Frankly, Iceland didn't feel comfortable around Norway. He regretted agreeing to this, even if he was only supposed to stay until after New Year's. Denmark had talked him into it (or more accurately, guilted him into it), which should have been enough for Iceland to know it would be a bad idea.
For one thing, despite his older brother's constant insistence that they pretend there was some kind of relationship, Norway didn't really seem to actually know much about Iceland.
As Norway dumped mushrooms into the stew he was making for dinner, Iceland resisted the urge to mention that he didn't care for them. At this point, it would only make things awkward. The simmering beef was making Iceland's mouth water, though, and he was certainly willing to deal with a few mushrooms to eat some of Norway's cooking.
The faint memory of his brother denying him food when Iceland was young reappeared, resonated, and buried itself in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he was a bit less interested in the stew. Hunger was no way to discipline a child, Iceland had thought since. But those words would never leave his head. Perhaps the discipline had worked, then.
"Do you usually watch television during dinner?" asked Norway, stirring the literal and metaphorical pot.
Iceland recognized this tone of voice. What it meant hadn't changed over the centuries-Norway was in the mood to criticize him. "Yeah. I do." The boy shifted uncomfortably on his wooden stool, and removed his elbows from Norway's kitchen island before he could be chastised for it.
"That's bad for you, you know. You'll overeat every time."
It was almost funny. Norway was probably the most predictable person Iceland had ever met, and he really barely knew this incarnation. Perhaps out of all of those who the Icelander had known through the centuries, Norway had changed the least.
Norway had been suppressed and ruled. That was what Iceland had always rationalized his brother's treatment as-just a result of the traumas of war and poverty and oppression from the east and south. It wasn't that he hadn't liked Iceland, no, it was merely that he was suffering.
But then, why hadn't he changed? Why did he still look at his brother like an additional burden? Why were these attempts to connect so damn forced?
Norway turned his cold gaze to Iceland. "Did you enjoy spending Christmas with Denmark? As much as one can enjoy his company, I mean."
Polite, icy words were all the younger could manage. "I did."
Denmark hadn't been so cold. Even when Iceland knew he was . . . cruel to Norway, to say the least, he'd never uttered a harsh word to Iceland. He'd loved Iceland openly and willingly.
"You never visit me," said Norway, a master of non-sequiturs. The man looked back to the stove, more interested in the pot than Iceland's reaction.
The comment triggered Iceland's fight-or-flight instinct, but he froze instead. "I . . ."
There wasn't a polite way to tell his blood brother that he was a bastard who no sane person would want to visit, was there? A million memories flooded Iceland's brain, all of them bad, all of them involving his brother. There hadn't been a day spent with Norway that Iceland felt liked, much less loved. Tell me, explain to me, why I deserve to put myself through this kind of thing more regularly, he thought.
It was only then he noticed the taste of blood from biting his tongue so hard.
"I'm sorry," managed Iceland. His normal explosive, magmatic temper had to stay under control. He'd never win an argument with Norway. He never had-Norway was older and smarter and much meaner than Iceland could bring himself to be.
He still felt the urge to talk back, but knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. Norway's wishes and opinions were not up for debate with his younger brother.
Living with Denmark when Iceland was young was strange, but not bad. He'd learned that he liked to draw and dance significantly more than he liked to read and write or make music, something that would have never been allowed under Norway's roof. He'd learned to cook and to argue and to fend for himself; he'd learned to live.
The Dane doted on Iceland, spoiled him, honestly. He had to be taught about personal boundaries and alone time and he never was quite the most in-touch with his or Iceland's emotions, but he tried, goddamnit. Perhaps Iceland didn't like the obnoxious idiot, but he loved Denmark in a way that he just couldn't make himself love the man who actually looked like him,
This made it especially frustrating when Denmark took Norway's side nowadays.
Norway had not earned the title he wanted. If anyone had (not that anyone had!), it certainly wasn't his blood brother.
"That's alright. You can do it more this coming year. You spend too much time at home," said Norway, turning off the stove's gas fire.
The hypocrisy of these words was biting, but Iceland tried to keep a clear head and a neutral expression. Just like big brother. "I suppose." Iceland shrunk a little further into his sweater. The room was colder than he'd like, but it didn't seem appropriate to complain when they were about to eat a hot meal.
"You've gotten so big," remarked Norway, though he was ladling stew and not actually looking at Iceland, so it was a bit hard to find the words genuine.
Iceland traced doodles of diamonds and snowflakes onto the cool counter with his fingertips, trying to think of a response. Was there even something he could say back that made sense?
Silently, a small ceramic bowl was placed before him, on top of his imaginary drawings, on top of the island that felt even colder than the one Iceland hailed from. The steam lifted out, condensating on the teenager's cool skin, and carrying to his nose the scent of carrots and potatoes and that tender beef that was always a treat.
"Thank you," he said, unsure himself if it was in response to Norway's comment or being given food.
Norway merely nodded before setting his own bowl down and taking the seat across from Iceland, on the opposite side of the island.
Dinner itself was warm, but the meal they shared was cold.