"Hey, Iceland," said America, poking Iceland's bicep, "We should reenact the Lokasenna, but as a rap battle. We could use the tables as a stage. It'll be just like a concert, except without people!"
The library had closed over an hour ago, but Iceland convinced the head librarian to let them stay longer. She made Iceland promise a million times to keep his "friend" out of the stacks and from trashing the place until she consented. Did having a rap battle on the tables qualify as trashing the place? Iceland didn't think so… Besides, even if they dirtied the tables with their shoes, Iceland had Lysol Disinfecting Wipes to clean up. It couldn't be that bad…Could it?
"Sure," he found himself saying, "Let me put this manuscript away first, though. Wouldn't want to step on it."
America beamed. Iceland couldn't believe he was doing this. He gingerly placed the manuscript in the return cart, then walked back to America, who stood atop a table ready to go.
"Come on Iceland," America beaconed, and Iceland joined him. "You can be Loki, and I can be everyone else, 'cause I'm the hero!"
Iceland chuckled. "I thought you had something against Odin."
"Only underground criminals and terrorists have as many aliases as him! He's super sketchy, dude," America exclaimed, eyes wide. "But I still want to do his part," he added quickly.
Iceland smiled and shook his head. America's childlike passion was endearing, albeit in a weird, slightly annoying way. "Alright. Who's dropping the beat?"
"Mr. You Tube." America pulled out his IPhone, clicked on a track, and pressed play. "This way, we can fully concentrate on our rapping. Or something."
It sounded pretty reasonable to Iceland. "Ready?" America gave him a thumbs up, and Iceland began to rap.
"Speak now, Eldir, | for not one step
Farther shalt thou fare;
What ale-talk here | do they have within,
The sons of the glorious gods?"
America (as Eldir) responded:
"Of their weapons they talk, | and their might in war,
The sons of the glorious gods;
From the gods and elves | who are gathered here
No friend in words shalt thou find."
And so they went, off into poetic banter land, Iceland becoming Loki, and America the various gods and goddesses of Asgard. As it turned out, America was an excellent actor. He modified his voice for each character; for instance, he gave Bragi, the poetry god, a persnickety British accent, and the various servants cockney. He did this hilarious falsetto for all the women and pantomimed their long hair. But by far, Thor was America's favorite. Iceland could just tell. The way America's everything was engaged took Iceland aback when he rapped Thor's first line:
"Unmanly one, cease, | or the mighty hammer,
Mjollnir, shall close thy mouth;
Thy shoulder-cliff | shall I cleave from thy neck,
And so shall thy life be lost."
Iceland responded (rapping considerably less skillfully) with:
"Lo, in has come | the son of Earth:
Why threaten so loudly, Thor?
Less fierce thou shalt go | to fight with the wolf
When he swallows Sigfather up."
America cornered Iceland at the edge of the table, a pantomime hammer raised threateningly above his head.
"Unmanly one, cease, | or the mighty hammer,
Mjollnir, shall close thy mouth;
I shall hurl thee up | and out in the East,
Where men shall see thee no more."
Then, America came forward too far, and Iceland backed up too far. God, what an idiot I am, Iceland thought mid fall. His head hit the table with an earsplitting crack, and everything went dark.
Iceland awoke to a blond, bespectacled man tending to his wounds. America, thought Iceland vaguely.
"There, there," said America, using a soft, soothing voice Iceland never knew he had, "You'll be alright. It'll take some time to heal, but…" He shrugged.
A surge of pain reached Iceland's head. He groaned. America then grabbed his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Something foreign and warm stirred in Iceland's chest. Did he have another volcanic eruption? No, that felt more acid reflux-y. Was it whiskey? No. How could he have drank it while he was unconscious? God, could it be…Love? Affection? No, no. Impossible. Absolutely not. America was the most annoying, insufferable…. What else could it be? Pain meds, Iceland resolved, pain meds are the most logical explanation. Iceland felt his face grow hotter and hotter. Must be morphine, he thought to himself.
America turn towards him, his sky blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright? Your face is all red."
Something about America's sky blue eyes, his flyaway hair, his concern—made the hot chocolate in Iceland's stomach grow even hotter. "I'm…I'm fine," Iceland stammered.
America placed a calloused hand upon Iceland's forehead. "You feel warm. Maybe I should go get a doctor—"
"No! No, don't do that," Iceland exclaimed, grabbing America's hand as though his life depended on it. Was he insane?
The pair of them locked eyes. Iceland had never noticed what a nice shade of blue America's eyes were. They made Iceland believe he was really in the sky, flying, soaring. What a wonderful feeling… Oh, joy, he really had gone quite loopy. It's all those pain meds, he tried to reassure himself.
Iceland's stomach boiled with a fiery warmth. What was this? Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. He was at a loss. Everything felt so weird, so foreign…What should he do? Instinct took over. Iceland grabbed America's head, and pulled it toward his own. Their lips touched, and Iceland could not imagine a more pleasurable sensation. It was the sauna in the winter, the hot meal after work, the balmy breeze of summer. Iceland was swimming in a sea of ecstasy, his mind melting with America's body heat.
"Why…why are you doing this?" America asked, taken aback.
"Because," said Iceland, unsure where the ensuing speech was coming from, "You are an amazing nation. You know, originally, I thought you were rather annoying, but now…now I see much more than that. You're carefree, full of live, and you make me laugh. I never thought I'd have a rap battle with somebody in a closed library. And yeah, I fell off the table. But it was fun! And then you saved me, and then I realized something. I love you, America."
"But…I'm Canada."
A/N: Lokasenna: Translating roughly to Loki's quarrel, it is an old norse poem where Loki goes to a party at Ægir's (a sea god) place, gets drunk, kills a servant, is kicked out, comes back, and then starts insulting everyone. The translation shown here is by Henry Adams Bellows. Look it up. It is a thoroughly awesome read.
Sigfather: Odin (one of his many aliases; he has over 200)
Shoulder-cliff: neck