Norway supposed that, all things considered, Denmark had really been trying to do the right thing. He often did that, with varying results. (*cough*cough* Kalmar Union *cough*) Still, he might as well scare the Dane a bit before he accepted his apology.

"Denmark?" he asked, upon re-entering the parlor.

"Yes, Norge?"

"I rather think it's time for cake, don't you?" Chilly tone, warm cheeks. Must. Stop. Blushing. He turned quickly away, stalking towards the kitchen.

Apparently, Denmark got the hint and followed a moment later.

"You know, it doesn't take two people to get a cake," Denmark said.

Rather, he only got out, "You know, it doesn't take two-", because Norway had very rudely interrupted him by smashing their faces together.

And by "smashing their faces together," of course I mean kissing. Snogging. Making out. Call it what you will. It was very passionate. And there was tongue, but you probably didn't need to know that. (You might have wanted to know that, though, in which case, you are quite welcome.)

"You know, the cake's over there," Denmark murmured into the kiss.

"Shut up."

There was more aggressive kissing, and somehow (it really is a mystery, isn't it) Denmark's hands ended up Norway's shirt.

Norway broke the kiss. "There are children in the other room."

Denmark pulled away. "But-" He used a trick that was guaranteed to work 51.7% of the time. Puppy-dog eyes. It was his lucky day.

"Later," Norway promised. He was blushing still. Dammit.

Denmark grinned. "You got it. Now, could you get the plates?"

Norway sighed dramatically. "I suppose. What would you do without me?"

"Probably lose a few wars, lots of land, and my ability to stay away from alcohol."

"Maybe I should stay."

"Maybe you should."

"Maybe I will."

"Good."

The cake seemed like it would never make it into the outside world at this point. It sat, forgotten, on the countertop.

Yeah, there was more kissing. And passion. And all that jazz. Not actual jazz, because the radio in the background was turned to the Norwegian Heavy Metal Station. But metaphorical jazz.

"You know," Norway said, after the demands of their respiratory systems made another intrusion, "I'm sure the children are wondering what the hell is taking us so long to get the cake."

"Yeah, probably. But honestly, what do you think they think we're doing?"

"I really don't need to have The Talk with any of my children today." Norway wondered if he'd ever tell Denmark. Probably not. But maybe. If the Dane behaved himself.

"Not what I was talking about." That liar. "But you know-"

"I said later!" Jesus Christ. "Come on."

Plates and forks in hand, Norway was about to walk back to the parlor.

"You know, you're still blushing."

"I am not."

"Um, yeah, Norge, you are. It's really cute."

Cute? Cute? He was NOT cute. However, his face was warm enough he was fairly certain one could cook various breakfast foods on them and not have to worry about food poisoning.

Denmark grinned, gave him a peck on the cheek, and exited the kitchen.

Norway took a deep breath. That Dane was so dead. But that could wait for later. In the meantime…

He strode back into the living room.

He almost walked right back out.

Greenland, his third-eldest, was grinning viciously. The grin alone was disturbing. What followed next would prove that he actually made mistakes:

"Have something you want to tell me, Mor?"

Oh fuck.

A/N: She may not like it, but I'm dedicating this chapter to my super adorable girlfriend, on the basis that I based this chapter on a conversation we had over Tumblr messaging.