TW: Mentions of cigarettes, booze, drugs, historical inaccuracies.

Finland: Timo
Sweden: Berwald/Sven
Norway: Sigurd/Tomas
Iceland: Emil/Egil
Denmark: Mathias/Mads

The bond between brothers is one of the hardest ones to break. It can be welded, as the two compartments are made of the same material, the same upbringing, the same love. Brothers, and sisters alike, will often laugh the same way, have a similar sense of humour. Even if they seem to be worlds apart, there will be something small and flinting within them.

Moreso, a brotherly bond does not have to be born at birth. It does not occur in the womb; instead, it can be formed in early childhood. Blood is thicker than water, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

The King was old and delirious. He had a wife, however, upon seeing the 14 year old girl who had been presented to the then-50 year old bachelor, he could not bare to consummate the marriage. Despite pressure from his Royal peers, he refused to touch her, disgusted by the concept. They lived separate lives; the queen consort more of an appeasement to those desperate to continue to Royal Family. The King's brother, agitated and antsy and restless and too busy to rule, begged him to consider it - however, out of agitation, he sentenced him to a life of celibacy, with the threat of death should he be caught, and ordered them to wait, until He was ready.

4 young boys were adopted from 3 different orphanages, from each country under Nordic rule.

Two brothers from Norway. A toddler from Sweden, and a small, rambunctious 2 year old from one of the last remaining Danish towns. They were shared between the brothers; the brothers to the King's youngest brother, the toddlers to the King. The Swedish boy took an immediate liking to the King; the Danish child entirely adored his adoptive mother. They were raised together, under the same roof, however grew up believing the other pair were their cousins.

When she held the (totally insane) toddler in her arms for the first time, her heart started to thump. He was grabbing excitedly at all the necklaces and jewellery hanging off her, clutching on a string of pearls that was double wound around her long neck and screeching with delight. He pulled on his drop diamond earrings, and clasped his mouth around a bejewelled brooch on her dress blazer. With no children ever been hers, Queen Magerethe beamed with joy.

He was named Matthias, and he was her world.

The other toddler sat pessimistically at her feet, glaring up at her with a bewildered look on her face. They weren't brothers, but they were both blonde with blue eyes, just like the King, and could feasibly pass for family. He was called Sven. According to their birth certificates, they were only a day apart in age, Matthias being a day older. Nonetheless, their personalities couldn't be more different.

The Prince Matthias was hilarious, even in youth. He took after his mother, a bright spark in every room. His wild hair and freckled face were the mirror of hers - despite having no blood relation between the two. They shared a melodic, slightly maniacal laugh, and a taste for fairytales. Secretly, she taught him English and Danish, and read him Hans Christian Andersen.

Sven was a sweet kid. He would pluck flowers for his mother, and secretly give them her when no one was around. He loved to be chased through fields, however, as he grew, his legs shot up and the rest of him remained small. The Royal physician estimated he'd be 6 foot 7 by the time he was 18. For this, the King took a liking. He envisioned him, his blue eyed son, to be his successor; he would be tall and strong and fearsome. Even in childhood, he had a disconcerting demeanor.

Stockholm, 1957

It was a balmy night in Stockholm when Mathias snuck into Sven's room. It was the midst of a heatwave; the guard dogs lay limp at the gates on the warm dirt, soldiers sweating as they held guard at each door. Mathias, dressed in his loose Flintstones shirt and underwear, felt envious eyes of the heavily dressed maids and servants as he snuck across the corridor to his brother's room.

June 4th.

He knocked tentatively on the door, before letting himself in.

"Sven?" he asked into the dark, before creeping in.

The lump in the duvet known as Sven sat upright, and with a grunt made himself known. He shoved the duvet aside suddenly, standing upright and revealing himself, fully dressed in 1960s party gear. Mathias grinned, before quickly getting into his own, he'd disguised under the bed.

They looked at one another, then one burst out into quiet giggles. The other subdued, before opening his window. "'Mon. Lets go get Sigurd and Emil."

Stockholm was a neon oasis. Nightclubs and discos were alight with colour, "DRINK HERE!", "BEER, BEER, BEER" AND "SEXY LADY DANCE!" all lit up in pink and aqua and fluorescent piss yellow. Mathias threw his arms around Sven's shoulder enthusiastically, clutching a beer in one hand and holding his brother with another.

"18 tomorrow! Can ya believe it, bro?!"

"Common sense would'a said so, yeah." Sven grunted back.

"Common sense?" Sigurd snorted from the other side. "Sven, Mathias; have you met?"

The busy street bustled with drunk teenagers and young adults, a sea of tartan and yellow and ghastly shades of green. Legs and shoulders and bare skin of beautiful women and long, flowing blonde hair, the smell of coconut perfume. Young men, holding their darlings' arms, whilst slightly more unsavoury teddy boys wandered around, leather jackets and skinny jeans so tight it was a wonder there was still any colour in their skin. Hippies holding questionable-smelling cigarettes floated down the street, laughing and joking and offering a toke to anyone who walked past. Mathias reached out and politely plucked it from his hand, taking a long drag before passing it back to his friends.

Emil and Sven shared a timid smoke, before passing it back to the young man offering it out. He bid them farewell with a little peace sign, which was naturally repricoated.

"Beer, my good friend?" Mathias offered to Sigurd, who willingly took it out of his hand and took a swig. "Just so you guys know, I'm hopin' not to remember a thing tomorrow."

Sven gave a huff of laughter. "Like every night, then."

"Ideally, yes."

The rhythm of an acoustic guitar strummed from one bar, whilst a woman's loud, high voice bleated from a sign along bar. Spirits were high in the air - quite literally. A woman stood outside one bar in a dangerously small playboy costume, holding out a tray of suspiciously bright coloured drinks.

"Cocktails!" Emil gasped, turning around and almost looking at his brother for permission. "Come on, Sven. I bet they'll have that pink one you like."

Sven contemplated it visually. "I do like th'pink."

Matthias spluttered a childish laugh. "Pink?! Nah, the best cocktails are the blue 'nd pink ones. Ya can't have just pink."

"The crown princes of Scandinavia, out here drinking WooWoos and Sex on the Beach," Sigurd thought outloud (although not-so-secretly, his favourite was a Mai Tai).

"Hey! Careful guys!" Emil suddenly said, trying to be subtle, although his feisty personality made it difficult to keep a temper on things. "Codenames!"

"Codenames." Sven repeated, before glancing over at Mathias. Now, he was Mads, Emil and Sigurd Haraldssen become Egil and Tomas Bjornssen and Sven became Ber.

"Like a bear?" Sigurd had questioned him when he came up with it.

"Hm. Yeah. Like a bear." Sven had repeated, quite liking the nickname for himself. It made him seem big and scary.

"You can't have the name Ber. Makes ya sound like a.. Berry or somethin'." Emil had pointed out.

"I like it." Mathias had said loudly, a fat, delighted grin slapped across his face.

"Short for Berwald." Sven had decided unambiguously. And with that, the codename was settled.

When the princes had enough of royal life for just a day or two, they donned their everyman clothes and snuck out of the castle after dark, and integrated themself with normal society. They were invisible there, they became one with the youth of their country. And they loved it.

Sven felt the most free when he was Berwald. He could wear his glasses, he didn't have to wear suits and military uniforms and pretend to be interested in religion and feel like an absolute outsider. He blended in, at least a little bit, and even though he hated the sticky nightclubs and the blaringly loud music and the stench of twelve million cigarettes, he loved being himself. Most of all, he loved dancing.

There were some nights when the clubs weren't too packed and the music was just right, the beat was soft and smooth and he would have just enough beer to not feel unconscious, and yet just enough people around him to blend in. Whilst his brothers often danced with him, they split of with various beautiful women, or made themselves scarce to the bar, or even better, went outside for a cigarette.

For a 6-foot-7-tall 17 year old Royal Prince, feeling invisible on that dancefloor was the most precious feeling he'd ever experienced. His cheesy dance moves, his love for the Beatles, his flared trousers and tartan suits made him feel at one with the eclectic crowd those places attracted. However, tonight, he was being dragged to this cocktail place.

Emil lead them down, him and Mathias going to the bar whilst Sven and Sig found a table. It wasn't so bad in here.

"I hope they have aquavit," Sigurd said - although truthfully, he wanted a Mai Tai.

The evening started to blend together after that. Rounds upon rounds of drinks piled onto the table of the boys who had all the money in the world.
"And then!" Mathias was banging his stein on the table between pails of laughter, slamming his hand with the other. "This guy-" he nudged Emil so he jolted to the side. "Stands up, on this boat in the middle of fuck nowhere, looks up, and a damn random puffin lands on his head!"

"Hey, he was no random puffin!" Emil objected, shoving him back. "Mr. Puffin knew me, alright? I knew him, too. We were friends."

Sigurd nodded his head in amusement. "It was suspicious how he let ya put a bowtie on him. Though, if you knew him so well, why'd you just call him 'Mr. Puffin'?"

"That was his name. He told me." Emil informed him flatly.

"Just like I'm Mr. Human…" Mathias thought aloud.

"Does that mean all puffins are called 'Mr. Puffin'?" Sven asked. "'Nd all dogs are called Mr. Dog?"

"Just the male ones. Obviously." Sigurd said, a bit of a cheeky grin on his face.

The team laughed raucously between them, much to the annoyance of Emil. "Hey! That's not funny! Or fair. I didn't ask him for the puffin census, alright? Puffins don't talk much yanno," he surled, cheeks turning a bit pink.

"Hmm," Berwald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Think you were havin' too many of your special cigarettes on that trip."

"And ya didn't share any?!" Mathias retorted, clutching his chest like he'd been deeply wounded.

Emil glared at him, although truthfully, he was biting back laughter himself.

"I think it's a good name for a puffin," someone suddenly interrupted, and they all turned to face him. A man was stood there, maybe a bit younger than themselves. "I mean, you know, better than calling him Mr. Dog or something."

"I'd love to tell ya only a moron would call a pet cat somethin' like Mr. Dog," Sigurd said to the stranger. "But Egil here called his horse-"

"Mr. Cow is a perfectly good name for a horse!" Emil blurted, before turning red hot. He buried his face in the rim of his mojito.

"The horse doesn't even look like a cow." Sigurd informed the stranger.

"And it's a girl." inserted Sven.

The stranger laughed, before Mathias invited him to sit down.

"So, so-" the boy, who'd introduced himself as Timo, hiccuped. "How'd you know Mads?" he asked Sven, looking at him with huge but massively intoxicated eyes. Sven was secretly impressed how well he was hiding it.

"Brothers," he explained simply.

"Oh! I don't have any brothers. I don't even have a sister. I'd love a sister," Maybe he wasn't hiding it too well, actually. "I love plaiting hair. I'm good at it, too. You know Vikings wore plaits? And when they invaded England, the English thought they were all barbarians, because they bathed once a week?"

Sven wasn't really listening, but he seemed to get the cue for whenever Timo paused after a random fact. He nodded his head, appearing absorbed, but the truth was he was totally engaged in his huge, brown eyes.

"Hm. Sounds like the English." Sven responded.

"Oh! Have you been? I've never been out of…"

Sven was totally absorbed in him. Maybe it was the copious amount of alcohol, or the sticky heat, or the fact he was so close to his face so he could hear him and his own heartbeat in his ears but it made them sit close, their legs squeezed together and their noses barely touch. Sven's glasses fogged up with the condensation and the humidity and the blare of Cher and the heart skipping in his chest, and skipping, and speeding up, and suddenly making him wheeze.

He wordlessly removed his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt, squinting a bit when his gaze returned to Timo, so short sighted he could barely see his face. Those red cheeks stood out.

"Uh-" he interrupted, drawing closer to his cherubic face. He lowered and muttered in his ear, though in the thump of the club, "D'ya like Cher?"

Sven gazed at him, watching him throw his arms in the air lazily, the blue or the room whizzing around him as he half heartedly jived with him, as You Never Can Tell blasted in the background. They mirrored one another, Sven squatting to Timo's height and twisting and spinning next to him, his long knees stuck out in a truly ridiculous fashion. It nearly made him for the stroke-cum-heart attack Timo called dancing. Sven grabbed his outstretched hand, taking the opportunity to spin him underneath, watching him flop repeatedly underneath him. He latched onto his hand and pulled him fro, before the song came to an end and the disco burst out in polite applause.

Berwald looked around him, enchanted by the bright lights from the disco ball and the neon and the people. They were in the middle of a small crowd, noticing they had made a circle around them and gathered to watch. He blushed bright red, whilst the increasingly tipsy Timo turned around and did a little bow, whilst the taller gent hid his face in his hands.

"Timo," Sven had uttered that night, watching the man wander off with a group of friends when the wee hours struck. He watched his pudgy butt sway into the rising sun, feeling his back limp with dance and his head fuzzy with booze.

August, Stockhom 1957

"I think I'd like t'have a wife. One day." Sven said mindlessly to Timo as they sat by the lake in their garden. It was twilight, and the late August weather was unabiliteratingly hot, however the cool, night breeze offered some balmy consolation.

Timo's legs swing over the edge, toes just dipping the water. "A wife?" he asked, feeling the slightest pang of disappointment.

"Hm." There was a long pause. "You'd make a good wife."

Timo burst out into colourful, loud laughter. He clutched his mouth reflectively, looking at Sven with huge eyes. "Sorry, sorry!" he whispered loudly. They couldn't be heard here, but it was still too risky to be loud. "Ha- sorry! Me? I'm… well, I'm a man."

"Yeah. It's okay." Sven said, staring at Timo intensely. "You can wear a wig. Think a dress, too."

"Ber!" Timo flushed bright red. "I'm not wearing a dress. I was a solider, you know."

"Hm." Sven huffed a laugh. Even though he'd told Timo everything about royalty and his real name and his family, Timo preferred to call him Ber. And Sven preferred it, too. "The White Death." he stated Timo's nickname in the field.

"That's me. No wife here. No sir." he informed, folding his arms and smiling proudly - however, where he was once toned and fit, he was now a little soft and cuddly. Sven loved it. He was still staring at him - Timo took a moment, before shuffling a little closer and tucking himself under Sven's long arm.

"Hm. Not my wife at all. No." Sven muttered into his mop of soft, blonde hair, burying his nose in the crown of his head. The wind rustled the whipping willow above them, a little leaf falling and landing in Timo's lap. The heat softened, just for a second, and Sven lowered himself to nuzzle at Timo's cheek. Timo turned, and in a broken second, their lips met.

The sweet kiss between them was far from the first, but each time it happened, Sven felt butterflies. He dreamt of a day where he was Berwald and Timo was his, they could work at a local school, him doing the woodwork classes and Timo teaching the younger classes. Maybe one day, a kid could turn up, lost, and they would take him in. And the three of them could live together, in a village where their love was an open but cherished secret, their little family…

"If I had to go anywhere, and I mean, anywhere-" Mads was rambling. The two of them were stood near the stable door, smoking their coveted cigarettes. They'd tipped the stable boy, a cute kid, not to tell with a basket full of bread and some silver coins. He'd taken them happily and disappeared off.

"I'd go tae… Hmm. I wanna go to California. Los Angeles. D'ya think Marilyn Monroe would like a prince?!"

Sigurd gave a little laugh. "Gay Princes? I think not."

"Hey! I'm not that gay. I thought that night was private between us," Tomas kind of pouted. It was the 60s, and he was wearing far too tight trousers and baggy, airy shirts, and in the relaxed nature of the uncharacteristically warm evening, water rolled off a duck's back. Sigurd's long arms reflected in the moonlight, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

"I'd go to Norway."

"Norway?" Mathias snorted. "It's just mountains, ain't it? And besides, I don't think you can. No one can, right?"

Mads was half joking, however Tomas just gave the faintest sign he was upset.

"Hm. Well. Maybe I'll get to go. I found my birth certificate."

Mathias squinted at him.

"I wasn't born in Sweden. I was born in Norway. A place called Tromsø. I found a book about it. It sounded nice. Cold."

"Wow. Really? So Auntie Sonja's from there, too?" Mads was referring to Tomas's mother - his father's brother's wife. What a mouthful.

"Hm. No." Sigurd said, stiffening up a bit. The cigarette was burning down. "It wasn't her name. Or Father's. It was a lady called Erna."

"What? Ya mean your mum changed her name?"

"No, you idiot. I was adopted. Emil, too." Tomas said, the ash dropping from the fag and dropping in a soft, grey pile at his feet.

"She gave me up for adoption, I read. But even though she had the blonde hair 'nd blue eyes…" Tomas stared at the sky, then dropped his cigarette from limp fingers. "They killed her anyway. Because she was an unmarried woman with kids." He shook his head, deep and low as he stared at the ground. "I'm glad I'm not related to that monster I call Father. And yours, that I call Uncle." he scowled. "And Emil isn't either."

Mads stared at him in intrigue. "Jeez. Sigurd. I'm sorry." he said. He shifted closer after stubbing his cig on the wall behind them. However, he gave his bestest friend in the whole world a sideways glance. If Sigurd and Emil were adopted, what else was hidden?

Hope you guys don't mind that this was more of a series of fragments. I wanted you all to get to know the characters a bit more! The reason I kept swapping their names was because I reckoned it would be a good way of showing how much they'd forgotten their "royal roots" if that makes sense.