NORWAY+ ICELAND AND UNDRESSING (um um um)

The sun was just setting in Iceland, but there was still a slightly warm breeze. Norway had always liked that about his little brother's house. Despite his icy exterior, he was always very warm on the inside.

"I can't wait to get home," Iceland said. "My feet are killing me. This outfit is so uncomfortable." He pulled his hat off. "And it's getting hot."

Iceland had worn a more traditional outfit for his birthday this year. We use the term birthday loosely, though; this day doesn't celebrate the birth of Iceland as a country, but as an independent. On 1944, he'd freed himself of Denmark, and Norway was proud of him. His little brother was growing up fast.

"We ate so much at the party," Norway mused. "How about we just skip dinner tonight?"

"But we can still have ice cream, right?"

"Of course."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Iceland had fallen asleep on Norway's shoulder. He fought off the disgustingly pleased grin twisting on his lips. If he smiled, he'd be too much like anko.

"Nor. . ." Ice whined in his sleep. "I'm uncomfortable . . ." He stirred, nuzzling into his older brother shamelessly. This time, Norway couldn't fight the sick grin on his face. These were his favorite times; Sweden had Finland, Finland had Sealand, Denmark had no one —but he's a dick, and doesn't deserve anyone, so that's ok —, and he had Iceland. He was his little secret, so to speak. There was no one else who made him really feel like he was in a family, no one he really wanted to protect with all his might like he wanted to protect Ice. As if sensing his thoughts, Iceland stirred again, blinking sleepily. "Uhg," He groaned. "Why am I still wearing this?" His sleep-numbed fingers pulled half-heartedly at the ribbons around his wrists.

"Want some help?" Norway asked. He quickly untied the ribbons on Ice's wrists and throat, then started unbuttoning his ornate, pain-stakingly hand-crafted jacket —not without care. He started humming to himself, some tuneless song that was a memory of a memory of his childhood. He didn't notice when Iceland suddenly seemed to have trouble swallowing, or when his face turned red, or when his hands started to shake as they reached up to help his.

"Geez, Ice," Norway said as he opened his shirt. "You're really pale. You need more sun."

Iceland thought of the honey brown that was Denmark's skin, and then he thought of how Norway would sometimes not be in his room when he'd wake up in the middle of the night with a nightmare. "Yeah, because I've got so much of that here."

Norway laughed lightly. "True. You could come to my place . . . not much better, I suppose, but, you know. . ." Norway wasn't looking at his chest anymore, he was staring directly into Iceland's eyes, even as his fingers continued to undo bows and pop open buttons.

Iceland swallowed. Yes. He did know.

Later that night, instead of retiring to their beds, they went out to the balcony with arm-loads of blankets and pillows and slept next to each other while the Aurora Borealis twisted above their heads. For Norway, he knew that this was one of those happy moments he would dreamily be reliving come darker times (but then again, he's a pessimist, and can't help thoughts like that). But for Iceland, who was younger more optimistic, all he could think was that this was probably going to be his best birthday ever.