Chapter Three: Fortitude

Norway glanced down at the plate, then up at Denmark's expectant face, then back down at the plate. He struggled to contain his breathing. He didn't understand why this was so hard. It was just half a plate. He just had to eat half of it. Just like he had yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And so many other days before that one. Why wasn't it getting any easier?

He carefully took a bite. Chewed exactly ten times. Swallowed. Took a drink of water. Waited exactly twenty seconds. Repeated the cycle. Denmark finished his own food and had seconds and part of a third plate before Norway had finally finished eating half of his portion. Denmark smiled sadly, told him good job – as if he were a dog learning a new trick – and then went to wash the dishes.

Norway glared at Denmark's spot across the table from him. How could the taller nation eat so much more than him and yet stay so fit? He never gained any wait, not like Norway. He was muscular and handsome and perfect, the opposite of Norway.

Norway felt nauseas from eating so much. His stomach protested with the amount of food he'd consumed. He held a hand to his mouth. He glanced over at where Denmark was drying the plates. Norway couldn't stand it. He had to get those calories – all of that fat – out of his body. Now.

He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, ignoring Denmark's shouts. Norway had his fingers down his throat before Denmark had reached him. Norway gagged and spat into the toilet. He felt Denmark's glare on his back. When Norway was finished, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and his mouth, before turning slowly to Denmark. He refused to make eye contact with the man, ashamed.

"What the hell, Norge!" Denmark yelled. Norway flinched. "You were doing so well!" Norway stayed silent. He felt the back of his neck heat up. "What happened?" Norway shrugged. "Look at me, Norge." He hesitated. "Look at me!"

"What do you want me to say?" Norway snapped, lifted his eyes to Denmark's. "That having so many calories in me sickens me? That the thought of getting even the slightest bit fatter makes me hate myself? That I can't even look at you without being reminded of how I will never look?"

Denmark glowered at him. "It's your own damn fault for starting this in the first place!" he seethed. Norway winced. "Now you're so skinny, it hurts me to look at you!" Norway crossed his arms in an attempt to hide how his bones jutted out. Denmark sighed, then said, a bit calmer, "I'm just trying to help you."

Norway didn't say anything for a few minutes. Denmark led them to the living room. They sat down in silence. Finally, Norway admitted in a small voice, "I don't want to be fat again. I just want to look like you."

Denmark's eyes watered. Norway pretended not to notice. "We've been over this. You don't have to look like me." Norway shrugged and looked away. "And you were never fat. I promise."

Norway didn't reply. Denmark stood up and went to the kitchen, returning after a few minutes with some leftover food. Norway stiffened.

"Now let's try this again," Denmark said.

"No."

"You need nutrients in your body, Norge," Denmark tried to reason. Norway stared at the wall. "Do I have to feed you? Because I will if I have to." Norway didn't react. "If you don't start eating more on your own, I'm going to take you to see a doctor."

That caught Norway's attention. "What?"

Denmark sighed, putting the plate aside. "I've done my best to help you, but you're not making it easy for me. I don't want you hurt, Norge." Denmark looked Norway in the eye. "I don't want you to die."

Norway rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to die, idiot."

Denmark frowned. "People die from not eating enough all the time. You might not want to admit it, but you're sick. You need professional help."

Norway crossed his arms. "I do not have an eating disorder." This he was sure of. Only girls got those, and human girls, at that. Almost never a man, and definitely not a nation. He just went overboard on trying to be skinny and perfect, but it certainly wasn't an eating disorder.

Denmark apparently thought so, for even though he dropped the argument, the next day, he dragged Norway to the doctor's. After a lot of questions and Norway burning a hole through the doctor with his glare, the shorter nation was prescribed antidepressants.

Denmark went and picked them up, leaving Norway in the car. When they returned to Norway's house – practically Denmark's, too, at this point – Denmark got a glass of water and sat down at the table across from Norway. Norway stared at the glass of water and the pill on the table.

"No," Norway stated. "I refuse." He wasn't sick. He wasn't depressed. He didn't have a disorder. He had a problem with calories and being fat and not being perfect yet, but that was it. Everyone felt like that to some degree, didn't they?

Denmark raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. "Okay, then," he said, stretching in his chair. "We'll just sit here until you take it. And maybe we can have something to eat while I wait for you to take that."

Norway clenched his fists. "It's too late for food."

Denmark gave a half-hearted smirk. "I'm always up for a snack before bed. And every time I eat, you have to eat, too."

Norway swallowed thickly. He had to decide which was worse: the pill or the food. To his horror, he found himself choking back tears. This wasn't fair. Everyone was ganging up on him. Why couldn't they understand?

"Norge," Denmark said softly, leaning forward a bit. He took Norway's hand in his. "I know this is hard for you, but I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm going to help you, and damn it, we're going to get you better."

Norway slipped his hand from Denmark's and picked up the pill with shaking fingers. He took a breath and swallowed the pill with a gulp of water. Denmark grabbed his hand again and smiled.

"You're going to get better," he told Norway. And Norway believed him.