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Chapter Four: Danger Ahead

Norway glared at Denmark. The taller blond only raised an eyebrow. Sighing in defeat, Norway brought the antidepressant to his lips. When he was satisfied that Norway had swallowed the pill, Denmark smiled. Norway crossed his arms. He hated taking the antidepressants. They made him feel like … not himself. He didn't like it. Not at all.

The phone rang. Denmark went to answer it. Norway waited a minute. Positive that Denmark would be talking for a while, Norway snuck to the bathroom and threw up the pill, as well as what little he'd eaten that morning.

That day, he felt better. He didn't feel fake. He didn't feel emotionless. He didn't feel like the pill was in control. No, he was the one in control. And suddenly he remembered how much control he'd had when he didn't eat.

He'd gained weight in the past few weeks. He hated it, just as much as he hated the pill. He was getting chubby. How could Denmark not notice? How could Denmark want him to get fat again? Denmark kept forcing him to eat and eat and eat, and that just made him feel nauseas and fat and worthless and not even close to perfect.

Norway decided that he needed to prevent himself from getting any fatter. He couldn't throw up as long as Denmark kept watching him like a hawk. But maybe he could exercise. And he could pretend to take the pill – it wasn't hard to hide it under his tongue. He didn't need the pill. And he just needed Denmark to trust him enough to stop watching his every move, and then he could go back to throwing up after every meal – only he'd be more careful this time. He wouldn't get caught, and he wouldn't lose control so that he was all bones. That had been a mistake. He wouldn't let it get that far again.

It took another week for him to convince Denmark to stop looking over his shoulder all the time. Denmark made sure he ate, but didn't stay as long afterwards – which gave Norway the perfect opportunity to throw up. He stopped taking showers before breakfast, so that he would have an excuse to go to the bathroom after eating. And he always went out for a "walk" after one of the other two meals, changing the amount of time afterwards and which meal he went out after, so that Denmark wouldn't get suspicious. On these "walks" he'd go down behind his property and throw up behind a tree, then cover it up. Denmark didn't like travelling out so far, so it was unlikely he would ever see him – or follow him.

About a month later, Denmark had to go to a meeting with his boss. It would last a few days, plus a few extra days to sort things out. Norway estimated a week, maybe a week and a half, that he would be unsupervised, because Denmark trusted him. Norway hated to break that trust, but he needed to be perfect. He simply couldn't have all those calories, all that fat, in his body.

He only ate celery and only drank water while Denmark was away. He dumped the antidepressants down the sink. He exercised more than ever to make up for all the fat he'd gained over the past few months. He dreaded Denmark's return – what excuse could he use so that he could exercise more, eat less, and hide the empty bottle of pills? But then Denmark had to stay for another two weeks due to some technicalities, and Norway stopped caring.

He was going to be perfect for Denmark. He was going to look better. He wasn't going to be fat. He refused to be fat ever again, no matter what Denmark or anyone else said. He didn't have a disorder. He was a nation. And a man. There was no way he had a disorder. And so he continued exercising and vomiting, even when there was nothing to vomit.

Denmark returned, and Norway hid how skinny he was with more layers underneath his normal clothes. He refused to allow Denmark to touch him. He ended up exercising the most at night and throwing up whenever Denmark wasn't in the same hallway as the bathroom.

All of the exercising and vomiting and lack of nutrients caught up to Norway only five days after Denmark's return. Norway found himself lying on the floor, dizzy, after passing out. Denmark called an ambulance, and the next thing Norway knew, he was in a hospital bed. He scrambled to disconnect the IV from his arm, only for doctors to tie him down and sedate him.

When he was coherent enough, Denmark yelled and cussed him out until the taller blond had to be removed from the room. The next time he was allowed in, Denmark just sat beside the bed and cried.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Denmark demanded, more to himself than to Norway. "You're killing yourself. Norge, you're sick. Why don't you see that?"

Norway narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sick. I'm getting better. I'm not fat. I refuse to be fat."

"Nothing I say ever gets through your head, does it?" Denmark half-shouted, glaring at Norway. "And people say I'm the dumb one."

"I'm not dumb," Norway spat.

"You're sick," Denmark repeated. "You need help." Norway looked away. "Please, Norge. Do it for me."

"Why should I?"

Denmark leaned forward. Norway's heart skipped a beat, something the heart monitor picked up on. Denmark smirked, although his eyes remained sad. "Because I love you, and I can't stand to see you hurting yourself."

Norway opened his mouth to respond. Denmark took the opportunity to kiss him. Norway kissed back.

"Get better," Denmark pleaded, resting his forehead on Norway's. "For me."

Norway bit his lip. Maybe, for Denmark, he would try. "For you."