In w'ch th're 're n'me issu's.

Eiríkur is a long-time friend of Norge's.

He is serious and cultivated and the most misanthropic personality that Norge has ever encountered, he himself being the second most misanthropic personality he's ever encountered, and that's saying something.

So when Eiríkur sees Norge coming towards him, winding his way around stones and water puddles, our young man is not surprised to see him glance at him briefly to look back at the impressive waves, not a smile, not the slightest gesture that hints at him being welcome.

Norge likes to think he knows otherwise.

"Good morning, brother," he says when he comes near him, although they are not brothers. But Eiríkur is strange and Norge is strange too.

"Good morning, Nor," a rich, masculine voice answers back. Eiríkur holds his fishing rod steady over the furious waves, and never looks at him too long.

Norge may have smiled, sitting on the flat stone next to his friend, who refuses to call him brother back, and whose age is devastatingly uncertain; and although Eiríkur told him once he's younger than him, Norge can't honestly believe him completely. But he says he does. He teases him he'll always be the younger brother, because he shuns everyone away because he's immature like that.

Eiríkur shrugs at him sometimes, and sometimes he gets mad, and Norge is so fond of him because he's unpredictable and a turbulent soul, deep down there. Norge tends to like people that amuse him with their contradictions. Except Matthias. Or maybe he likes her too, deep down there. Or not. He can't tell, damn it, and it unnerves him…

…deep down there.

Or not. Maybe not so deep.

Well, to hell with it.

When Norge comes back to Planet Earth from his inner disquisitions, Eiríkur is actually looking at him, frowning.

"What's come over you today?"

Oh, to tell, or not to tell? You see, Is, the mermaid that's living with me made me breakfast, and the familiarity of our morning confuses the hell out of me.

Peachy. It'll work. He'll say it just like that:

"It's nothing. I'm bored."

Perfect. Now Eiríkur, or 'Is' (ice), as his not-quite-brother calls him with his affectionately-sarcastic way of showing he cares, will have no option but to empathize with him.

His friend looks at him, gaze unreadable, for only three seconds more. Then he shrugs and returns to his fishing.

"If you say so," he concedes dully, "Who am I to deny you your right to boredom?"

The sound of the waves breaking against the weatherworn stone of the shore ominously takes over the place for a while.

"I'm so good, I'm even going to allow you to get bored with me," Eiríkur adds. They both crack a ghost of a something that only they understand is a smile.

"While you get bored," his friend goes on after a thoughtful pause, "I'll only ask you why you blushed when I asked you what's come over you."

Norge feels at a loss for words, something that does not happen to him too often, and much less around Eiríkur. He's a sarcastic personality. He doesn't do 'I blanked'.

But he does this time, and his friend smirks a little private smirk that tells plainly, I know.

"It's a girl," the fisherman states plainly, a wave roars ominously as it breaks against the rocks, successfully masking Norge's sharp intake of breath and Eiríkur's quiet laugh at his expense.

"Really, now," the young man tells him, "You're such an open book you don't make it any fun."
Norge groans, he's lost the battle.

"So much for bored, huh?"

Now, Norge's wondering why the heavens he's come. Whatever made him think it was such a great idea? So far all he's gotten is laughed at and no solid advice.

But, wait. Whenever did it turn intelligent to come for love (…love?) advice to a guy that is practically an hermit?

Bright Norge, huh. Bright, desperate Norge in need of some serious sense-knocking-into-his-skull session. But Eiríkur was good for that last thing, at least. Knocking sense into him, I mean.

"She must be a princess," Eiríkur snickers. And so far, Norge hasn't said a word.

"…shut up," he says, questioning the dignity of such an answer. He is distinctly aware he might be blushing, too, but his friend is tactful enough not to look at him while he taunts him.

Eirikur pushes him further down embarrassment lane: "… and what's the lucky soul's name?"

Norge buries his face into his hands. It's going to sound so, so, so terribly wrong…

"Matthias…" he says quietly, rather in-character for all that's been happening since he came to see his friend.

"Can't hear you if you talk to yourself," his friend comments dully, wriggling the fishing rod around as if something's bitten the bait.

Norge inhales deeply. Exhales as calmly as he can.

"Matthias," he repeats, and this time his voice does ring over the sound of the waves.

Eiríkur double-takes him suddenly. "Woah, man…!"

A/N

Yes, Ice, she's a real princess ;)

Sorry for the short update. I couldn't resist the temptation of leaving it there.

Thanks a lot for your support guys, it means the world and I couldn't make it otherwise.

For those of you that like Norway x Fem!Denmark, I wrote an AU one-shot called 'sjoemannsvise' that you may like. And Norway is a sexy sailor in that one ;)