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Entry tags:
Sugar Rose [Denmark, Iceland, Norway]
Title: Sugar Rose
Characters/Pairing: Denmark, Iceland, Norway
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: ~4000
Summary: Iceland visits Denmark. While they wait for Norway to arrive, Iceland learns a thing or two about cake - and other things.
Other: Written for the Nordipalooza fest. (Original entry).
Sugar Rose
Iceland sat in a pool of sunlight at Denmark's kitchen table and watched as he set to frosting the cake.
He had visited the previous day and stayed overnight. The trip had been Denmark's idea. "Been a while since I last seen ya', Ice!" Denmark said, his voice on the other end of the telephone line coming in loud and cheerful as always. "Should catch up a little, don't ya' think?" At first, Iceland had wanted to refuse; ordinarily, there were plenty of nations that he would rather spend time with than Denmark, or so he told himself. He declined, stating that he was much too busy (of course he was too busy) and he wouldn't be able to work him into his schedule. Much to his relief, Denmark accepted that answer, though not without badly-hidden disappointment.
As soon as Iceland hung up the phone, he found himself reconsidering. A weekend at Denmark's place would mean a weekend of Denmark's company, which was a downside, but it would also mean a weekend of Denmark's cooking - which he was more than capable at - and if they happened to go out, knowing his host, it would be at Denmark's expense. Then there was the matter of Denmark himself. The disappointment in his voice had been very badly-hidden indeed, and even if it hadn't been a guilt-trip, it worked as one just as well.
In the end, Iceland gave in and called him up again, feeding him some excuse about looking at his schedule again and realizing that it was the week after that he wouldn't have any time, not the week that Denmark had said he had free. Just for a few days, Iceland emphasized, not wanting him to get the wrong idea - though it seemed like Denmark barely heard it, anyway, what with how eager he was to talk over him about how he was going to make plans for this and just wait, Ice, it'll be great, you'll see.
Just as he expected, when he arrived, Denmark greeted him with an arm around his shoulders and more volume than was strictly necessary, and then proceeded to spend the rest of the day - and the night - talking his ear off. But obnoxious though his host was, Iceland had to admit that he didn't mind, not so much. It's good to get out of your house once in a while, he told himself. If worst comes to worst, you can talk international relations.
One thing that could be said in Denmark’s favour was that he was nothing if not hospitable. At Denmark's apartment, one could be sure that the coffee pot would be full, that the fridge would be open for raiding, and that all the little comforts that Denmark knew his family liked would be attended to. Iceland knew without even having to look that there would be cans of Coca Cola next to the beer lining the side of the fridge door, and that there would be a bag of licorice waiting for him in the pantry, and that the sheets would be all washed and ready to be put on the spare bed, which was very comfortable, even if it was just a sofa bed. When it came to Denmark, at least these days, this was what Iceland could expect. With all that, it wasn't all that hard to put up with him, even if it meant dealing with his chatter, and the questions of what're you up to lately, how're you doing, have ya' heard from that guy, what's his name, and--
Blah, blah, blah.
Then there was the matter of the cake.
Iceland woke the morning after his arrival to the sound of Denmark whistling. He rolled over on the sofa bed, grabbed the extra pillow, and tried to block his ears with it. No good. Denmark was as loud as ever. Iceland groaned, endured it for a few minutes more, then gave up. Peeking out from beneath the pillow and glancing up at the living room clock confirmed his suspicions, anyway: it was too late in the morning to bother trying to go back to sleep, to say nothing of the sunlight coming in through the open window. No matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't manage it.
When he finally padded over to the small kitchen to get breakfast he found Denmark busy pulling a set of mixing bowls out of the cupboard, humming a jaunty tune as he set them aside on the narrow counter, looking much too cheerful and much too awake. "Mornin', Ice!" he said, glancing at him and offering a sunny grin. "Sit down. I'll get ya' some coffee."
Rubbing his eyes, Iceland sank down to sit at the kitchen table, and peered over at Denmark, just awake enough to be curious. It had to be breakfast, he assumed. It couldn't be anything else. "Pancakes?" he mumbled.
"Ain't pancakes. 'S cake," Denmark said with a laugh. "Don't ya' remember? Told ya' last night. Nor's visiting today."
Iceland pulled a face, mumbled a 'thank you' as Denmark set a mug of coffee and a plate of toast in front of him, and buried his attention in his drink so that he wouldn't have to risk Denmark trying to get him to talk about why he looked disappointed about having to see his older brother. Fortunately for him, Denmark turned back to the counter, whistling again as he resumed searching for the ingredients, his mind obviously on other things.
Denmark had mentioned it the night before. It came back to Iceland slowly as he nibbled at his breakfast. At the time, Iceland groaned and asked him why, but he had only responded with, "Huh? 'S nice to have family together, isn't it?" And at that Iceland had held his tongue. He knew that Denmark wouldn't pay one bit of attention to what he had to say about it. They'd been through it all before, anyway. Criticizing everything, picking things apart, hardly ever giving one tiny bit of approval. That was Norway.
Still. It had been a while since the three of them had last been together; they hadn't seen each other since Christmas. Even if being stuck with Denmark was bad enough, and Norway was even worse, maybe, if Iceland was lucky, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he wouldn't end up regretting the guilt that made him accept Denmark's invitation to spend the weekend in Copenhagen.
He ate breakfast while Denmark baked and paid no mind to the chatter about all the fun they were going to have together, letting it go in one ear and out the other, making acknowledging and faux-interested noises when necessary. Mostly he just let him talk, which wasn't difficult at all; Denmark talked enough for two people, and if Iceland didn't bother to fill up the spaces in between Denmark's prattling, then Denmark would do it himself. When breakfast was finished, Iceland left Denmark tending to the cake in the kitchen, and retreated into the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed. If Norway was going to be visiting, Iceland wasn't about to spend the entire day in his pyjamas. He knew from experience that his nitpicky elder brother would find that worthy of criticism.
Later, as the afternoon edged closer and the sun warmed the spot beneath the kitchen window, Iceland found himself at the table again, a cup of coffee close at hand. The apartment was filled with the scent of the cake, lingering even hours after it had been taken from the oven and set to cool down on the countertop, and the sound of Denmark's cheerful humming bounced through the air as he set to frosting it. Vanilla with cream frosting, carefully applied, going about it with a grin on his face, apron dusted with flour and icing sugar, looking as if there wasn't a single thing in the world that he would rather be doing.
"Isn't it kind've..."
"Huh?"
Iceland felt his cheeks heat a little when Denmark turned to him. He ignored the dopey, confused expression that was tossed his way, and looked out the window instead. Play it cool, Iceland thought. Right. "Isn't it a little much? It isn't like this is a special occasion or anything."
There was a second or two of silence. Iceland guessed that the hamster wheel in Denmark's head was turning. Then Denmark laughed, and Iceland glanced at him again, unable to stop himself from looking confused.
Denmark had turned back to the cake and continued putting on the frosting, shaking his head. "Doesn't have to be a special occasion to show someone you like 'em, you know."
"But spending all morning making a fancy cake for nothing...?" Iceland watched him, unsure what to think.
Denmark didn't answer at first. His brows knit with concentration, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he took a moment to finish frosting along the edges, making them crisp and clean. Finally he drew back, looked the cake over, and smiled. "It ain't for nothing when you're doin' it for yer best buddy, Ice."
Iceland rolled his eyes. "Nor probably won't even thank you for it."
"Doesn't matter! It'll make him happy. You know he likes sweets."
From the sound of it, Denmark wasn't about to take any further argument. Iceland turned back to the window, sipped his coffee, and stared out at the street, watching the people passing by in the spring sunlight. In the background, Denmark started humming again, accompanied by the clink of mixing bowls and utensils as he cleared the counters.
After a while, Denmark spoke again, breaking the comfortable not-quite-silence. "Goin' to need your help here in a bit, Ice."
Unsure whether he should be worried or not, Iceland looked over at the kitchen. "With what?" God forbid Denmark drag him into something like this.
Denmark glanced at him for only a moment, smiled, then raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't think I was done, did ya'?" Then he turned his eyes back to what he was doing: Kneading edible colouring into a ball of confection.
Marzipan, Iceland was sure of it. The scent of almond paste was unmistakable. He set down his mug and watched him work, interested in spite of himself. Denmark's large hands seemed strangely elegant in their steady, purposeful movements, sweeping and pressing the paste until it was a soft, even rose colour. "I did," Iceland admitted. "I mean, I thought you were done."
"'Cause today ain't special, right?"
Iceland felt his ears heating and he looked away, chewing his lower lip. It wasn't fair, he thought, for Denmark to throw his words back at him. Not fair at all. "Yeah."
"Right! But like I said, don't always need a reason to make it special. So, how're you at makin' flowers?"
"Uh...."
"I really do need a hand here, y'know."
Denmark might not have been the sort to order people around these days, but Iceland knew a nudge when he heard one. He took one last sip of his coffee then rose, stepping into the kitchen to take a place beside Denmark at the counter. "I don't really make stuff like this," he confessed as he watched Denmark roll the marzipan out on the counter. "Like, not often. I can do it, but I don't..." Iceland trailed off and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else. It was one thing to admit to not being much of a baker, but if he kept talking he might flat-out state that he couldn't, or even worse, admit that he was terrible at the whole baking thing, and that would just be embarrassing.
If Denmark guessed at what Iceland had meant, he gave no sign of it. "That's all right," he said, setting the rolling pin aside and offering him a bright smile. "This stuff's easy. Nothin' to it. I'll make one to start, 'n then you'll know how it's done. See, it's like this..."
It really was quite simple; nothing more than a matter of cutting out the shapes and rolling them together, really. Iceland's eyes flickered, watching Denmark's large hands move, paying attention to the way he pressed the edges to make them thinner, then rolling them together in a cone form, until finally it looked like a perfect pink rose.
"Now, y'see," Denmark said as he carefully drew the petals back, making the flower look fuller, "Don't know if you ever noticed, but Nor really likes eating these cake flowers. Says the shape makes 'em taste better than regular frosting."
"I don't...," Iceland began, then stopped. Maybe Norway hadn't ever said it, but more than once he had seen him set them aside to nibble at them last, looking almost pleased, which was more than could be said for how Norway usually looked. "Yeah. I know."
"Yeah. But only marzipan ones. Or pulled sugar. He ain't big on piped frosting. And he likes 'em best when they're real small." Denmark lifted his gaze to Iceland, and grinned. "That's where you come in."
Iceland shook his head. "I don't get it. That one's fine."
Denmark nodded. "'Course it is." He set it on the counter and looked at it. "But I can't make 'em any smaller than that. My hands're too big, 'n not so good for the fiddly stuff." As if to emphasize his point, he turned and took Iceland's hand, pressing their palms together. "Y'see?"
It was impossible for Iceland not to see what he meant. Denmark's hand was huge, broad-palmed, the fingers long and thick and blunt. Compared to that, Iceland's own looked almost childish - No, Iceland thought. Not childish. Elegant. That's it. That's right. If he repeated the word to himself firmly enough, maybe he would believe it.
"I see."
"Right. So, will ya' lend me yer hands, Ice?"
Iceland hesitated. He almost wanted to say that he wouldn't do it. After all, it was for Norway, and ordinary he wouldn't go out of his way to do anything for him - and the same could be said about Norway doing anything for him. On the other hand - Iceland glanced at the marzipan rose, thinking quickly - it was a chance to prove he could do something just as good as Denmark. No, not only just as good. Better. His lips twisted into something almost like a smile. Fine. He would.
They worked side by side in the bright kitchen, Iceland quietly cutting and pressing together the flowers, while Denmark hummed and kneaded more marzipan to make leaves and chattered about the fine arts of making cakes - which Iceland actually listened to in spite of himself. Though at first working with the marzipan was not as easy as Denmark had made it look, Iceland quickly got the hang of it, and soon he was making them as small and fine as he could. Eventually he realized just how forgiving the paste was, and began to get more daring with it, gently making the impressions of veins in the petals using a blunt edge. If I make a mistake, Iceland told himself, I can just roll it out again. Somehow, knowing this made him feel more confident about it.
All the while, Denmark talked, and Iceland let him. "Always liked the look of caramelized sugar, y'know, but this stuff’s easier to work with, an'-" There wasn't any need to interrupt, and for once, it didn't dissolve into an endless stream of "Blah blah blah". Iceland listened.
Finally, the talk died down, and Iceland found himself speaking. "Why're you always going to so much trouble for him these days?"
"Huh?"
Iceland clamped down and bit his lip. The question had slipped out without any real thought to it, and even if he had thought of it more than once, it wasn't really any of his business. But even if he wasn't looking at Denmark, he could feel Denmark staring at him. He took a deep breath, cut another petal, and tried to think of the right thing to say. "Norway. He's always calling you an idiot and stuff, and-"
"Heh! Yeah, that Nor says the darndest things, don't he."
"I mean he acts like he doesn't even like you."
"Oh, I don't know about that. He don’t have to talk to me outside’ve stuff havin’ to do with relations, but he still does. Reckon if he didn't want me around, he wouldn't talk to me at all."
Iceland glanced over at Denmark. He hadn't paused at all; instead he remained with his head bent over his work, carefully cutting edges in a leaf. There was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips - not the usual grin, but something smaller, more subtle, and Iceland couldn't put his finger on just what it was. Affection, maybe.
"I guess," he admitted. "But if he thinks you're okay, he has a weird way of showing it."
"Well, he's a pretty weird guy, Ice," Denmark murmured absentmindedly. And Iceland certainly couldn't argue with that.
Finally, they were finished. Denmark persuaded Iceland to do the arranging, citing his hands again as an excuse: "You're better with movin' fiddly things around. Wouldn't want me to get 'em squished, y'know?" Regardless of whether that was the reason or not, Iceland wasn't about to argue, especially not when he noticed the appraising way Denmark looked at his flowers. Any opportunity to do something better than someone in his family was an opportunity that Iceland would take.
They had barely begun cleaning up the kitchen when Denmark's phone rang. Iceland listened to him while he ran the water in the sink. With how loud Denmark's voice was, it didn't take much to "listen in", and he pitied whoever was on the other end of the line.
"Nor! Good t'hear from ya'!"
Iceland immediately retracted his pity. Norway could deal with Denmark's volume. He turned off the sink and set to washing, keeping an ear tuned to the conversation. For a moment he hoped that Norway couldn't make it. Cake or no cake, he would rather have a weekend without his scowling elder brother criticizing his every move.
"Someone let you into the building? I see! Well, c'mon, then. Door ain't locked. I'll put on the coffee for you."
Maybe, Iceland thought as he scrubbed out the mixing bowl, it was better not to hope for things. He bit his lip and tried to set his expression neutral when Denmark slipped into the kitchen again to put on the coffee, his eyes bright as he flipped his cell phone shut and said that it'd been Norway calling.
"Yeah, I heard," Iceland mumbled. He could feel Denmark looking at him, but pretended not to notice. It wouldn't do to have questions about it. He held his breath until it seemed Denmark had given up on questioning him, and when Denmark turned to tend to the coffee pot, he knew that there wouldn't be any awkwardness. He stepped aside to give him room to fill it from the tap, and breathed easy.
Then the apartment door opened.
Denmark pushed Iceland out of the way and dashed toward the entranceway like an eager puppy. Iceland heard his cheerful greeting, followed closely by a burst of "Put me down, ya' knucklehead!"
Norway had arrived.
Iceland pursed his lips, thought for half a second about hanging back in the kitchen, then decided otherwise. It would be better to at least make an effort to be friendly. He grabbed a teatowel, set to drying his hands, and cautiously stepped out of the kitchen to peer over at the enteranceway.
Denmark had swept Norway up in a bear hug, drawing him right off the floor, much to Norway's annoyance. He squirmed in the hold, protesting, flinging insults at Denmark: "You got rocks for brains or summat? I said let go!" To that, Denmark only laughed and hoisted him up higher, giving Norway cause to wrap his arms around his shoulders and cling for dear life. Neither of them seemed to notice Iceland.
Iceland stared at them. He knew that Norway could wiggle out of Denmark's arms if he really wanted to. Why he would opt for yelling at him instead was beyond him. Then he noticed - even with all Norway's cursing, there wasn't any real sharpness in it, and between all of Norway's squirming and yelling and pulling on Denmark's hair, he was biting his lip as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. Suddenly, Iceland remembered what Denmark had said. Reckon if he didn't want me around, he wouldn't talk to me at all.
Eventually, Denmark gave in to Norway's protests and put him down. "Dumber than a sack've wet mice," Norway muttered as he adjusted his hair, sweeping it back from where it had fallen out of place and setting it properly with the clip. "Didn't even give time to take off my shoes afore you went 'n started with -" He stopped, realizing that Denmark wasn't the only one who had appeared to greet him. "Hello, Iceland."
Play it cool, Iceland thought. He put on his best casual, completely nonchalant expression. "Hi, Nor. Coffee's ready." He didn't realize he had been twisting the tea towel in his hands until he finished speaking.
"That so." Norway gave him barely even a glance as he slipped off his coat to hand to Denmark.
"And cake," Denmark said, beaming as he hung up Norway's coat. "Y'know, I was thinkin' it was about time I tried summat new with the flavouring, see, an'-"
Blah, blah, blah. Norway and Iceland looked at each other, and duly ignored Denmark.
"Cake, y'say," Norway asked, even though Iceland hadn't. "We'll see about that."
Before Iceland could think of a witty reply, Norway was nudging him to the kitchen, with Denmark following directly behind them, chattering all the way.
It wasn't long before they were all seated at the table together, taking coffee by the sunny window, the slices of cake on their plates in a constant state of reduction. Iceland answered all of Norway's questions about how he was faring and what he had been up to lately, putting on his best attempt at a bland, cool expression on his face and trying hard not to look relieved whenever Denmark interrupted either of them.
Eventually, the both of them just gave up and let Denmark blather on, Iceland making the occasional noncommittal sound to show that he was pretending to listen while Norway fell silent in favour of attending to his cake. In spite of his efforts to look elsewhere, Iceland's gaze kept falling to his brother, who had carefully slipped the marzipan flowers off of the top of his cake and set them on the edge of his plate. When the cake had been thoroughly demolished, he gingerly picked up one of the flowers and gave it a long, critical look before carefully nibbling at the petals.
Iceland looked away from his brother and tried to at least appear interested in what Denmark was telling him about the last time he had gone biking with Netherlands and how the both of them had ended up in a canal. Even with the way Norway had been scrutinizing the sweet, that had been approval that Iceland had seen on his face, hadn't it? Maybe he had just been imagining it. It was always hard to tell with Norway.
"Denmark. Own up. Who was it."
"An' -- Huh?" Denmark looked over at Norway, a baffled expression crossing his face. "What d'you mean?"
"Don't go foolin' me. I know you didn't make these flowers." Norway held one up, stared at it, then gave Denmark an accusatory look. Iceland squirmed in his seat and ducked his head, wondering if he should make some excuse to leave the room before the criticism started. But before Iceland could move, and before Denmark could protest, Norway continued. "Yours never look this good. So, who was it. Did y'have Belgium over here helpin' you again?"
"'Course not! It was Ice this time," Denmark said, laughing as he gave Iceland a heavy pat on the back. Startled, Iceland abandoned all thought of escape and looked up, wide-eyed, only to be greeted with the sight of Norway right across the table from him, staring him down, serious and blank-faced.
"'S that right, Iceland?"
Iceland nodded. "I, uh... Yeah. I did," he muttered. "It was easy."He could feel his ears turning red as he spoke. Even though he was used to Norway's stare, there was something unsettling about it; Norway was very good at making someone feel very small without saying anything.
Norway's eyes swept from Iceland to the marzipan flower, scrutinized it for a second while Iceland fidgeted and prepared for criticism, then glanced back to him. "'Looks good," he said, then popped it into his mouth without another word.
It didn't sound like much of a commendation, but as Denmark grinned and ruffled his hair and said something about, "Wouldn't ya' know it! Looks like I'll have to call ya' over next time I need a hand," Iceland found that he didn't mind. Two words of favour from Norway were like high praise from anyone else. Maybe, Iceland thought, putting his hair back in place after Denmark's ruffling, there really would be a 'next time'.
As he looked across the table and saw the smile tugging at the corner of his brother's lips, Iceland decided that it wasn't such a bad idea to accept Denmark's initiation that weekend.
It wasn't a bad idea at all.
The End
Characters/Pairing: Denmark, Iceland, Norway
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: ~4000
Summary: Iceland visits Denmark. While they wait for Norway to arrive, Iceland learns a thing or two about cake - and other things.
Other: Written for the Nordipalooza fest. (Original entry).
Sugar Rose
Iceland sat in a pool of sunlight at Denmark's kitchen table and watched as he set to frosting the cake.
He had visited the previous day and stayed overnight. The trip had been Denmark's idea. "Been a while since I last seen ya', Ice!" Denmark said, his voice on the other end of the telephone line coming in loud and cheerful as always. "Should catch up a little, don't ya' think?" At first, Iceland had wanted to refuse; ordinarily, there were plenty of nations that he would rather spend time with than Denmark, or so he told himself. He declined, stating that he was much too busy (of course he was too busy) and he wouldn't be able to work him into his schedule. Much to his relief, Denmark accepted that answer, though not without badly-hidden disappointment.
As soon as Iceland hung up the phone, he found himself reconsidering. A weekend at Denmark's place would mean a weekend of Denmark's company, which was a downside, but it would also mean a weekend of Denmark's cooking - which he was more than capable at - and if they happened to go out, knowing his host, it would be at Denmark's expense. Then there was the matter of Denmark himself. The disappointment in his voice had been very badly-hidden indeed, and even if it hadn't been a guilt-trip, it worked as one just as well.
In the end, Iceland gave in and called him up again, feeding him some excuse about looking at his schedule again and realizing that it was the week after that he wouldn't have any time, not the week that Denmark had said he had free. Just for a few days, Iceland emphasized, not wanting him to get the wrong idea - though it seemed like Denmark barely heard it, anyway, what with how eager he was to talk over him about how he was going to make plans for this and just wait, Ice, it'll be great, you'll see.
Just as he expected, when he arrived, Denmark greeted him with an arm around his shoulders and more volume than was strictly necessary, and then proceeded to spend the rest of the day - and the night - talking his ear off. But obnoxious though his host was, Iceland had to admit that he didn't mind, not so much. It's good to get out of your house once in a while, he told himself. If worst comes to worst, you can talk international relations.
One thing that could be said in Denmark’s favour was that he was nothing if not hospitable. At Denmark's apartment, one could be sure that the coffee pot would be full, that the fridge would be open for raiding, and that all the little comforts that Denmark knew his family liked would be attended to. Iceland knew without even having to look that there would be cans of Coca Cola next to the beer lining the side of the fridge door, and that there would be a bag of licorice waiting for him in the pantry, and that the sheets would be all washed and ready to be put on the spare bed, which was very comfortable, even if it was just a sofa bed. When it came to Denmark, at least these days, this was what Iceland could expect. With all that, it wasn't all that hard to put up with him, even if it meant dealing with his chatter, and the questions of what're you up to lately, how're you doing, have ya' heard from that guy, what's his name, and--
Blah, blah, blah.
Then there was the matter of the cake.
Iceland woke the morning after his arrival to the sound of Denmark whistling. He rolled over on the sofa bed, grabbed the extra pillow, and tried to block his ears with it. No good. Denmark was as loud as ever. Iceland groaned, endured it for a few minutes more, then gave up. Peeking out from beneath the pillow and glancing up at the living room clock confirmed his suspicions, anyway: it was too late in the morning to bother trying to go back to sleep, to say nothing of the sunlight coming in through the open window. No matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't manage it.
When he finally padded over to the small kitchen to get breakfast he found Denmark busy pulling a set of mixing bowls out of the cupboard, humming a jaunty tune as he set them aside on the narrow counter, looking much too cheerful and much too awake. "Mornin', Ice!" he said, glancing at him and offering a sunny grin. "Sit down. I'll get ya' some coffee."
Rubbing his eyes, Iceland sank down to sit at the kitchen table, and peered over at Denmark, just awake enough to be curious. It had to be breakfast, he assumed. It couldn't be anything else. "Pancakes?" he mumbled.
"Ain't pancakes. 'S cake," Denmark said with a laugh. "Don't ya' remember? Told ya' last night. Nor's visiting today."
Iceland pulled a face, mumbled a 'thank you' as Denmark set a mug of coffee and a plate of toast in front of him, and buried his attention in his drink so that he wouldn't have to risk Denmark trying to get him to talk about why he looked disappointed about having to see his older brother. Fortunately for him, Denmark turned back to the counter, whistling again as he resumed searching for the ingredients, his mind obviously on other things.
Denmark had mentioned it the night before. It came back to Iceland slowly as he nibbled at his breakfast. At the time, Iceland groaned and asked him why, but he had only responded with, "Huh? 'S nice to have family together, isn't it?" And at that Iceland had held his tongue. He knew that Denmark wouldn't pay one bit of attention to what he had to say about it. They'd been through it all before, anyway. Criticizing everything, picking things apart, hardly ever giving one tiny bit of approval. That was Norway.
Still. It had been a while since the three of them had last been together; they hadn't seen each other since Christmas. Even if being stuck with Denmark was bad enough, and Norway was even worse, maybe, if Iceland was lucky, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he wouldn't end up regretting the guilt that made him accept Denmark's invitation to spend the weekend in Copenhagen.
He ate breakfast while Denmark baked and paid no mind to the chatter about all the fun they were going to have together, letting it go in one ear and out the other, making acknowledging and faux-interested noises when necessary. Mostly he just let him talk, which wasn't difficult at all; Denmark talked enough for two people, and if Iceland didn't bother to fill up the spaces in between Denmark's prattling, then Denmark would do it himself. When breakfast was finished, Iceland left Denmark tending to the cake in the kitchen, and retreated into the bathroom to get cleaned up and dressed. If Norway was going to be visiting, Iceland wasn't about to spend the entire day in his pyjamas. He knew from experience that his nitpicky elder brother would find that worthy of criticism.
Later, as the afternoon edged closer and the sun warmed the spot beneath the kitchen window, Iceland found himself at the table again, a cup of coffee close at hand. The apartment was filled with the scent of the cake, lingering even hours after it had been taken from the oven and set to cool down on the countertop, and the sound of Denmark's cheerful humming bounced through the air as he set to frosting it. Vanilla with cream frosting, carefully applied, going about it with a grin on his face, apron dusted with flour and icing sugar, looking as if there wasn't a single thing in the world that he would rather be doing.
"Isn't it kind've..."
"Huh?"
Iceland felt his cheeks heat a little when Denmark turned to him. He ignored the dopey, confused expression that was tossed his way, and looked out the window instead. Play it cool, Iceland thought. Right. "Isn't it a little much? It isn't like this is a special occasion or anything."
There was a second or two of silence. Iceland guessed that the hamster wheel in Denmark's head was turning. Then Denmark laughed, and Iceland glanced at him again, unable to stop himself from looking confused.
Denmark had turned back to the cake and continued putting on the frosting, shaking his head. "Doesn't have to be a special occasion to show someone you like 'em, you know."
"But spending all morning making a fancy cake for nothing...?" Iceland watched him, unsure what to think.
Denmark didn't answer at first. His brows knit with concentration, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he took a moment to finish frosting along the edges, making them crisp and clean. Finally he drew back, looked the cake over, and smiled. "It ain't for nothing when you're doin' it for yer best buddy, Ice."
Iceland rolled his eyes. "Nor probably won't even thank you for it."
"Doesn't matter! It'll make him happy. You know he likes sweets."
From the sound of it, Denmark wasn't about to take any further argument. Iceland turned back to the window, sipped his coffee, and stared out at the street, watching the people passing by in the spring sunlight. In the background, Denmark started humming again, accompanied by the clink of mixing bowls and utensils as he cleared the counters.
After a while, Denmark spoke again, breaking the comfortable not-quite-silence. "Goin' to need your help here in a bit, Ice."
Unsure whether he should be worried or not, Iceland looked over at the kitchen. "With what?" God forbid Denmark drag him into something like this.
Denmark glanced at him for only a moment, smiled, then raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't think I was done, did ya'?" Then he turned his eyes back to what he was doing: Kneading edible colouring into a ball of confection.
Marzipan, Iceland was sure of it. The scent of almond paste was unmistakable. He set down his mug and watched him work, interested in spite of himself. Denmark's large hands seemed strangely elegant in their steady, purposeful movements, sweeping and pressing the paste until it was a soft, even rose colour. "I did," Iceland admitted. "I mean, I thought you were done."
"'Cause today ain't special, right?"
Iceland felt his ears heating and he looked away, chewing his lower lip. It wasn't fair, he thought, for Denmark to throw his words back at him. Not fair at all. "Yeah."
"Right! But like I said, don't always need a reason to make it special. So, how're you at makin' flowers?"
"Uh...."
"I really do need a hand here, y'know."
Denmark might not have been the sort to order people around these days, but Iceland knew a nudge when he heard one. He took one last sip of his coffee then rose, stepping into the kitchen to take a place beside Denmark at the counter. "I don't really make stuff like this," he confessed as he watched Denmark roll the marzipan out on the counter. "Like, not often. I can do it, but I don't..." Iceland trailed off and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else. It was one thing to admit to not being much of a baker, but if he kept talking he might flat-out state that he couldn't, or even worse, admit that he was terrible at the whole baking thing, and that would just be embarrassing.
If Denmark guessed at what Iceland had meant, he gave no sign of it. "That's all right," he said, setting the rolling pin aside and offering him a bright smile. "This stuff's easy. Nothin' to it. I'll make one to start, 'n then you'll know how it's done. See, it's like this..."
It really was quite simple; nothing more than a matter of cutting out the shapes and rolling them together, really. Iceland's eyes flickered, watching Denmark's large hands move, paying attention to the way he pressed the edges to make them thinner, then rolling them together in a cone form, until finally it looked like a perfect pink rose.
"Now, y'see," Denmark said as he carefully drew the petals back, making the flower look fuller, "Don't know if you ever noticed, but Nor really likes eating these cake flowers. Says the shape makes 'em taste better than regular frosting."
"I don't...," Iceland began, then stopped. Maybe Norway hadn't ever said it, but more than once he had seen him set them aside to nibble at them last, looking almost pleased, which was more than could be said for how Norway usually looked. "Yeah. I know."
"Yeah. But only marzipan ones. Or pulled sugar. He ain't big on piped frosting. And he likes 'em best when they're real small." Denmark lifted his gaze to Iceland, and grinned. "That's where you come in."
Iceland shook his head. "I don't get it. That one's fine."
Denmark nodded. "'Course it is." He set it on the counter and looked at it. "But I can't make 'em any smaller than that. My hands're too big, 'n not so good for the fiddly stuff." As if to emphasize his point, he turned and took Iceland's hand, pressing their palms together. "Y'see?"
It was impossible for Iceland not to see what he meant. Denmark's hand was huge, broad-palmed, the fingers long and thick and blunt. Compared to that, Iceland's own looked almost childish - No, Iceland thought. Not childish. Elegant. That's it. That's right. If he repeated the word to himself firmly enough, maybe he would believe it.
"I see."
"Right. So, will ya' lend me yer hands, Ice?"
Iceland hesitated. He almost wanted to say that he wouldn't do it. After all, it was for Norway, and ordinary he wouldn't go out of his way to do anything for him - and the same could be said about Norway doing anything for him. On the other hand - Iceland glanced at the marzipan rose, thinking quickly - it was a chance to prove he could do something just as good as Denmark. No, not only just as good. Better. His lips twisted into something almost like a smile. Fine. He would.
They worked side by side in the bright kitchen, Iceland quietly cutting and pressing together the flowers, while Denmark hummed and kneaded more marzipan to make leaves and chattered about the fine arts of making cakes - which Iceland actually listened to in spite of himself. Though at first working with the marzipan was not as easy as Denmark had made it look, Iceland quickly got the hang of it, and soon he was making them as small and fine as he could. Eventually he realized just how forgiving the paste was, and began to get more daring with it, gently making the impressions of veins in the petals using a blunt edge. If I make a mistake, Iceland told himself, I can just roll it out again. Somehow, knowing this made him feel more confident about it.
All the while, Denmark talked, and Iceland let him. "Always liked the look of caramelized sugar, y'know, but this stuff’s easier to work with, an'-" There wasn't any need to interrupt, and for once, it didn't dissolve into an endless stream of "Blah blah blah". Iceland listened.
Finally, the talk died down, and Iceland found himself speaking. "Why're you always going to so much trouble for him these days?"
"Huh?"
Iceland clamped down and bit his lip. The question had slipped out without any real thought to it, and even if he had thought of it more than once, it wasn't really any of his business. But even if he wasn't looking at Denmark, he could feel Denmark staring at him. He took a deep breath, cut another petal, and tried to think of the right thing to say. "Norway. He's always calling you an idiot and stuff, and-"
"Heh! Yeah, that Nor says the darndest things, don't he."
"I mean he acts like he doesn't even like you."
"Oh, I don't know about that. He don’t have to talk to me outside’ve stuff havin’ to do with relations, but he still does. Reckon if he didn't want me around, he wouldn't talk to me at all."
Iceland glanced over at Denmark. He hadn't paused at all; instead he remained with his head bent over his work, carefully cutting edges in a leaf. There was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips - not the usual grin, but something smaller, more subtle, and Iceland couldn't put his finger on just what it was. Affection, maybe.
"I guess," he admitted. "But if he thinks you're okay, he has a weird way of showing it."
"Well, he's a pretty weird guy, Ice," Denmark murmured absentmindedly. And Iceland certainly couldn't argue with that.
Finally, they were finished. Denmark persuaded Iceland to do the arranging, citing his hands again as an excuse: "You're better with movin' fiddly things around. Wouldn't want me to get 'em squished, y'know?" Regardless of whether that was the reason or not, Iceland wasn't about to argue, especially not when he noticed the appraising way Denmark looked at his flowers. Any opportunity to do something better than someone in his family was an opportunity that Iceland would take.
They had barely begun cleaning up the kitchen when Denmark's phone rang. Iceland listened to him while he ran the water in the sink. With how loud Denmark's voice was, it didn't take much to "listen in", and he pitied whoever was on the other end of the line.
"Nor! Good t'hear from ya'!"
Iceland immediately retracted his pity. Norway could deal with Denmark's volume. He turned off the sink and set to washing, keeping an ear tuned to the conversation. For a moment he hoped that Norway couldn't make it. Cake or no cake, he would rather have a weekend without his scowling elder brother criticizing his every move.
"Someone let you into the building? I see! Well, c'mon, then. Door ain't locked. I'll put on the coffee for you."
Maybe, Iceland thought as he scrubbed out the mixing bowl, it was better not to hope for things. He bit his lip and tried to set his expression neutral when Denmark slipped into the kitchen again to put on the coffee, his eyes bright as he flipped his cell phone shut and said that it'd been Norway calling.
"Yeah, I heard," Iceland mumbled. He could feel Denmark looking at him, but pretended not to notice. It wouldn't do to have questions about it. He held his breath until it seemed Denmark had given up on questioning him, and when Denmark turned to tend to the coffee pot, he knew that there wouldn't be any awkwardness. He stepped aside to give him room to fill it from the tap, and breathed easy.
Then the apartment door opened.
Denmark pushed Iceland out of the way and dashed toward the entranceway like an eager puppy. Iceland heard his cheerful greeting, followed closely by a burst of "Put me down, ya' knucklehead!"
Norway had arrived.
Iceland pursed his lips, thought for half a second about hanging back in the kitchen, then decided otherwise. It would be better to at least make an effort to be friendly. He grabbed a teatowel, set to drying his hands, and cautiously stepped out of the kitchen to peer over at the enteranceway.
Denmark had swept Norway up in a bear hug, drawing him right off the floor, much to Norway's annoyance. He squirmed in the hold, protesting, flinging insults at Denmark: "You got rocks for brains or summat? I said let go!" To that, Denmark only laughed and hoisted him up higher, giving Norway cause to wrap his arms around his shoulders and cling for dear life. Neither of them seemed to notice Iceland.
Iceland stared at them. He knew that Norway could wiggle out of Denmark's arms if he really wanted to. Why he would opt for yelling at him instead was beyond him. Then he noticed - even with all Norway's cursing, there wasn't any real sharpness in it, and between all of Norway's squirming and yelling and pulling on Denmark's hair, he was biting his lip as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. Suddenly, Iceland remembered what Denmark had said. Reckon if he didn't want me around, he wouldn't talk to me at all.
Eventually, Denmark gave in to Norway's protests and put him down. "Dumber than a sack've wet mice," Norway muttered as he adjusted his hair, sweeping it back from where it had fallen out of place and setting it properly with the clip. "Didn't even give time to take off my shoes afore you went 'n started with -" He stopped, realizing that Denmark wasn't the only one who had appeared to greet him. "Hello, Iceland."
Play it cool, Iceland thought. He put on his best casual, completely nonchalant expression. "Hi, Nor. Coffee's ready." He didn't realize he had been twisting the tea towel in his hands until he finished speaking.
"That so." Norway gave him barely even a glance as he slipped off his coat to hand to Denmark.
"And cake," Denmark said, beaming as he hung up Norway's coat. "Y'know, I was thinkin' it was about time I tried summat new with the flavouring, see, an'-"
Blah, blah, blah. Norway and Iceland looked at each other, and duly ignored Denmark.
"Cake, y'say," Norway asked, even though Iceland hadn't. "We'll see about that."
Before Iceland could think of a witty reply, Norway was nudging him to the kitchen, with Denmark following directly behind them, chattering all the way.
It wasn't long before they were all seated at the table together, taking coffee by the sunny window, the slices of cake on their plates in a constant state of reduction. Iceland answered all of Norway's questions about how he was faring and what he had been up to lately, putting on his best attempt at a bland, cool expression on his face and trying hard not to look relieved whenever Denmark interrupted either of them.
Eventually, the both of them just gave up and let Denmark blather on, Iceland making the occasional noncommittal sound to show that he was pretending to listen while Norway fell silent in favour of attending to his cake. In spite of his efforts to look elsewhere, Iceland's gaze kept falling to his brother, who had carefully slipped the marzipan flowers off of the top of his cake and set them on the edge of his plate. When the cake had been thoroughly demolished, he gingerly picked up one of the flowers and gave it a long, critical look before carefully nibbling at the petals.
Iceland looked away from his brother and tried to at least appear interested in what Denmark was telling him about the last time he had gone biking with Netherlands and how the both of them had ended up in a canal. Even with the way Norway had been scrutinizing the sweet, that had been approval that Iceland had seen on his face, hadn't it? Maybe he had just been imagining it. It was always hard to tell with Norway.
"Denmark. Own up. Who was it."
"An' -- Huh?" Denmark looked over at Norway, a baffled expression crossing his face. "What d'you mean?"
"Don't go foolin' me. I know you didn't make these flowers." Norway held one up, stared at it, then gave Denmark an accusatory look. Iceland squirmed in his seat and ducked his head, wondering if he should make some excuse to leave the room before the criticism started. But before Iceland could move, and before Denmark could protest, Norway continued. "Yours never look this good. So, who was it. Did y'have Belgium over here helpin' you again?"
"'Course not! It was Ice this time," Denmark said, laughing as he gave Iceland a heavy pat on the back. Startled, Iceland abandoned all thought of escape and looked up, wide-eyed, only to be greeted with the sight of Norway right across the table from him, staring him down, serious and blank-faced.
"'S that right, Iceland?"
Iceland nodded. "I, uh... Yeah. I did," he muttered. "It was easy."He could feel his ears turning red as he spoke. Even though he was used to Norway's stare, there was something unsettling about it; Norway was very good at making someone feel very small without saying anything.
Norway's eyes swept from Iceland to the marzipan flower, scrutinized it for a second while Iceland fidgeted and prepared for criticism, then glanced back to him. "'Looks good," he said, then popped it into his mouth without another word.
It didn't sound like much of a commendation, but as Denmark grinned and ruffled his hair and said something about, "Wouldn't ya' know it! Looks like I'll have to call ya' over next time I need a hand," Iceland found that he didn't mind. Two words of favour from Norway were like high praise from anyone else. Maybe, Iceland thought, putting his hair back in place after Denmark's ruffling, there really would be a 'next time'.
As he looked across the table and saw the smile tugging at the corner of his brother's lips, Iceland decided that it wasn't such a bad idea to accept Denmark's initiation that weekend.
It wasn't a bad idea at all.
The End