If My Heart Was A House

Summary: You'd be home. NorIce.

A/N: Derpy one-shot. Possibly inaccurate, as I put this together sloppily and with only limited research. This is why I do not do fics with references to history lmao.

Unmistakably, I can still feel
Your heart beat fast
When you dance with me.

...
...

Norway has found him and raised him into adolescence, and now he has to leave him.

He walks to the boy with off-white hair and when the boy smiles in joy, his own heart breaks with what he must say. He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, and explains only the necessary details to Iceland. Denmark-Norway was dissolved, and Iceland is Denmark's.

Iceland's face falls. "I don't want to be part of his kingdom," he protests weakly, though he knows it is useless to voice his dissent.

"It is not your decision to make," Norway answers evenly, speaking more for his former charge's benefit than his own. Neither knows how long they would be without the other's company, so they might as well make the most of what little time they have.

Iceland could not argue, so he merely stands before Norway, scrutinizing him with unnatural violet eyes. At length, he breaks the silence with the phrase he would regret for centuries: "May I kiss you?" He does not stutter or say them hurriedly. He utters them plainly, already knowing the answer, yet daring Norway to defy what he knows he will do.

The words hang like an incorrectly struck chord, poignant and oddly dissonant.

Norway longs to say yes, wants to allow it and everything that may come after, but swallows his emotions and is surprised his voice does not shake when he speaks a refusal, so gently that it hurts, "No." He does not want to see the resigned devastation registering on his brother's face, but it's too late now.

He will understand when he's older, Norway thinks, and bites his tongue in order to stop the flow of words threatening to destroy what he has already undone. He has to force himself to look away when Iceland's bottom lip trembles. "Please," he whispers, mouth dry, and that's all he can say.

A sigh, and a hand presses against his cheek, a fleeting brush, and then is gone. "I'm sorry," Iceland apologizes, sounding deeply so; he has taken all he can freely have, and cannot ask for more.

Norway looks at him, really sees him, for what he hopes is not the last time. When he has burned the image into his head, he murmurs a simple "goodbye" and has nearly left the room when his sibling finally responds.

"I'll wait for you!"

Norway pauses by the door, wanting to say something, anything, but he was never one for sentimentality. He knows the small interval was enough, and he exits, stopping the Dane before he can enter. "If you hurt him, I will kill you," he hisses, full of menace and venom; he means what he says, and Denmark knows it.

Yet the loud blond smirks and mutters sarcastically, "I would never dream of hurting your precious toy." He is gone before Norway can retort, closing the door firmly behind him.

Norway stares at it for a few moments, and when he does not hear a scream, he turns and does not look back.

Centuries later, they are reunited, not under a crown but in independence. Norway walks up to Iceland's house and knocks, two sharp raps. Iceland opens his door and throws his arms around his brother with what could only be called a (manly) giggle. The sound is the most beautiful thing Norway has ever heard.

The Scandinavian presses their lips together briefly, and then they are knocking foreheads, chuckling at the pain but not caring, laughing in all the best of ways.

They are free, and they are together.

Norway almost doesn't care that they are outside; he wants them to stay like this forever, without a care in the world. Iceland pulls him in, where they lean against the door and kiss between their snickers. They do not snog with the intent for something more; they are content with what they have.

When their exhilaration abates, they gasp for breath.

"I love you," Iceland wheezes, no longer scared of what could have been.

Norway inhales deeply, the corners of his lips twitching upward; he would normally suppress it, but now he smiles freely, and cannot ignore how Iceland's breath hitches at the sight. "I love you, too," he replies, and it's so easy. He laughs, and that is when Iceland kisses him, open-mouthed. They are all innocence and it feels so good.

He could live with this, he thinks, and he smiles again.

Just the thought makes him feel content.