He was brash and dangerous. He was full of energy. He was bursting with happiness, pride. He smelt like the ocean with a tint of beer. His voice was low and smooth, with the heavy accent smothering every word he said. He could kill a man with his bare hands. Then later that day, could hold a fairytale in his hands, flipping the pages, and reading the story aloud as if he was a child. He was confident, his confidence practically oozed off of him. You could feel it in the air. His attitude could change at the drop of a hat.

Yet, the younger nation he had known since he was a child was completely different.

He was reserved and calm. He rarely spoke out of place. He wasn't outgoing; he wasn't as gleeful as his counterpart. He smelt like the smell of fresh leaves and the rolling oceans of the Norwegian seas. His voice was soft and feminine, his accent was smooth. His hands were soft, not calloused like the other nation's. He believed in fairies and trolls. He was far less emotional than Denmark. Hardly showing his emotions, usually only when he was annoyed.

The two clashed in perfect ways. Denmark's short and violent temper was easily matched with Norway's calmer, but still as short temper. The Dane's loud voice could drown out Norway's quiet voice. Denmark's over exuberant ways of getting things done were opposed to by Norway's more practical, detailed ways of going about things.

Denmark loved Norway. He told him this fact every day. Norway loved Denmark. He hardly told him. But when he did, he rolled his eyes at the Dane's too big grin, the embrace he felt around his waist and the warm kisses on his lips. Norway thought if you said things too much they would lose their meaning. Denmark didn't.

Whenever they got intimate, the battle for dominance usually ended in a Norwegian defeat. Denmark's soft and gentle touches teased Norway's skin. Norway wanted harsh touches that left marks upon his skin. Denmark never complied. He always thought of Norway as something breakable. He never laid a hand on him.

They spent four hundred years together until that fateful day when Sweden stole Norway away from Denmark. Denmark would drink away his sorrows into the very tiny hours of the morning. Iceland usually locked himself in his room, trying to avoid the Dane's pitiful calls for Norway. Denmark always told Iceland of how much he looked like his older brother.

Denmark clung onto Norway's presence. Norway's simply being there would make him the happiest man in the world. Everything Norway did made him happy. He was the happiest man in the world, after all.

Denmark called himself the king. And great kings fight their own battles. During baths, intimate moments, or any time Denmark's scars were visible, Norway would star at all the battle scars he had acquired growing up. Scars from Sweden, England, and Germany, anyone else who had ever gotten into a war with Denmark. Every time Denmark got a new scar, he would say it didn't hurt. Norway knew better. Norway always knew.

Denmark's smile hardly ever faltered. Norway's frown hardly ever faltered. Denmark smiled through the hard times, to show everyone how strong he was. Norway frowned because he thought showing emotion was a sign of weakness. Denmark thought otherwise.

Denmark and Norway; Mathias and Alexander, were two very different people. They were two very different countries. Sometimes they were on common ground, sometimes one was completely away from the other's point. Sometimes they fought, but rarely did they not forgive each other.

When fires meet water, they turn into steam.