England was in Iceland's dining room, eating his food, drinking his bilberry tea, and of course, because he was England, complaining.

"Well," the British man huffed, taking a sip of his drink, "I suppose this is alright, but it's no earl grey."

Iceland just ground his teeth and kept quiet.

England was over here visiting America, not him, and seeing as the superpower had been cordial with the other Nordics when they came over he would try and be pleasant for England. That didn't mean it was easy though. The man had waltzed in like he owned the place (of course he did the damn colonialist) and immediately started griping about how terrible everything was. He had only been here for two hours and the pregnant nation was already trying to figure out a way to punch him in the face while making it look like an accident.

"Hmm," the Englishman mumbled, picking up a freshly baked kleina and eyeing it suspiciously, "what is this exactly?"

"It's just fried dough," Iceland said tersely, pretty miffed at the fact that the United Kingdom of all people would question his cooking.

"Is it safe to eat?"

On the other side of the table, America gave an unattractive snort. "Compared to your food it's a fucking delicacy."

"Excuse you, my cooking is fine. And anyway, at least I wasn't the one who came up with grits. That stuff is disgusting."

The American raised a cocky eyebrow and took a sip of his coffee before responding. "You know why you don't like grits old man?"

"Why's that?"

"Because you keep trying to eat them plain."

England's face turned red with what was either frustration or embarrassment and Iceland had to suppress a giggle. He wasn't entirely sure what grits were, but he was delighted by how upset the man was, even if that made him a bad person.

"But-But isn't that how you're supposed to eat them?!" The man sputtered.

America shook his head morosely and took another sip of coffee.

"Well-well fine then," England huffed, crossing his arms childishly before finally taking a bight of the kleina.

He let the bread linger in his mouth for a few minutes before swallowing. "...I guess this is pretty good."

God, this guy was just too much. Iceland simply couldn't hold his snark back anymore. "Oh what high praise," he crowed, flinging his arm over his face dramatically, "And from the master chef himself too. Thank you for bestowing your glorious approval upon my pastries. I don't think I could live any longer if you didn't like them."

England looked furious and America almost choked on his drink from laughing too hard.

"How dare you!" the Brit growled.

"How dare I what?" Iceland challenged, setting his tea down, "You're being an asshole. I'm mean Jesus, can't you at least pretend to enjoy things?"

England bristled, "I don't know what you're talking about. I've been perfectly pleasant this whole time."

"Hmm, yeah, pleasant like a pile of rotten fish."

"Hey!"

"Oh, I'm sorry I forgot. You don't know what a pile of fish looks like because I'm the one who won the cod wars."

"I only lost because you kept threatening to pull out of NATO!"

"Maybe, but you still lost three different territorial disputes to me. Considering that my country doesn't even have a military that's pretty pathetic. Personally, I don't even know how you show your face in public anymore. Such an embarrassment," Iceland goaded.

America was practically wheezing from laughter at this point, but the two island nations looked almost ready to start a fist fight at this point, and that would not be good for the family dynamic, so he decided it was about time to intervene.

"Oh-okay guys. Come on, break it up," he gasped, trying to hide his smile.

They both glanced at the blue-eyed man before nodding reluctantly and the room fell into a tense silence as the two continued to glare at each other across their teacups.

America's grin turned into a nervous line and he chuckled anxiously, "So how about that weather?" He said.


Six hours later America had gone out to pick up Thai food, England had ended up in the liquor cabinet somehow and was now thoroughly drunk off BrennivĂ­n, and Iceland was trying desperately to keep from sobbing.

The pregnant nation simply couldn't handle this. He was hungry and tired, his mood had been swinging like a 1940's dancehall all day, and now he had been left alone with cantankerous incarnate. It had only been twenty minutes sense America left and he was already trying hard to keep back the tears.

"My goodness, you look like an absolute whale," The Brit observed, reaching clumsily over the coffee table to pat his belly.

"I-I d-don't r-re-"

"I mean you're just absolutely huge."

"I-I'm n-n-no-"

"I know you're having twins but really."

Iceland didn't know why he was so upset. He knew he was big. Of course, he was, he was 6 months pregnant with twins. He was even waddling a bit by now. But some combination of hormones and his dislike for England had him absolutely blubbering over the accusation.

Sure he wasn't crying yet, but he was gonna be if this kept up. As it was his eyes were already shiny and he was trying and failing, to calm himself down by taking deep breaths. England was too drunk to notice any of this.

"So I have to know, how did you seduce America into getting you pregnant?"

"I-I di-dn't s-su-du-"

"You know honestly Iceland, I never really took you as one to sleep around. You always came across as more of a mousie, spinster type. But then, maybe that's what America likes about you."

"I-I'm n-no-t m-ou-mou-sie," Iceland wailed, finally bursting into tears.

This was terrible. He didn't even like to cry in front of his brothers, let alone a nation outside of his family..

He buried his face in his hands to hide the water tracks that were quickly appearing on his cheeks and took short, hiccupy breaths through his sobs. God, he was so embarrassed.

England's eyes widened as the younger nation started to bawl. He set his tumbler down, hurried around the coffee table and tentatively reached out to pat his back. He and Iceland didn't exactly get along well, but that didn't mean he wanted the other nation to cry.

"I...I'm sorry if I upset you in some way," England said softly, guilt spreading it's way across his features as the alcohol in his system broke down his emotional barriers, "I didn't mean to."

Iceland pushed him away and scooted as far away from the Brit as he could while staying on the couch. "I-if yo-you di-did-n't me-mean to the-then why wh-where you be-bei-ng s-so me-mean t-to m-me."

"Whaa?" England slurred, clearly confused by the statement, "I'm not being mean."

"J-just, g-g-go aw-ay," Iceland sniveled. He was far too upset to listen to the other man.

England frowned at the situation. He was just about to try and reach out to the volcanic nation again when America walked in holding a number of to-go bags and distracted him.

When the superpower saw the father of his children sobbing on the couch he stopped dead in the doorway. It took him several minutes to really comprehend what he was seeing, but once he had adjusted to the visual he dropped the food onto the table and hustled over to the couch, pulling the smaller nation into a somewhat aggressive hug as he tried to calm him down.

"Hey dude, what's wrong?" he asked, patting the shorter man's back awkwardly.

Iceland didn't say anything, and instead simply pointed an accusatory finger at England who was now standing off to the side uncomfortably.

"What did you do?" America demanded, looking up at his former caretaker defensively.

"I don't know!" the Brit cried, "We we're just talking and suddenly he burst into tears!"

"N-no," Iceland mumbled through his hands, "h-he s-sa-id I was uh-ugly."

"I did no such thing!" England insisted.

"Y-yes yo-you d-did. You s-said I was f-f-at and th-then ca-called me mu-mousie. You th-think I'm uhg-ly."

The islander gave the two younger nations a frustrated pout. "I didn't call you fat, I said you were big. And I didn't mean mousie in an insulting way, I know some very pretty mousie people."

Iceland barrel heard the others drunken attempt at an excuse. He just cried harder.

America pulled the sobbing man closer and gave an exasperated sigh. "England," he said, "why don't you go sit in another room or something while Iceland calms down."

"What!" The older man yelped, "I'm a guest in this house, I shouldn't have to-"

The American cut him off with a pointed look and he resigned himself to his temporary isolation with a nod, heading off into the rest of the house.

With the disruptive nation gone, the superpower turned back to the crying Icelander with a frown.

"When's the last time you ate something bro?"

"I-I don't know," Iceland hiccuped.

"Hmm, you probably have low blood sugar. Here," he said, reaching over and opening a to-go bag. He pulled out a cardboard box full of Phat si-io and a plastic fork, before handing them over to the sad pregnant man, "eat this."

The shorter man did as he was told, ruffly wiping the tears from his cheeks in between mouthfuls of noodle. It only took a few bites before he started feeling better. Maybe he really had just been hungry. Fucking hormones turning him into a crying mess.

He leaned back on the couch and continued to eat. He had gotten halfway through the box and had almost re-composed himself completely when he suddenly felt a small flutter in the bottom of his stomach. Iceland dropped his fork into the Phat si-io as his eyes went wide. Was that-

"Hey, what's wrong my guy?" America asked, noticing the others change in attitude.

He felt the fluttering sensation again, this time in a different spot. It was, that was-

"I felt the babies move," Iceland whispered as he realized what the sensation was.

"Aw, nice man!" America grinned, "I can't wait till their big enough that I can feel when the move too."

Iceland ignored the other's response. He was too caught up in the feeling of his stomach. The light feathery movements were breathtaking and beautiful. Like snow falling on your fingertips or the way waves just barely touching your toes before they reseed. It was amazing. There really is something in there, the thought, these little guys are really alive.

"Oh my god they're moving," he repeated, smiling as the waterworks turned back on and happy tears began to slip down his face. They're moving. They're moving.

America took the box of noodles out of the other man's hands so he wouldn't spill them and patted him on the shoulder with a chuckle. "Talk about mood swings huh?"

"Sh-shut up."

The bespeckled nation beamed at him before raising his voice so he could call into the other room.

"Hey Iggy you can come back in now!"

A few seconds later the brit appeared in the doorway and looked over the two teen nations with a huff.

"Why did call me back in here? He's still crying."

"Yeah but it's not your fault anymore."

Iceland choked out a laugh as he let the tears fall. His babies were really moving. How exiting was that?


AN: England? My least favorite character? It's more likely then you think.

Anyways, if you don't know about the cod wars, then please go look them up, that shit's ridiculous, you have no idea.

Thanks for reading!

Reviews are always welcome!