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Entry tags:
The night opens and makes space [Norway/Iceland]
Title: The night opens and makes space
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Norway/Iceland; background Norway/Denmark
Rating: 18+. CNTW.
Length: 8.2k
Summary: Iceland accidentally discovers one of Norway's more questionable kinks - and he really, really wants to give it a try.
Other: This is the one with consensual temporary death and consensual necrophilia. I mean, hey, they're immortal and not even human, so why not? ;p
Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
iddyiddybangbang. Inspired by conversation in the Hetalia Olds discord at the beginning of this year. ;)
The night opens and makes space
Iceland gripped his coffee mug and stared out Norway's kitchen window at the falling snow.
You can do this, he reminded himself. It isn't hard. It's just Norway. The worst he can do is say no. And if he says no, then the two of you can pretend that you never said anything at all. You can do this.
But the prospect of Norway saying 'no' was enough to make him want to forget the whole thing. If he asked – if Norway refused – he'd have some explaining to do. And –
"You all right?"
Iceland tensed as Norway's fingers slipped through his hair, stroking gently. He bit his tongue and held his mug even more tightly, like doing so would somehow ground and steady him. It didn't. "I'm okay," he said, nodding as Norway moved from behind him to take a seat at the table, setting down his coffee mug. "Nothing wrong here."
He'd just barely managed to keep himself from flinching. If Norway didn't suspect anything before, he certainly did now. At 'nothing wrong', his eyebrows lifted, arching up into his fringe.
"Nothing wrong?" A tilt of the head. A pause. Then Norway's foot brushed against his under the table.
"Nope."
"Looks like you got summat on your mind."
"I do not!" Iceland could feel a deep blush spreading over his cheeks and his ears and his neck. It was all he could do to stop himself from getting up and running away, making up some excuse about needing to use the washroom or something, no matter whether Norway would believe him or not. He wanted to hide. But the look Norway was giving him – that familiar quiet, calculating look – kept him pinned.
Norway stared at him for a long moment. Then, he simply took up his coffee cup and looked away. "Fair enough," he said.
Nothing else.
Iceland waited, but nothing else came. No more questions, no pressing, no criticism. Like Norway was content to let the thing be, at least for the moment. He breathed deeply and tried to steady his fingers, worried that if he moved to drink his coffee, Norway would notice that his hands were shaking.
He still wanted to hide, just a little. But not as much as he had a moment ago.
Norway had settled into the sort of quiet way that he often had, turning a bit in his chair to look out the window at the bird feeder hanging over the patio, watching the blue tits in winter plumage peck at it. His face had softened a bit as he relaxed.
Maybe it was better to let the whole thing go.
No, Iceland thought. He knew what Norway was like. He might not say anything now, but he would later, and probably at the worst and most unexpected moment. He'd poke and prod at Iceland, and eventually he'd drag an explanation out of him, whether he wanted to tell him or not. There was nothing that Iceland could ever keep from him – especially if Norway knew that something was up.
Okay. Better just say it, Iceland thought. Rip the band-aid off.
"Um," Iceland said.
"Mm?" Norway didn't look at him.
"I... um. There's something new I want to try." Iceland took a deep breath. "With you. In bed."
It was a stupid way to say it. There was no way that Norway wouldn't know what he meant. But the clumsy way he put it didn't seem to matter. Norway didn't say anything; just nodded.
"That so."
That meant 'go on,' as far as Iceland could tell. "Yeah." Another deep breath. "I..." Oh, fuck. "Look, I know that you're into some really weird stuff –"
He stopped short as Norway's gaze flicked to the side, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking back out the window again.
"Weird stuff."
Fuck, Iceland thought., How the heck could he say it?
Maybe it was better to just tell the truth.
"Look, do you remember that notebook that you let me borrow last month? The one with the cake recipe I wanted?"
"...Yes?"
"Did you forget that you were using it as a journal?"
Norway didn't say anything for a moment. Then he slowly turned toward Iceland, staring at him, waiting for him to continue. His expression was a guarded, carefully blank look, different from the other types of blank look that Iceland usually saw on his face. "A journal," he said.
"...Yes." Iceland cleared his throat. Stared down at his coffee for a bit. Not looking at Norway didn't make it any easier. "Um. From two years ago?"
Silence.
Iceland waited.
When he looked up, he saw that Norway looked like he was feeling exactly the way Iceland had felt only a few minutes ago: as if he wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
"Ought not to have read that," Norway said.
"I know." Iceland bit at his lower lip. He really had no excuse. "But, like... once I started, I kept going, and –"
Norway shook his head, and pointedly turned away from him. "You should've stopped." He was trying to keep his tone sharp, and only halfway managing it.
It wasn't often that Iceland saw Norway unsettled. Not like this. It was certainly novel. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Not that he blamed him.
But that wasn't important. What was important was – "I liked reading it." Iceland swallowed harshly. "I mean, I liked reading about what you like." That got him to turn around again. Norway was staring at him, head tilted to the side, waiting for more. A look that made Iceland's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, a look that made it almost impossible for him to speak. But he had to keep going, he had to tell him – "I want to try some of it. With you. Please?"
He waited.
"Ain't right to joke about this kind of thing," Norway said after a moment.
"I'm not joking!"
"Iceland."
"Don't 'Iceland' me." It was all he could do to stop himself from pouting. Or kicking Norway from under the table. "I told you, I'm not joking."
"So. What you're tellin' me is..." Norway had that unsettled look again. He bit at his lip, actually fidgeting, shifting in his seat as if he couldn't decide whether to stay and talk it out or go. "You read it. What I wrote about what me and Denmark did."
"Yes?"
"Let's be clear, here." His voice actually shook a little as he spoke. "You read that we... You read that I strangled him, and used his body to get off. And he agreed to it."
"Yeah, but –"
"And that sounds like a good idea to you?"
"Yes!"
Norway stared at him.
Iceland stared back.
He could feel his ears burning. He probably looked ridiculous. Iceland bit his lip, then pressed on anyway, knowing that while Norway was speechless, this was his one chance to explain everything. "There was something you wrote about; about vulnerability. And trust. And I... I want to try that kind of thing with you." He mumbled the last words, then waited.
Norway looked frozen, staring at him like it was taking a while for him to process the whole thing. Finally, he drew a long breath, then looked away, directing his gaze out the window. "We can talk about this later," he said.
His words weren't sharp. It wasn't a definite no. But it wasn't a yes, either.
Iceland wanted to reach across the table and – do something. He didn't know what. Take his hand, maybe. But he didn't dare. It was kind of sappy, anyway. And not really the right kind of thing for the situation. He settled for nudging at Norway's foot with his toe. "But will you think about it?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"I'll want to have that journal back, mind you."
"Okay. I brought it with me."
"Ought not to have read it."
"I know."
But he wasn't sorry that he had.
The journal was a simple notebook. Nothing special on the cover. Easily mixed up with all of the other random notebooks in Norway's house.
The first few pages were taken up by cake recipes, quickly jotted down with a few notes about additions and substitutions. But the rest of it....
When Iceland realized exactly what he had in his hand, he dropped it as if it were burning.
Then he stared at it for a while. Nudged at it with his foot, hesitating.
Finally, he picked it up from the floor, and opened it, and read it, all the while feeling a little guilty about it, but not guilty enough to stop.
Norway's writing was as challenging to read as ever, which made the private nature of the contents even worse, somehow.
It was clear this wasn't meant for anyone else's eyes.
Denmark said yes.
Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. He doesn't usually like to take things to extremes, but our tastes match up pretty well here. We already knew that he likes being smothered or choked, or at least he does when I'm the one doing it. But we've never taken it further than that.
I asked him if he was sure. It's true that going over the edge isn't permanent for us, but it's still not something that either of us should take lightly.
But he told me yes. He said that he trusts me, and he told me yes.
I don't think that dying is what gets him off. He isn't the type. It's just the asphyxiation that he's after. But he knows that I want this, and maybe that has something to do with it. He's always been damn eager to please.
And he trusts me. He must trust me, because this is serious business.
It's not as if he's never died next to me. It wouldn't be the first time killing him either. Though most of that was so far back that I can barely remember it. And it was different altogether when I came to live with him; I was hardly going to do anything of the sort even if now and then he made me want to stab him in his sleep, just to shut him up for a few days. It made more sense to let him be.
There was that one battle, I can't remember which one it was, 1600-something. He was injured so badly that it was a mercy to put him out for a while. Couldn't stand seeing him in pain like that. It hurt to see him like that. And I remember realizing, later on, that I'd come to care for him more than I should.
But this is different from any of that, isn't it.
There is nothing so vulnerable as a corpse. You can do anything to it, cut it open, pull it apart, do a million unspeakable things to it, and it won't be able to do so much as make a noise. That's quite a thing. And it makes it even more surprising that Denmark would allow this. But maybe not.
He trusts me not to hurt him. He trusts that I wouldn't do anything to his body that I wouldn't do at any other time. At least, I think that's what he meant. He tried to explain it, but he isn't exactly good at putting things like this into words.
To think that he'd give himself up to me like that, knowing I could do anything to his body, and that if I went further than we agreed, he would never know. It's quite a thing indeed. But I told him that I was only going to fuck him, and I guess he accepts that as the truth. Which he should, because it is, but I'm still amazed at how much he trusts me.
This is going to be interesting.
When he finished reading that entry, Iceland put the notebook down and stared off into space.
He was aware that there were many things he should be feeling: disgust at the act Norway was describing, probably. Guilt about invading his brother's privacy, definitely. But all he felt was a strange, hot under the collar sort of sensation, a feeling that made him flush and, after a moment, pick up the notebook again and flip through the pages until he found the entry describing the night, that night, that his brother and Denmark followed through with their plans.
He asked me if there was anything I needed him to do for me, and I said no. Nothing different from the usual. I'd take care of everything.
His part was just as expected. It was the same as we've always done, except that I took it farther than I usually would. I put my hands to his neck. And then I kept going. He came without me even touching him, and then I went on, like we'd agreed.
It was harder than I thought it might be. We'd thought ahead to tie him down. He liked that, and it turned out that it was necessary, because his mind was all for the plan, but his body wasn't. He struggled. And he's strong. We'd worked out some signals in case he changed his mind, but he didn't give any of them, not once. Still, his body took a damn long time to die. At least it seemed that way.
For a while, after we were finished with that and I was left alone, I didn't know what to do. It was thrilling, and I wanted him, but suddenly here I was, and there he was, as still and silent as anything, and I wasn't sure what I wanted any more. There were too many options. But it didn't take me long to decide.
The thing about Denmark is that he's very much himself. A lively fellow, that one. And loud. And even though I'm fond of him, sometimes it's hard to appreciate him. Even in bed. Or especially in bed, maybe.
You can tie him down, order him to be still, and he'll do his best, but there's only so much of that he can take. After only a little while of appreciation, he'll be begging. And you can gag him, but no matter what, he'll still find a way to whine through it and buck against you and generally make a nuisance of himself.
I'm not complaining about this. I do like all this about him, most of the time. It's really satisfying to have him in that kind of position, to make him beg for me, and know without question that he wants me and would do anything to please me. But sometimes I like to take my time and appreciate things. He doesn't make it easy to do that.
So, I took my time with him.
I touched every single part of him, and kissed nearly as much as I touched. It's strange, doing this to him when his body isn't able to respond to it – but I liked it, still. It meant he was completely under my control in a way he never has been before. I could have done absolutely anything to him, but all I wanted was to claim him with my hands and mouth and make him mine at my own pace.
I got myself off against his thigh. Then I took my time again. Appreciating. I must have spent ages doing nothing more than touching his face, feeling out the shape of his lips with my thumb. He's told me, more than once, that he wonders what it'd be like to be pretty, like me. Those are his words, not mine. I told him that he was ridiculous. I still think that he's ridiculous. And I wonder if he's ever looked in a mirror. Utterly foolish, that one, if he hasn't noticed those lips and eyelashes. He's a beautiful man. So I took my time, and took advantage of the opportunity to enjoy it.
I turned him over eventually. That wasn't as easy as I'd hoped. We don't die in the same kind of way that humans do, and our bodies don't react quite the same way to death – I've never really understood it, but when we die we're still in there, somewhere. Somehow. But no matter what, a corpse is still a corpse.
It was worth it, though.
He has a magnificent ass. Other folk might beg to differ on this, and that's fine. I know what I like best, and Denmark is exactly what I like. So it was nice to take my time with it. Touch it in all sorts of ways, without having to rush things. Much as I like having him beg me to fuck him, it's nice to enjoy myself without the chance that he'll come before I'm even halfway to finished. I got off by thrusting between the curve of his rear, nice and slow, taking as long as I wanted with it. I've always wanted to do that.
I'd wanted to do more to him, but I was so overwhelmed, I don't think I would have been able to go again. Something for next time, if we have a next time.
I cleaned him up with warm, damp cloths, then rested him on his back. Did what I could to make sure he would be comfortable when he came back. Then I settled in next to him with a book.
The other times we've been like that – when he'd died from wounds and battle and all that – he took longer to come back. I'm guessing it's because his body was damaged so severely back then. This time, it was only a matter of hours before he woke again. Hardly any time at all. He was stiff, and complained about his throat hurting, and it was difficult for him to move at first. But that was all.
I held him, and told him what I'd done. Not in the same detail as what I put down here. But it was enough.
He liked it, I think. At least, he kissed me, and wouldn't stop until I pulled away and pushed him down and sucked him off. I think he would've preferred something more cozy, but there was no way I would have been able to get off again.
It was good, though. Satisfying. All of it. We've talked about trying it again. He wants to, I think. He likes that I want him this way.
And I like knowing how much he trusts me.
It was the last entry in the notebook.
After reading through it, Iceland stared at the page, his face flushed and burning, his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight.
Then he set the notebook down and went to take a shower.
He got himself off beneath the warm water, biting his lower lip, his cheek resting against the cold tile as he thought, over and over, about what he'd just read.
Obviously, he should feel guilty about it. But he didn't. The only thing Iceland felt as an incredible need, and a desire to share the same exact thing with Norway that Denmark had.
Iceland would completely give himself up to him, if only Norway would agree to it.
"Here," Iceland said, handing the notebook over, trying to look casual about the whole thing.
The light in the bedroom was warm, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow. Norway had gone to bed early, saying that he was tired. Normally, Iceland would think that was a lie, but Norway had looked exhausted, and – well, they both had a lot on their mind.
So when he came to Norway's bedroom and found him curled up in bed, reading in his pyjamas, he was a little disappointed that they wouldn't be doing anything more intimate that night, but he wasn't surprised.
Iceland said nothing when Norway wordlessly took the notebook from him. Sliding into bed beside his brother, Iceland nestled close and watched Norway, trying to do it without being obvious about it.
Norway's expression was quiet and difficult to read. Not that it ever was easy to figure out what was going on in his head. He didn't open the journal; only stroked the notebook's cover, as if thinking carefully about something.
Like what we were talking about earlier today, Iceland thought. He wet his lips, wondering if he should say anything. Hoping he was right about it.
"I'm sorry," he said. When Norway glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, Iceland froze, and wished he hadn't spoken. "Um. I mean. For invading your privacy."
"Already said that, didn't you," Norway said. "What's done is done." He set the book on the bedside table, as if by doing that, he might put the issue to bed once and for all.
That wasn't enough for Iceland. "I meant it, though. The stuff I said when we were talking earlier."
"Did you, now."
"Yeah." For a moment, he watched him. The way his lips pressed together. The way his hands tightened in the fabric of the blankets. "I... um. It's okay, you know, that you like that stuff. It's not –"
"D'you think I need assurance from you, then."
"No!" Which was a lie, because if Norway didn't need any reassurance, Iceland thought, why would he shut down like that? "It's just... I want to do that with you. Like I said before."
"Can't always have what you want." And with that, Norway reached to the bedside table, and turned out the light.
Iceland lay there in the dark for a moment. He stared at Norway's shadowy form as shifted a bit beneath the covers to get comfortable. Not one word more. Norway was acting as if that was that, there was nothing more to say, it was all final. As usual.
Most of the time, Norway got the last word in their arguments; there was no way that Iceland could stand up to him.
This time was going to be different.
Iceland curled up close to him, sliding an arm around Norway. "At least tell me why you don't want to do it with me," he said. "It's not like we haven't done lots of other things. Like the blindfolds, and um –" he paused, feeling his cheeks heat up as he remembered all of the things they'd done together, some of them things that he couldn't imagine doing with anyone else. "Well, you know what I mean."
Norway let out a long sigh. "That's different."
"How?"
There was a pause. Norway didn't turn to look at him. "You read it. So, you think you know what you're asking for. But you don't, really." He sighed again. "Dying isn't – it ain't easy. It hurts. Even when it's like that."
Norway's words were slow and patient. Much too kind. Verging on condescending, even. "I know." It was all Iceland could do to stop the exasperation from seeping into his voice, and he wasn't successful at all. "What, do you think I haven't died before?"
There was a long, long pause that made it abundantly clear that actually, as a matter of fact, Norway had assumed just that.
"Have you?"
"Yeah." Iceland swallowed harshly, feeling like he had to explain himself. "I mean – not, um, violently. Not in battle or anything, not like you and Denmark. You know I never – but there were things that happened. Accidents. Storms..."
"The sea?"
"Yes." Pausing, Iceland wondered if he should say more, if he should explain. Then he felt Norway's hand over his own, and knew that he didn't have to. Norway, if anyone, knew what it was like to be swept from a boat by wind or waves, drowning in fierce water, or dashed to death on rocks. He didn't have to say anything.
There was a long moment of quiet. Iceland could hear Norway's breath, the deep sigh he took in as he understood all of this for the first time. "Never gave it any thought," Norway said after a while. "Should've known, mind you. Considering everything. I'm sorry."
"Well. It's not like – I mean," Iceland stumbled over his words, shifting to spoon closer to him as he tried to put his thoughts in order. "You were busy. And you have your own people to worry about. It's not like you could keep an eye on me all the time. And by the time I was old enough to work on fishing boats – like, physically old enough – I was Denmark's responsibility. You were with Sweden by then."
Silence. Iceland waited. Though he couldn't see it, he could picture the way Norway must be biting his lip, worrying it as he turned over the thought.
"Even so."
"It's fine," Iceland insisted. "There was nothing you could do. Or Denmark."
"And before then? The times that you died before then. There must have been."
Iceland shut his eyes tight. Sure, it was true; he'd starved to death more than once, and that hadn't been the only thing. But – "It doesn't matter," he said. He lifted his hand, seeking Norway's face, trying to stroke at his cheek, hoping that it might reassure him. "The point is, I've died before. I know that it hurts. And this would be different, anyway, because I'm agreeing to it. So, it doesn't matter if... I mean, I don't mind if..." He stumbled over his words, trying to think of the right way to put it. "I just – I really, really want to do this with you, brother."
It was a little underhanded to resort to that. Iceland had to admit, it was sneaky. Manipulative, even. They both knew that Norway couldn't resist when Iceland called him that; maybe because Iceland did it so rarely now, or because he had a thing for it. It didn't matter.
Iceland waited.
After a moment, Norway turned his head, brushing a kiss against Iceland's palm. "Ain't going to let go of this idea, are you," he murmured.
"No." Iceland took a deep breath. "I'm serious."
Norway was silent for a moment longer. Then he sighed, and turned toward Iceland, sliding his arms around him to pull him close. "Okay," he murmured. "We'll have to talk on it more, mind you. Set some things straight. But if that's how you feel, I reckon we can try it."
Iceland didn't say anything. Instead, he cupped Norway's face and kissed him, sinking his fingers into his hair. There was nothing he could say, anyway, so it was better not to try.
Norway's arms tightening their hold around him told him plainly enough that he understood how he felt. There was no need to say anything else at all.
When he woke, Iceland wondered if he should bring it up again, if he should say something. They could talk about it in the morning, when they rested together in bed, curled up next to each other. Or over breakfast. But none of it seemed quite right.
It wasn't exactly an easy topic to start talking about out of the blue. "So, when you said last night that you were okay with killing me and fucking my body, did you really mean that?"
There was no way in hell.
So, Iceland waited. They had breakfast together, watching the birds on the feeder again. "Good day for skiing," Norway murmured after he appraised the state of the weather report, and Iceland knew what that meant.
"Sounds good," he said, and took in the small smile that tugged at the corner of Norway's lips. He always looked so good when he was pleased.
A moment like that – even if he wanted so badly to have some answers, Iceland decided that he could be patient. Or at least try to be. He didn't want to ruin it.
As it turned out, that was a good decision.
Even at times like this, when Iceland was paying him a personal visit, Norway was the sort of person who could be really frustrating to be around. His moods were as quickly-changing as the weather, and one word could be enough to send him from content to contrary. And while Iceland was pretty good at reading him, Norway in good spirits wasn't necessarily without his annoying moments either. If Norway happened to get into one of his clingy, brotherly moods, the kind where he seemed to forget that Iceland was a fully grown independent nation and had been for quite a while now, thanks – well, there was nothing to be done about it.
But it seemed this wasn't going to be one of those days. He kissed Iceland's cheek before they stepped out of the house together, and after that moment, there was nothing to worry about. The good weather caught Norway's attention, and held it.
There were few things Norway liked better than skiing. And Iceland knew, though neither of them had ever said it, that for Norway, skiing with Iceland was best.
All through their time outside together, Iceland wondered over and over how to bring it up. Norway had agreed to it last night, but would he feel the same way now? Iceland couldn't be sure.
This wasn't anything like any of the previous things they'd done together. Their first time having sex together had been fumbly and rushed. A quick "Are you sure?" gasped against Iceland's mouth, which Iceland thought was frankly ridiculous, because at the time he was straddling Norway's lap and had his hand halfway down his trousers. Of course he was sure. And the other times – it had just been a matter of Iceland saying that he wanted to try something, and the two of them following through. Though there were always pauses, moments when Norway stopped, murmuring in his low, quiet way, to hold on for a minute, he'd show him how to do this safely.
This was different. This required planning. Or at least having a talk first. And though Iceland wanted it, he dreaded it too. A talk was always frustrating at the best of times, but when it came to something like this, it would be embarrassing too.
But he held back his questions, packed them away for a while. It was better to let Norway have his good mood. It wouldn't hurt anything.
He waited until they were done. Until they returned to Norway's house, exhausted and happy from a day outside together. When they were all settled in, and Iceland decided to make hot chocolate, just for something to do.
He hadn't counted on Norway lingering close, his arms coiling around Iceland's waist while Iceland heated the milk at the stove.
Iceland swallowed, letting his eyes flutter shut at the way it felt when Norway kissed his hair, breath fluttering much too close to his ear.
How could he say it?
"Um. Did you think any more about... you know. Tonight?" The awkwardness of the words made Iceland cringe. That hadn't come out half as cool as he had hoped it would.
But Norway didn't seem bothered. His hold around Iceland's waist tightened, giving him a gentle squeeze as if to reassure him that everything was fine. "Have you?" he asked.
Turning it around on him like that was a classic Norway tactic, and Iceland frowned in response to it. "Yeah," he admitted. "But that isn't what I was asking." Iceland thought for a moment. What would be the best way to ask him to talk about it? "Please tell me."
He almost expected Norway to refuse. But he didn't; instead he drew away, moving to lean against the counter, in Iceland's line of vision.
"I might have."
"Okay." That was better than nothing, but it wasn't enough. "So?"
"So."
They were both silent. Norway said nothing, and Iceland waited. His brother, Iceland noticed, didn't look tense, not like he had the previous night. He stood there with his arms folded over his chest, his hair mussed and in disarray from being stuffed under a hat all day. But he didn't say anything; just stared up at the ceiling, face quietly thoughtful, as if he might find an answer there.
"You don't have to say yes," Iceland said, dropping his gaze back to the pot full of hot chocolate, stirring it carefully so it wouldn't burn.
"Ought to be me saying that kind of thing."
Iceland wasn't sure whether to be annoyed by that or not. "It ain't – I mean, it isn't like I don't know a thing or two. You might be more experienced than me, but I'm capable of figuring out what I want, you know."
There was a long pause. "That's right," Norway said. "You are." There was a note in his voice that made it sound like he was admitting defeat.
Maybe, Iceland thought, if I just press a little more... "It's like the first time," he said, glancing out of the corner of his eye. "I knew that I wanted you. Even if that surprised you a little."
"That it did, didn't it." There was a smile on Norway's lips now. Little more than the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth, but it was there. He took two steps, closing the space between them with a soft kiss at his cheek. "Okay," he said softly.
"Okay?" Iceland nearly swallowed his tongue in surprise.
"Aye, that's right." Another soft, barely-there brush over Iceland's flushed cheek. "Long's you're sure about this."
"I am." A deep breath. "I gave it a lot of thought."
Not another word. Just a soft kiss to his hair. Then Norway drew away from him, and went to take two mugs from the cupboard, as if there was nothing more to say about it.
Iceland let out a long, slow breath. Though Norway hadn't outright said it, it was clear Iceland had won. He couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself.
The day seemed to crawl.
They curled up together on the sofa with their hot chocolate. Norway took up his knitting. They turned on the television, settled on a movie that they had seen before.
Iceland wondered if he was going to go insane from waiting.
It sure felt like it. Normally, he was pretty good with patience. But knowing that later that night, he would have an experience he'd been thinking about for what felt like ages – the anticipation was almost too much.
And it didn't help, either, that under normal circumstances, he might take things into his own hands. When they were all comfortable together like this, half the time Iceland couldn't stand it, and he'd end up kissing Norway until he'd surrender and let Iceland push him down onto the couch cushions, or he'd grasp Norway by the hand and pull him toward the bedroom.
But considering all their plans – no. If he tried that, he knew that Norway would give in, because he always did, but he also knew that there would be nothing later on if that happened.
So Iceland curled up close to Norway, and waited, and tried to be patient.
Supper was quiet, uneventful. Norway talked about trivial things while they cooked together, as if there was nothing special about that evening at all. Not one word about that all through the cooking, or the dinner itself, or the clean-up.
When Norway challenged him to checkers after supper, Iceland began to wonder if he was drawing it out in hope that he would change his mind. But he agreed, grateful that it was only checkers, and not chess. The chances that he could concentrate on anything more complicated were impossibly small at a time like this.
The way Norway's foot kept brushing against his under the table made it worse. Iceland bit at his lower lip and stared down at the board, like he was taking his time, trying to figure out a good strategy. But he was completely aware of the blush creeping over his cheeks and ears and throat, and the nonchalant smile Norway gave him from across the table didn't help at all.
"Got a lot on your mind?" Norway asked, tilting his head a bit as he made his move.
"Ack," was all Iceland could say, blushing scarlet as Norway's socked foot made contact again, sliding up his ankle. "No. I'm okay."
"That so."
The words made Iceland sweep his gaze up, meeting Norway's impenetrable stare. Even though he'd been on the receiving end of that look a million times, he thought he'd never get used to it, or get over it. Norway's eyes held him, waiting. But not judging.
"Yeah," Iceland said after a second. "I'm all right."
He must have sounded confident, or at least confident enough, as Norway nodded. "Fine, then," he said, then clicked his attention back to the board. "King me." And as he spoke, his foot moved up and up, sliding along Iceland's calf and up his thigh.
Iceland took in a shaking breath. This is ridiculous, he thought. "How about..."
"Hm?"
His mouth suddenly felt so dry. Iceland licked his lips. "How about we just, you know... Go to the bedroom instead?"
There was a pause.
Iceland waited.
"Still sure about that, are you." Norway's voice was soft, curious.
"Yes! I – Nor, please!" Not again, Iceland thought. Don't you dare make me explain myself again, not when I've already explained a hundred times. "I want this. I want to do this. With you." He tried to do what Norway had always been so good at; tried to grab his gaze, catch hold of him and keep him there.
For a moment, they stared at each other. It was as if Norway's eyes were boring deep into his skull. Iceland didn't dare look away, even though the pull to do it was so strong. He swallowed harshly, looking at him, thinking, 'Take me seriously. Please.'
Just when he was beginning to think he wouldn't be able to stand it any longer, Norway nodded. "Fine," he said softly. Then he looked away, dropping his gaze to the board. "If that's how you'll have it."
"It is. I mean, um..."
Without another word, Norway rose. Pushed his chair in as if nothing questionable was going on. Then he slipped around the table to offer his hand to Iceland.
Iceland took it. His heart felt tight in his chest as Norway leaned in to brush a kiss against his cheek. And when Norway dipped his head to murmur by Iceland's ear, his voice low and inviting as he said, "Come up to bed with me, then," it was all Iceland could do to keep himself from dying right then and there.
Or at least, that was what it felt like.
All he could do was let Norway take him to bed.
It wasn't any different from any other time. The clean sheets, the warm light from the bedside lamp. Norway kissed Iceland until he felt like he was going to collapse, and as soon as Norway had him stripped bare Iceland sank down onto the edge of the bed, feeling dizzy.
How the hell does he do that? Iceland thought.
It didn't matter. Norway's fingertips slipped under his chin, making him tilt his head up. Iceland swallowed, looking up at him, his lips parting slightly in an unspoken question.
Norway said nothing, and bent down to steal another soft, tender kiss.
As soon as the kiss broke Norway sank down onto the bed. "This ain't going to be easy, you know," he said as he slipped off his hairclip, letting the strands fall across his eyes.
"Oh?"
"Right. The body don't take too well to dying."
"Well, yeah, but –"
"It'll resist, even if you want this."
Iceland pressed his lips together. I know, he wanted to say. But he didn't say anything. Norway was right, and his words were earnest, and maybe the reason he was being so insistent about it had less to do with Iceland and more to do with Norway himself. Maybe.
Instead of speaking, Iceland nodded. He didn't say anything; just edged a little closer to Norway, and lifted a hand, and touched his cheek to make him look at him, make him turn toward him so he could kiss him. It was slow and deep and as reassuring as could be. At least, Iceland hoped it was. If only he was as good at appearing confident as Norway. If only he could give him those same feelings, make Norway understand, make him take Iceland seriously.
"Right," Norway murmured, his voice a breath against Iceland's lips. "All right, then." His hands came up, taking hold of Iceland. His head turned so he could brush his mouth to the inside of Iceland's wrist, making him suck in a breath.
Norway's eyes were dark and warm.
Then he drew Iceland close, and gently guided him down.
Over the years, Iceland had become used to the feeling of the fabric around his wrists, the sturdy cloth that bound him to the headboard. He liked the way it felt to be sprawled open, held there for Norway, offering himself to his eyes and hands and mouth and body. It was strange to think that when they'd first talked about it, he'd been unsure about the idea.
As soon as he understood that it meant resting back and enjoying it all while Norway spoiled him, he felt differently.
Iceland closed his eyes and slid his tongue over his lips. Norway's mouth was at his throat, his collarbones, grazing damp lips over his clavicle. He'd stripped and his body was warm between Iceland's thighs, his cock firm and grazing against Iceland's own hardness, flushed and untouched and aching for Norway's hands.
Part of their plans involved something they'd done before. Sort of. Partly. "Playing rough," Norway had called it. Maybe that wasn't a bad description for it. Norway's hand at his throat, pressing down just so. Or his hand over his mouth, leaning over to whisper to Iceland from behind, while he pinched his nostrils shut and held him until he felt heady – then releasing, mercifully, leaving him gasping for air. They'd done that before.
This was different.
Slowly, Norway's hand came up, stroking at Iceland's throat. Fingertips against his pulse. Lips at his jaw, tender, hesitant. "So."
"Please...?" Iceland's voice was little more than a breath. "Nor, please."
Above him, Norway sighed. Iceland felt him rocking against him, unable to stop that slight jerk of his hips at the sound of that begging.
He lifted his hips, grinding as slowly and surely as he could.
"Please," Iceland repeated, wondering if he sounded as desperate as he felt. It didn't really matter, because Norway groaned and kissed him, and then drew away. He heard him sigh, and with that, Iceland knew he'd get what he wanted.
Feeling dazed already, Iceland cracked his eyes open to look up at his brother.
Norway had straddled him, strong thighs on either side of his hips. There was a flush across his cheeks and his mouth was reddened from kissing. Strands of hair fell in his eyes, but from where Iceland was he could see his face, could see more than enough to know the brightness of his eyes, that strange flash in them.
Neither of them needed to say anything. Iceland nodded – only once – and tilted his head back, baring his throat for him.
In a second Norway's hands were at his throat and over his mouth and nose, obscuring his breathing with a pinch. At first, it was nothing much, then –
Pressure at his throat and burning in his lungs. He tried to breathe, but couldn't. Norway's hands were strong, stronger than anyone would ever expect, and as Iceland struggled to breathe he heard himself whimper, the sound muffled and desperate..
It was – he couldn't – he couldn't breathe. He moved, struggling instinctively to turn his head, to escape Norway's grip, but his brother held him there, strong and firm and immovable as a rock. Iceland's eyes were wide, his thoughts fogged, and all he could hear was the sound of his own muffled attempts at gasping, and Norway's voice, firm but soothing, a soft assurance even if he couldn't understand the words in his dazed state.
There was something attractive about those words, something that went straight to his cock. Even as he struggled, he bucked up, whining as he didn't get the friction he craved.
He ached, he ached, but as his vision clouded he couldn't help but think that it wasn't all that different, really, that there wasn't a lot of difference between that heavy feeling and the sensation of orgasm, and –
His thoughts trailed, then ceased.
Haze and emptiness. Darkness. Nothing.
Eventually, he emerged from that. His limbs were heavy, sluggish. Even his eyelids wouldn't move. He knew this feeling.
He was aware of something above him. Someone. Hot breath scattering over his throat. Panting. The bed groaning beneath the movement. Something hard and slick pressed between his thighs.
Oh.
Iceland parted his lips. Cracked his eyes open. Nothing visible. Indistinct shapes, shadows, the warm glow from something. The bedside lamp.
Heavy breathing. Dampness against his neck. A soft moan. And the constant rocking, grinding against him, thrusting against his body.
He moved his lips. Tried to speak. The word came out barely more than a breath. "Nor?"
The thrusting slowed. Stopped. He heard a groan, then felt a sloppy, slick kiss against his neck.
"Ice? What..."
"I..."
"Shhh..." Low, throaty voice by his ear. "Shh. Stop breathing. I'm almost there."
Norway, husky, panting. His head buried against Iceland's shoulder, his cock between Iceland's thighs. Iceland opened his mouth to speak again, gradually becoming more aware, more cognizant of what was happening.
Then Norway moved. His hands moved. From the mattress, from Iceland's hair, to his nose and throat. And they grasped him and held him and his lungs burned and Iceland's eyes fell shut and the blackness came again.
He felt heavy and warm.
Iceland rested in the darkness behind his eyelids. After a while, he became aware of the presence of the blanket draped over him. The fact that his wrists were free, even though they hadn't been when he – when they –
Okay.
He breathed. In, out. Again. Then slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes.
"Welcome back."
Iceland turned his head a little. His body felt heavy and thick and slow. Norway was sitting up, a paperback novel in one hand, thumb marking the place where he'd stopped reading. The bedside lamp washed golden light over his hair and shoulders. Eyes too dark to be readable, but his expression was quiet and gentle.
He stared at his brother for a moment, unable to speak. Then he wet his lips, and tried again. "Hi."
Norway dipped his head. Brushed a kiss over Iceland's hair. "You all right?" he murmured.
"Mm." Iceland closed his eyes. Managed a stiff nod. "Yeah. I, um. Yes."
"I see." A long pause. "Are you able to move yet?"
"I'm not sure."
"Try wiggling your toes. And your fingers. Can you do that?"
Iceland closed his eyes. Tried. He was able to do it. He felt tired and heavy from head to foot, but he could do it. "Yes." It would be a while, he knew, before he could move properly again.
"Okay."
He heard Norway moving. Setting his book on the table. Drawing the blankets up, slithering deep under them to curl close and slide an arm around Iceland. But he didn't turn out the light, and Iceland was grateful for that. There had been too much dark already.
"Sorry about that." Norway's voice was soft. His fingers slipped through Iceland's hair, gentle, slow.
"For what?"
"I..." Groping for the words. "Didn't do a proper job of it. You weren't supposed to come back in the middle of it like that, understand."
"Oh."
"Ought to have planned proper. Made sure I did it right. I'm sorry."
"Stop." Iceland turned his head to nuzzle against him, sighing. "Don't do that, okay? I'm not mad, and it didn't scare me or anything."
"No?"
"No."
The word seemed to reassure Norway. Nestling close, he rested against Iceland, his firm, warm presence comforting.
"It was..." Iceland thought back to it, trying to figure out the right way to describe it. The memory of Norway's voice surfaced, lingering, the notes soft and low and husky and desperate. "You sounded really hot," he said finally, unable to put it any other way.
"That so."
"...Yeah."
Norway's lips on his mouth were gentle, the kiss soft and heartfelt. Iceland raised a shaking hand to touch his face, holding there, drawing it out as long as he could.
There were things he wanted to ask. The questions were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know what Norway had thought of it all. Whether he'd enjoyed that vulnerability. Whether he liked being able to do anything to Iceland, absolutely anything. Everything.
But maybe it would be best to save that for later. They could talk about it later.
It hadn't gone perfectly. Sure, it hadn't. But as he nestled into Norway's arms, all he could think was that those details didn't matter at all.
They both had what they wanted.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Norway/Iceland; background Norway/Denmark
Rating: 18+. CNTW.
Length: 8.2k
Summary: Iceland accidentally discovers one of Norway's more questionable kinks - and he really, really wants to give it a try.
Other: This is the one with consensual temporary death and consensual necrophilia. I mean, hey, they're immortal and not even human, so why not? ;p
Written for
iddyiddybangbang. Inspired by conversation in the Hetalia Olds discord at the beginning of this year. ;)The night opens and makes space
Iceland gripped his coffee mug and stared out Norway's kitchen window at the falling snow.
You can do this, he reminded himself. It isn't hard. It's just Norway. The worst he can do is say no. And if he says no, then the two of you can pretend that you never said anything at all. You can do this.
But the prospect of Norway saying 'no' was enough to make him want to forget the whole thing. If he asked – if Norway refused – he'd have some explaining to do. And –
"You all right?"
Iceland tensed as Norway's fingers slipped through his hair, stroking gently. He bit his tongue and held his mug even more tightly, like doing so would somehow ground and steady him. It didn't. "I'm okay," he said, nodding as Norway moved from behind him to take a seat at the table, setting down his coffee mug. "Nothing wrong here."
He'd just barely managed to keep himself from flinching. If Norway didn't suspect anything before, he certainly did now. At 'nothing wrong', his eyebrows lifted, arching up into his fringe.
"Nothing wrong?" A tilt of the head. A pause. Then Norway's foot brushed against his under the table.
"Nope."
"Looks like you got summat on your mind."
"I do not!" Iceland could feel a deep blush spreading over his cheeks and his ears and his neck. It was all he could do to stop himself from getting up and running away, making up some excuse about needing to use the washroom or something, no matter whether Norway would believe him or not. He wanted to hide. But the look Norway was giving him – that familiar quiet, calculating look – kept him pinned.
Norway stared at him for a long moment. Then, he simply took up his coffee cup and looked away. "Fair enough," he said.
Nothing else.
Iceland waited, but nothing else came. No more questions, no pressing, no criticism. Like Norway was content to let the thing be, at least for the moment. He breathed deeply and tried to steady his fingers, worried that if he moved to drink his coffee, Norway would notice that his hands were shaking.
He still wanted to hide, just a little. But not as much as he had a moment ago.
Norway had settled into the sort of quiet way that he often had, turning a bit in his chair to look out the window at the bird feeder hanging over the patio, watching the blue tits in winter plumage peck at it. His face had softened a bit as he relaxed.
Maybe it was better to let the whole thing go.
No, Iceland thought. He knew what Norway was like. He might not say anything now, but he would later, and probably at the worst and most unexpected moment. He'd poke and prod at Iceland, and eventually he'd drag an explanation out of him, whether he wanted to tell him or not. There was nothing that Iceland could ever keep from him – especially if Norway knew that something was up.
Okay. Better just say it, Iceland thought. Rip the band-aid off.
"Um," Iceland said.
"Mm?" Norway didn't look at him.
"I... um. There's something new I want to try." Iceland took a deep breath. "With you. In bed."
It was a stupid way to say it. There was no way that Norway wouldn't know what he meant. But the clumsy way he put it didn't seem to matter. Norway didn't say anything; just nodded.
"That so."
That meant 'go on,' as far as Iceland could tell. "Yeah." Another deep breath. "I..." Oh, fuck. "Look, I know that you're into some really weird stuff –"
He stopped short as Norway's gaze flicked to the side, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking back out the window again.
"Weird stuff."
Fuck, Iceland thought., How the heck could he say it?
Maybe it was better to just tell the truth.
"Look, do you remember that notebook that you let me borrow last month? The one with the cake recipe I wanted?"
"...Yes?"
"Did you forget that you were using it as a journal?"
Norway didn't say anything for a moment. Then he slowly turned toward Iceland, staring at him, waiting for him to continue. His expression was a guarded, carefully blank look, different from the other types of blank look that Iceland usually saw on his face. "A journal," he said.
"...Yes." Iceland cleared his throat. Stared down at his coffee for a bit. Not looking at Norway didn't make it any easier. "Um. From two years ago?"
Silence.
Iceland waited.
When he looked up, he saw that Norway looked like he was feeling exactly the way Iceland had felt only a few minutes ago: as if he wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
"Ought not to have read that," Norway said.
"I know." Iceland bit at his lower lip. He really had no excuse. "But, like... once I started, I kept going, and –"
Norway shook his head, and pointedly turned away from him. "You should've stopped." He was trying to keep his tone sharp, and only halfway managing it.
It wasn't often that Iceland saw Norway unsettled. Not like this. It was certainly novel. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Not that he blamed him.
But that wasn't important. What was important was – "I liked reading it." Iceland swallowed harshly. "I mean, I liked reading about what you like." That got him to turn around again. Norway was staring at him, head tilted to the side, waiting for more. A look that made Iceland's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, a look that made it almost impossible for him to speak. But he had to keep going, he had to tell him – "I want to try some of it. With you. Please?"
He waited.
"Ain't right to joke about this kind of thing," Norway said after a moment.
"I'm not joking!"
"Iceland."
"Don't 'Iceland' me." It was all he could do to stop himself from pouting. Or kicking Norway from under the table. "I told you, I'm not joking."
"So. What you're tellin' me is..." Norway had that unsettled look again. He bit at his lip, actually fidgeting, shifting in his seat as if he couldn't decide whether to stay and talk it out or go. "You read it. What I wrote about what me and Denmark did."
"Yes?"
"Let's be clear, here." His voice actually shook a little as he spoke. "You read that we... You read that I strangled him, and used his body to get off. And he agreed to it."
"Yeah, but –"
"And that sounds like a good idea to you?"
"Yes!"
Norway stared at him.
Iceland stared back.
He could feel his ears burning. He probably looked ridiculous. Iceland bit his lip, then pressed on anyway, knowing that while Norway was speechless, this was his one chance to explain everything. "There was something you wrote about; about vulnerability. And trust. And I... I want to try that kind of thing with you." He mumbled the last words, then waited.
Norway looked frozen, staring at him like it was taking a while for him to process the whole thing. Finally, he drew a long breath, then looked away, directing his gaze out the window. "We can talk about this later," he said.
His words weren't sharp. It wasn't a definite no. But it wasn't a yes, either.
Iceland wanted to reach across the table and – do something. He didn't know what. Take his hand, maybe. But he didn't dare. It was kind of sappy, anyway. And not really the right kind of thing for the situation. He settled for nudging at Norway's foot with his toe. "But will you think about it?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"I'll want to have that journal back, mind you."
"Okay. I brought it with me."
"Ought not to have read it."
"I know."
But he wasn't sorry that he had.
The journal was a simple notebook. Nothing special on the cover. Easily mixed up with all of the other random notebooks in Norway's house.
The first few pages were taken up by cake recipes, quickly jotted down with a few notes about additions and substitutions. But the rest of it....
When Iceland realized exactly what he had in his hand, he dropped it as if it were burning.
Then he stared at it for a while. Nudged at it with his foot, hesitating.
Finally, he picked it up from the floor, and opened it, and read it, all the while feeling a little guilty about it, but not guilty enough to stop.
Norway's writing was as challenging to read as ever, which made the private nature of the contents even worse, somehow.
It was clear this wasn't meant for anyone else's eyes.
Denmark said yes.
Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. He doesn't usually like to take things to extremes, but our tastes match up pretty well here. We already knew that he likes being smothered or choked, or at least he does when I'm the one doing it. But we've never taken it further than that.
I asked him if he was sure. It's true that going over the edge isn't permanent for us, but it's still not something that either of us should take lightly.
But he told me yes. He said that he trusts me, and he told me yes.
I don't think that dying is what gets him off. He isn't the type. It's just the asphyxiation that he's after. But he knows that I want this, and maybe that has something to do with it. He's always been damn eager to please.
And he trusts me. He must trust me, because this is serious business.
It's not as if he's never died next to me. It wouldn't be the first time killing him either. Though most of that was so far back that I can barely remember it. And it was different altogether when I came to live with him; I was hardly going to do anything of the sort even if now and then he made me want to stab him in his sleep, just to shut him up for a few days. It made more sense to let him be.
There was that one battle, I can't remember which one it was, 1600-something. He was injured so badly that it was a mercy to put him out for a while. Couldn't stand seeing him in pain like that. It hurt to see him like that. And I remember realizing, later on, that I'd come to care for him more than I should.
But this is different from any of that, isn't it.
There is nothing so vulnerable as a corpse. You can do anything to it, cut it open, pull it apart, do a million unspeakable things to it, and it won't be able to do so much as make a noise. That's quite a thing. And it makes it even more surprising that Denmark would allow this. But maybe not.
He trusts me not to hurt him. He trusts that I wouldn't do anything to his body that I wouldn't do at any other time. At least, I think that's what he meant. He tried to explain it, but he isn't exactly good at putting things like this into words.
To think that he'd give himself up to me like that, knowing I could do anything to his body, and that if I went further than we agreed, he would never know. It's quite a thing indeed. But I told him that I was only going to fuck him, and I guess he accepts that as the truth. Which he should, because it is, but I'm still amazed at how much he trusts me.
This is going to be interesting.
When he finished reading that entry, Iceland put the notebook down and stared off into space.
He was aware that there were many things he should be feeling: disgust at the act Norway was describing, probably. Guilt about invading his brother's privacy, definitely. But all he felt was a strange, hot under the collar sort of sensation, a feeling that made him flush and, after a moment, pick up the notebook again and flip through the pages until he found the entry describing the night, that night, that his brother and Denmark followed through with their plans.
He asked me if there was anything I needed him to do for me, and I said no. Nothing different from the usual. I'd take care of everything.
His part was just as expected. It was the same as we've always done, except that I took it farther than I usually would. I put my hands to his neck. And then I kept going. He came without me even touching him, and then I went on, like we'd agreed.
It was harder than I thought it might be. We'd thought ahead to tie him down. He liked that, and it turned out that it was necessary, because his mind was all for the plan, but his body wasn't. He struggled. And he's strong. We'd worked out some signals in case he changed his mind, but he didn't give any of them, not once. Still, his body took a damn long time to die. At least it seemed that way.
For a while, after we were finished with that and I was left alone, I didn't know what to do. It was thrilling, and I wanted him, but suddenly here I was, and there he was, as still and silent as anything, and I wasn't sure what I wanted any more. There were too many options. But it didn't take me long to decide.
The thing about Denmark is that he's very much himself. A lively fellow, that one. And loud. And even though I'm fond of him, sometimes it's hard to appreciate him. Even in bed. Or especially in bed, maybe.
You can tie him down, order him to be still, and he'll do his best, but there's only so much of that he can take. After only a little while of appreciation, he'll be begging. And you can gag him, but no matter what, he'll still find a way to whine through it and buck against you and generally make a nuisance of himself.
I'm not complaining about this. I do like all this about him, most of the time. It's really satisfying to have him in that kind of position, to make him beg for me, and know without question that he wants me and would do anything to please me. But sometimes I like to take my time and appreciate things. He doesn't make it easy to do that.
So, I took my time with him.
I touched every single part of him, and kissed nearly as much as I touched. It's strange, doing this to him when his body isn't able to respond to it – but I liked it, still. It meant he was completely under my control in a way he never has been before. I could have done absolutely anything to him, but all I wanted was to claim him with my hands and mouth and make him mine at my own pace.
I got myself off against his thigh. Then I took my time again. Appreciating. I must have spent ages doing nothing more than touching his face, feeling out the shape of his lips with my thumb. He's told me, more than once, that he wonders what it'd be like to be pretty, like me. Those are his words, not mine. I told him that he was ridiculous. I still think that he's ridiculous. And I wonder if he's ever looked in a mirror. Utterly foolish, that one, if he hasn't noticed those lips and eyelashes. He's a beautiful man. So I took my time, and took advantage of the opportunity to enjoy it.
I turned him over eventually. That wasn't as easy as I'd hoped. We don't die in the same kind of way that humans do, and our bodies don't react quite the same way to death – I've never really understood it, but when we die we're still in there, somewhere. Somehow. But no matter what, a corpse is still a corpse.
It was worth it, though.
He has a magnificent ass. Other folk might beg to differ on this, and that's fine. I know what I like best, and Denmark is exactly what I like. So it was nice to take my time with it. Touch it in all sorts of ways, without having to rush things. Much as I like having him beg me to fuck him, it's nice to enjoy myself without the chance that he'll come before I'm even halfway to finished. I got off by thrusting between the curve of his rear, nice and slow, taking as long as I wanted with it. I've always wanted to do that.
I'd wanted to do more to him, but I was so overwhelmed, I don't think I would have been able to go again. Something for next time, if we have a next time.
I cleaned him up with warm, damp cloths, then rested him on his back. Did what I could to make sure he would be comfortable when he came back. Then I settled in next to him with a book.
The other times we've been like that – when he'd died from wounds and battle and all that – he took longer to come back. I'm guessing it's because his body was damaged so severely back then. This time, it was only a matter of hours before he woke again. Hardly any time at all. He was stiff, and complained about his throat hurting, and it was difficult for him to move at first. But that was all.
I held him, and told him what I'd done. Not in the same detail as what I put down here. But it was enough.
He liked it, I think. At least, he kissed me, and wouldn't stop until I pulled away and pushed him down and sucked him off. I think he would've preferred something more cozy, but there was no way I would have been able to get off again.
It was good, though. Satisfying. All of it. We've talked about trying it again. He wants to, I think. He likes that I want him this way.
And I like knowing how much he trusts me.
It was the last entry in the notebook.
After reading through it, Iceland stared at the page, his face flushed and burning, his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight.
Then he set the notebook down and went to take a shower.
He got himself off beneath the warm water, biting his lower lip, his cheek resting against the cold tile as he thought, over and over, about what he'd just read.
Obviously, he should feel guilty about it. But he didn't. The only thing Iceland felt as an incredible need, and a desire to share the same exact thing with Norway that Denmark had.
Iceland would completely give himself up to him, if only Norway would agree to it.
"Here," Iceland said, handing the notebook over, trying to look casual about the whole thing.
The light in the bedroom was warm, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow. Norway had gone to bed early, saying that he was tired. Normally, Iceland would think that was a lie, but Norway had looked exhausted, and – well, they both had a lot on their mind.
So when he came to Norway's bedroom and found him curled up in bed, reading in his pyjamas, he was a little disappointed that they wouldn't be doing anything more intimate that night, but he wasn't surprised.
Iceland said nothing when Norway wordlessly took the notebook from him. Sliding into bed beside his brother, Iceland nestled close and watched Norway, trying to do it without being obvious about it.
Norway's expression was quiet and difficult to read. Not that it ever was easy to figure out what was going on in his head. He didn't open the journal; only stroked the notebook's cover, as if thinking carefully about something.
Like what we were talking about earlier today, Iceland thought. He wet his lips, wondering if he should say anything. Hoping he was right about it.
"I'm sorry," he said. When Norway glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, Iceland froze, and wished he hadn't spoken. "Um. I mean. For invading your privacy."
"Already said that, didn't you," Norway said. "What's done is done." He set the book on the bedside table, as if by doing that, he might put the issue to bed once and for all.
That wasn't enough for Iceland. "I meant it, though. The stuff I said when we were talking earlier."
"Did you, now."
"Yeah." For a moment, he watched him. The way his lips pressed together. The way his hands tightened in the fabric of the blankets. "I... um. It's okay, you know, that you like that stuff. It's not –"
"D'you think I need assurance from you, then."
"No!" Which was a lie, because if Norway didn't need any reassurance, Iceland thought, why would he shut down like that? "It's just... I want to do that with you. Like I said before."
"Can't always have what you want." And with that, Norway reached to the bedside table, and turned out the light.
Iceland lay there in the dark for a moment. He stared at Norway's shadowy form as shifted a bit beneath the covers to get comfortable. Not one word more. Norway was acting as if that was that, there was nothing more to say, it was all final. As usual.
Most of the time, Norway got the last word in their arguments; there was no way that Iceland could stand up to him.
This time was going to be different.
Iceland curled up close to him, sliding an arm around Norway. "At least tell me why you don't want to do it with me," he said. "It's not like we haven't done lots of other things. Like the blindfolds, and um –" he paused, feeling his cheeks heat up as he remembered all of the things they'd done together, some of them things that he couldn't imagine doing with anyone else. "Well, you know what I mean."
Norway let out a long sigh. "That's different."
"How?"
There was a pause. Norway didn't turn to look at him. "You read it. So, you think you know what you're asking for. But you don't, really." He sighed again. "Dying isn't – it ain't easy. It hurts. Even when it's like that."
Norway's words were slow and patient. Much too kind. Verging on condescending, even. "I know." It was all Iceland could do to stop the exasperation from seeping into his voice, and he wasn't successful at all. "What, do you think I haven't died before?"
There was a long, long pause that made it abundantly clear that actually, as a matter of fact, Norway had assumed just that.
"Have you?"
"Yeah." Iceland swallowed harshly, feeling like he had to explain himself. "I mean – not, um, violently. Not in battle or anything, not like you and Denmark. You know I never – but there were things that happened. Accidents. Storms..."
"The sea?"
"Yes." Pausing, Iceland wondered if he should say more, if he should explain. Then he felt Norway's hand over his own, and knew that he didn't have to. Norway, if anyone, knew what it was like to be swept from a boat by wind or waves, drowning in fierce water, or dashed to death on rocks. He didn't have to say anything.
There was a long moment of quiet. Iceland could hear Norway's breath, the deep sigh he took in as he understood all of this for the first time. "Never gave it any thought," Norway said after a while. "Should've known, mind you. Considering everything. I'm sorry."
"Well. It's not like – I mean," Iceland stumbled over his words, shifting to spoon closer to him as he tried to put his thoughts in order. "You were busy. And you have your own people to worry about. It's not like you could keep an eye on me all the time. And by the time I was old enough to work on fishing boats – like, physically old enough – I was Denmark's responsibility. You were with Sweden by then."
Silence. Iceland waited. Though he couldn't see it, he could picture the way Norway must be biting his lip, worrying it as he turned over the thought.
"Even so."
"It's fine," Iceland insisted. "There was nothing you could do. Or Denmark."
"And before then? The times that you died before then. There must have been."
Iceland shut his eyes tight. Sure, it was true; he'd starved to death more than once, and that hadn't been the only thing. But – "It doesn't matter," he said. He lifted his hand, seeking Norway's face, trying to stroke at his cheek, hoping that it might reassure him. "The point is, I've died before. I know that it hurts. And this would be different, anyway, because I'm agreeing to it. So, it doesn't matter if... I mean, I don't mind if..." He stumbled over his words, trying to think of the right way to put it. "I just – I really, really want to do this with you, brother."
It was a little underhanded to resort to that. Iceland had to admit, it was sneaky. Manipulative, even. They both knew that Norway couldn't resist when Iceland called him that; maybe because Iceland did it so rarely now, or because he had a thing for it. It didn't matter.
Iceland waited.
After a moment, Norway turned his head, brushing a kiss against Iceland's palm. "Ain't going to let go of this idea, are you," he murmured.
"No." Iceland took a deep breath. "I'm serious."
Norway was silent for a moment longer. Then he sighed, and turned toward Iceland, sliding his arms around him to pull him close. "Okay," he murmured. "We'll have to talk on it more, mind you. Set some things straight. But if that's how you feel, I reckon we can try it."
Iceland didn't say anything. Instead, he cupped Norway's face and kissed him, sinking his fingers into his hair. There was nothing he could say, anyway, so it was better not to try.
Norway's arms tightening their hold around him told him plainly enough that he understood how he felt. There was no need to say anything else at all.
When he woke, Iceland wondered if he should bring it up again, if he should say something. They could talk about it in the morning, when they rested together in bed, curled up next to each other. Or over breakfast. But none of it seemed quite right.
It wasn't exactly an easy topic to start talking about out of the blue. "So, when you said last night that you were okay with killing me and fucking my body, did you really mean that?"
There was no way in hell.
So, Iceland waited. They had breakfast together, watching the birds on the feeder again. "Good day for skiing," Norway murmured after he appraised the state of the weather report, and Iceland knew what that meant.
"Sounds good," he said, and took in the small smile that tugged at the corner of Norway's lips. He always looked so good when he was pleased.
A moment like that – even if he wanted so badly to have some answers, Iceland decided that he could be patient. Or at least try to be. He didn't want to ruin it.
As it turned out, that was a good decision.
Even at times like this, when Iceland was paying him a personal visit, Norway was the sort of person who could be really frustrating to be around. His moods were as quickly-changing as the weather, and one word could be enough to send him from content to contrary. And while Iceland was pretty good at reading him, Norway in good spirits wasn't necessarily without his annoying moments either. If Norway happened to get into one of his clingy, brotherly moods, the kind where he seemed to forget that Iceland was a fully grown independent nation and had been for quite a while now, thanks – well, there was nothing to be done about it.
But it seemed this wasn't going to be one of those days. He kissed Iceland's cheek before they stepped out of the house together, and after that moment, there was nothing to worry about. The good weather caught Norway's attention, and held it.
There were few things Norway liked better than skiing. And Iceland knew, though neither of them had ever said it, that for Norway, skiing with Iceland was best.
All through their time outside together, Iceland wondered over and over how to bring it up. Norway had agreed to it last night, but would he feel the same way now? Iceland couldn't be sure.
This wasn't anything like any of the previous things they'd done together. Their first time having sex together had been fumbly and rushed. A quick "Are you sure?" gasped against Iceland's mouth, which Iceland thought was frankly ridiculous, because at the time he was straddling Norway's lap and had his hand halfway down his trousers. Of course he was sure. And the other times – it had just been a matter of Iceland saying that he wanted to try something, and the two of them following through. Though there were always pauses, moments when Norway stopped, murmuring in his low, quiet way, to hold on for a minute, he'd show him how to do this safely.
This was different. This required planning. Or at least having a talk first. And though Iceland wanted it, he dreaded it too. A talk was always frustrating at the best of times, but when it came to something like this, it would be embarrassing too.
But he held back his questions, packed them away for a while. It was better to let Norway have his good mood. It wouldn't hurt anything.
He waited until they were done. Until they returned to Norway's house, exhausted and happy from a day outside together. When they were all settled in, and Iceland decided to make hot chocolate, just for something to do.
He hadn't counted on Norway lingering close, his arms coiling around Iceland's waist while Iceland heated the milk at the stove.
Iceland swallowed, letting his eyes flutter shut at the way it felt when Norway kissed his hair, breath fluttering much too close to his ear.
How could he say it?
"Um. Did you think any more about... you know. Tonight?" The awkwardness of the words made Iceland cringe. That hadn't come out half as cool as he had hoped it would.
But Norway didn't seem bothered. His hold around Iceland's waist tightened, giving him a gentle squeeze as if to reassure him that everything was fine. "Have you?" he asked.
Turning it around on him like that was a classic Norway tactic, and Iceland frowned in response to it. "Yeah," he admitted. "But that isn't what I was asking." Iceland thought for a moment. What would be the best way to ask him to talk about it? "Please tell me."
He almost expected Norway to refuse. But he didn't; instead he drew away, moving to lean against the counter, in Iceland's line of vision.
"I might have."
"Okay." That was better than nothing, but it wasn't enough. "So?"
"So."
They were both silent. Norway said nothing, and Iceland waited. His brother, Iceland noticed, didn't look tense, not like he had the previous night. He stood there with his arms folded over his chest, his hair mussed and in disarray from being stuffed under a hat all day. But he didn't say anything; just stared up at the ceiling, face quietly thoughtful, as if he might find an answer there.
"You don't have to say yes," Iceland said, dropping his gaze back to the pot full of hot chocolate, stirring it carefully so it wouldn't burn.
"Ought to be me saying that kind of thing."
Iceland wasn't sure whether to be annoyed by that or not. "It ain't – I mean, it isn't like I don't know a thing or two. You might be more experienced than me, but I'm capable of figuring out what I want, you know."
There was a long pause. "That's right," Norway said. "You are." There was a note in his voice that made it sound like he was admitting defeat.
Maybe, Iceland thought, if I just press a little more... "It's like the first time," he said, glancing out of the corner of his eye. "I knew that I wanted you. Even if that surprised you a little."
"That it did, didn't it." There was a smile on Norway's lips now. Little more than the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth, but it was there. He took two steps, closing the space between them with a soft kiss at his cheek. "Okay," he said softly.
"Okay?" Iceland nearly swallowed his tongue in surprise.
"Aye, that's right." Another soft, barely-there brush over Iceland's flushed cheek. "Long's you're sure about this."
"I am." A deep breath. "I gave it a lot of thought."
Not another word. Just a soft kiss to his hair. Then Norway drew away from him, and went to take two mugs from the cupboard, as if there was nothing more to say about it.
Iceland let out a long, slow breath. Though Norway hadn't outright said it, it was clear Iceland had won. He couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself.
The day seemed to crawl.
They curled up together on the sofa with their hot chocolate. Norway took up his knitting. They turned on the television, settled on a movie that they had seen before.
Iceland wondered if he was going to go insane from waiting.
It sure felt like it. Normally, he was pretty good with patience. But knowing that later that night, he would have an experience he'd been thinking about for what felt like ages – the anticipation was almost too much.
And it didn't help, either, that under normal circumstances, he might take things into his own hands. When they were all comfortable together like this, half the time Iceland couldn't stand it, and he'd end up kissing Norway until he'd surrender and let Iceland push him down onto the couch cushions, or he'd grasp Norway by the hand and pull him toward the bedroom.
But considering all their plans – no. If he tried that, he knew that Norway would give in, because he always did, but he also knew that there would be nothing later on if that happened.
So Iceland curled up close to Norway, and waited, and tried to be patient.
Supper was quiet, uneventful. Norway talked about trivial things while they cooked together, as if there was nothing special about that evening at all. Not one word about that all through the cooking, or the dinner itself, or the clean-up.
When Norway challenged him to checkers after supper, Iceland began to wonder if he was drawing it out in hope that he would change his mind. But he agreed, grateful that it was only checkers, and not chess. The chances that he could concentrate on anything more complicated were impossibly small at a time like this.
The way Norway's foot kept brushing against his under the table made it worse. Iceland bit at his lower lip and stared down at the board, like he was taking his time, trying to figure out a good strategy. But he was completely aware of the blush creeping over his cheeks and ears and throat, and the nonchalant smile Norway gave him from across the table didn't help at all.
"Got a lot on your mind?" Norway asked, tilting his head a bit as he made his move.
"Ack," was all Iceland could say, blushing scarlet as Norway's socked foot made contact again, sliding up his ankle. "No. I'm okay."
"That so."
The words made Iceland sweep his gaze up, meeting Norway's impenetrable stare. Even though he'd been on the receiving end of that look a million times, he thought he'd never get used to it, or get over it. Norway's eyes held him, waiting. But not judging.
"Yeah," Iceland said after a second. "I'm all right."
He must have sounded confident, or at least confident enough, as Norway nodded. "Fine, then," he said, then clicked his attention back to the board. "King me." And as he spoke, his foot moved up and up, sliding along Iceland's calf and up his thigh.
Iceland took in a shaking breath. This is ridiculous, he thought. "How about..."
"Hm?"
His mouth suddenly felt so dry. Iceland licked his lips. "How about we just, you know... Go to the bedroom instead?"
There was a pause.
Iceland waited.
"Still sure about that, are you." Norway's voice was soft, curious.
"Yes! I – Nor, please!" Not again, Iceland thought. Don't you dare make me explain myself again, not when I've already explained a hundred times. "I want this. I want to do this. With you." He tried to do what Norway had always been so good at; tried to grab his gaze, catch hold of him and keep him there.
For a moment, they stared at each other. It was as if Norway's eyes were boring deep into his skull. Iceland didn't dare look away, even though the pull to do it was so strong. He swallowed harshly, looking at him, thinking, 'Take me seriously. Please.'
Just when he was beginning to think he wouldn't be able to stand it any longer, Norway nodded. "Fine," he said softly. Then he looked away, dropping his gaze to the board. "If that's how you'll have it."
"It is. I mean, um..."
Without another word, Norway rose. Pushed his chair in as if nothing questionable was going on. Then he slipped around the table to offer his hand to Iceland.
Iceland took it. His heart felt tight in his chest as Norway leaned in to brush a kiss against his cheek. And when Norway dipped his head to murmur by Iceland's ear, his voice low and inviting as he said, "Come up to bed with me, then," it was all Iceland could do to keep himself from dying right then and there.
Or at least, that was what it felt like.
All he could do was let Norway take him to bed.
It wasn't any different from any other time. The clean sheets, the warm light from the bedside lamp. Norway kissed Iceland until he felt like he was going to collapse, and as soon as Norway had him stripped bare Iceland sank down onto the edge of the bed, feeling dizzy.
How the hell does he do that? Iceland thought.
It didn't matter. Norway's fingertips slipped under his chin, making him tilt his head up. Iceland swallowed, looking up at him, his lips parting slightly in an unspoken question.
Norway said nothing, and bent down to steal another soft, tender kiss.
As soon as the kiss broke Norway sank down onto the bed. "This ain't going to be easy, you know," he said as he slipped off his hairclip, letting the strands fall across his eyes.
"Oh?"
"Right. The body don't take too well to dying."
"Well, yeah, but –"
"It'll resist, even if you want this."
Iceland pressed his lips together. I know, he wanted to say. But he didn't say anything. Norway was right, and his words were earnest, and maybe the reason he was being so insistent about it had less to do with Iceland and more to do with Norway himself. Maybe.
Instead of speaking, Iceland nodded. He didn't say anything; just edged a little closer to Norway, and lifted a hand, and touched his cheek to make him look at him, make him turn toward him so he could kiss him. It was slow and deep and as reassuring as could be. At least, Iceland hoped it was. If only he was as good at appearing confident as Norway. If only he could give him those same feelings, make Norway understand, make him take Iceland seriously.
"Right," Norway murmured, his voice a breath against Iceland's lips. "All right, then." His hands came up, taking hold of Iceland. His head turned so he could brush his mouth to the inside of Iceland's wrist, making him suck in a breath.
Norway's eyes were dark and warm.
Then he drew Iceland close, and gently guided him down.
Over the years, Iceland had become used to the feeling of the fabric around his wrists, the sturdy cloth that bound him to the headboard. He liked the way it felt to be sprawled open, held there for Norway, offering himself to his eyes and hands and mouth and body. It was strange to think that when they'd first talked about it, he'd been unsure about the idea.
As soon as he understood that it meant resting back and enjoying it all while Norway spoiled him, he felt differently.
Iceland closed his eyes and slid his tongue over his lips. Norway's mouth was at his throat, his collarbones, grazing damp lips over his clavicle. He'd stripped and his body was warm between Iceland's thighs, his cock firm and grazing against Iceland's own hardness, flushed and untouched and aching for Norway's hands.
Part of their plans involved something they'd done before. Sort of. Partly. "Playing rough," Norway had called it. Maybe that wasn't a bad description for it. Norway's hand at his throat, pressing down just so. Or his hand over his mouth, leaning over to whisper to Iceland from behind, while he pinched his nostrils shut and held him until he felt heady – then releasing, mercifully, leaving him gasping for air. They'd done that before.
This was different.
Slowly, Norway's hand came up, stroking at Iceland's throat. Fingertips against his pulse. Lips at his jaw, tender, hesitant. "So."
"Please...?" Iceland's voice was little more than a breath. "Nor, please."
Above him, Norway sighed. Iceland felt him rocking against him, unable to stop that slight jerk of his hips at the sound of that begging.
He lifted his hips, grinding as slowly and surely as he could.
"Please," Iceland repeated, wondering if he sounded as desperate as he felt. It didn't really matter, because Norway groaned and kissed him, and then drew away. He heard him sigh, and with that, Iceland knew he'd get what he wanted.
Feeling dazed already, Iceland cracked his eyes open to look up at his brother.
Norway had straddled him, strong thighs on either side of his hips. There was a flush across his cheeks and his mouth was reddened from kissing. Strands of hair fell in his eyes, but from where Iceland was he could see his face, could see more than enough to know the brightness of his eyes, that strange flash in them.
Neither of them needed to say anything. Iceland nodded – only once – and tilted his head back, baring his throat for him.
In a second Norway's hands were at his throat and over his mouth and nose, obscuring his breathing with a pinch. At first, it was nothing much, then –
Pressure at his throat and burning in his lungs. He tried to breathe, but couldn't. Norway's hands were strong, stronger than anyone would ever expect, and as Iceland struggled to breathe he heard himself whimper, the sound muffled and desperate..
It was – he couldn't – he couldn't breathe. He moved, struggling instinctively to turn his head, to escape Norway's grip, but his brother held him there, strong and firm and immovable as a rock. Iceland's eyes were wide, his thoughts fogged, and all he could hear was the sound of his own muffled attempts at gasping, and Norway's voice, firm but soothing, a soft assurance even if he couldn't understand the words in his dazed state.
There was something attractive about those words, something that went straight to his cock. Even as he struggled, he bucked up, whining as he didn't get the friction he craved.
He ached, he ached, but as his vision clouded he couldn't help but think that it wasn't all that different, really, that there wasn't a lot of difference between that heavy feeling and the sensation of orgasm, and –
His thoughts trailed, then ceased.
Haze and emptiness. Darkness. Nothing.
Eventually, he emerged from that. His limbs were heavy, sluggish. Even his eyelids wouldn't move. He knew this feeling.
He was aware of something above him. Someone. Hot breath scattering over his throat. Panting. The bed groaning beneath the movement. Something hard and slick pressed between his thighs.
Oh.
Iceland parted his lips. Cracked his eyes open. Nothing visible. Indistinct shapes, shadows, the warm glow from something. The bedside lamp.
Heavy breathing. Dampness against his neck. A soft moan. And the constant rocking, grinding against him, thrusting against his body.
He moved his lips. Tried to speak. The word came out barely more than a breath. "Nor?"
The thrusting slowed. Stopped. He heard a groan, then felt a sloppy, slick kiss against his neck.
"Ice? What..."
"I..."
"Shhh..." Low, throaty voice by his ear. "Shh. Stop breathing. I'm almost there."
Norway, husky, panting. His head buried against Iceland's shoulder, his cock between Iceland's thighs. Iceland opened his mouth to speak again, gradually becoming more aware, more cognizant of what was happening.
Then Norway moved. His hands moved. From the mattress, from Iceland's hair, to his nose and throat. And they grasped him and held him and his lungs burned and Iceland's eyes fell shut and the blackness came again.
He felt heavy and warm.
Iceland rested in the darkness behind his eyelids. After a while, he became aware of the presence of the blanket draped over him. The fact that his wrists were free, even though they hadn't been when he – when they –
Okay.
He breathed. In, out. Again. Then slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes.
"Welcome back."
Iceland turned his head a little. His body felt heavy and thick and slow. Norway was sitting up, a paperback novel in one hand, thumb marking the place where he'd stopped reading. The bedside lamp washed golden light over his hair and shoulders. Eyes too dark to be readable, but his expression was quiet and gentle.
He stared at his brother for a moment, unable to speak. Then he wet his lips, and tried again. "Hi."
Norway dipped his head. Brushed a kiss over Iceland's hair. "You all right?" he murmured.
"Mm." Iceland closed his eyes. Managed a stiff nod. "Yeah. I, um. Yes."
"I see." A long pause. "Are you able to move yet?"
"I'm not sure."
"Try wiggling your toes. And your fingers. Can you do that?"
Iceland closed his eyes. Tried. He was able to do it. He felt tired and heavy from head to foot, but he could do it. "Yes." It would be a while, he knew, before he could move properly again.
"Okay."
He heard Norway moving. Setting his book on the table. Drawing the blankets up, slithering deep under them to curl close and slide an arm around Iceland. But he didn't turn out the light, and Iceland was grateful for that. There had been too much dark already.
"Sorry about that." Norway's voice was soft. His fingers slipped through Iceland's hair, gentle, slow.
"For what?"
"I..." Groping for the words. "Didn't do a proper job of it. You weren't supposed to come back in the middle of it like that, understand."
"Oh."
"Ought to have planned proper. Made sure I did it right. I'm sorry."
"Stop." Iceland turned his head to nuzzle against him, sighing. "Don't do that, okay? I'm not mad, and it didn't scare me or anything."
"No?"
"No."
The word seemed to reassure Norway. Nestling close, he rested against Iceland, his firm, warm presence comforting.
"It was..." Iceland thought back to it, trying to figure out the right way to describe it. The memory of Norway's voice surfaced, lingering, the notes soft and low and husky and desperate. "You sounded really hot," he said finally, unable to put it any other way.
"That so."
"...Yeah."
Norway's lips on his mouth were gentle, the kiss soft and heartfelt. Iceland raised a shaking hand to touch his face, holding there, drawing it out as long as he could.
There were things he wanted to ask. The questions were on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know what Norway had thought of it all. Whether he'd enjoyed that vulnerability. Whether he liked being able to do anything to Iceland, absolutely anything. Everything.
But maybe it would be best to save that for later. They could talk about it later.
It hadn't gone perfectly. Sure, it hadn't. But as he nestled into Norway's arms, all he could think was that those details didn't matter at all.
They both had what they wanted.