea." He reaches into his pants pocket and fishes out a different bandana, one that isn't coated in the grime from walking all day. He reaches around Peter's head and gingerly ties it behind his ears. "If you can't sleep with it on, you can just pull the blankets over your head. It'll do about as much good."

"Why don't you just do that?"

Denmark shrugs. "I'm too tall. You can do it though."

Peter reaches around his head to secure the knot a little tighter and nods. "I'm okay." He pauses while Denmark rolls over onto his back, guilt creeping into his belly when he can feel him shivering through the pile of blankets over them. After a moment, he sighs angrily and wriggles closer to him and spreads the coat over them both.

"You're breaking your own rule, idiot," he mutters. "Stop being stupid."

He doesn't even need to see to know that Denmark is smirking when he rolls over and catches Peter around his waist and pulls him in to a smothering hug. "You sound like Norway." He trails off for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "Actually, you sound like all of them," he laughs quietly. "The calling me stupid thing, I mean."

Peter frowns. "It's your own fault for giving them so much to call you stupid over."

"I know."

A long, awkward silence stretches between them for several minutes before Denmark's arms just barely tighten around Peter's waist and he tilts his head down enough to allow the blankets to brush over his ears.

"We'll find them," he says sternly. "We're gonna find them."

"Yeah..." Sealand bites his lip and squeezes Denmark's shaking hand.

"I know."