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It starts, as so many things do, with a simple question. A harmless string of words that winds around his brain one rainy afternoon and refuses to let go.
"I always thought you were ace?"
Tinged with surprise, accompanied by a wide-eyed stare, his brother's comment immediately makes Norway regret speaking. His careless mention of kissing Denmark once, a long, long time ago was meant to be amusing, not intriguing. After all, the memory is so faint now it may as well never have existed. The only reason it hasn't faded into obscurity is because Norway still brings it up from time to time, mostly to laugh at his younger self, occasionally to tease Denmark for his terrible taste in men. That doesn't explain why he's chosen to mention it to Iceland of all people, but oh well, what is done is done. No point in wishing he could take those words back. Instead, he frowns.
"Ace?"
The term is unfamiliar, but the picture Iceland paints of it isn't. Asexual. One who experiences little to no sexual attraction. A simple concept, at first glance. Until Iceland begins to delve deeper into the diversity of those who fall underneath its umbrella, and Norway's head starts to spin.
"I see," is all he needs to say to put an end to the conversation.
And yet, once Norway is back in his own home, he finds himself sitting at his computer, scouring the Internet for more information on what Iceland has always assumed him to be. His body aches from the long drive, however, and the garden needs tending to after being left to fend for itself for two weeks, and really, he doesn't have time for this. He quickly shuts the system down.
It doesn't concern him, he decides. His experience doesn't need a name. Besides, it isn't as if people tend to question his celibacy. Physically, he doesn't look older than his late twenties; his people simply assume that he hasn't found the right person yet, or that his studies take up too much of his time. His fellow nations gossip about it, but they gossip about so many things, he no longer pays attention to any of it. Especially when no answer he gives could ever satisfy them. Secret affairs are far more thrilling than the thought that he might simply not care for romance or sex, after all. Best, then, that he focuses on the things in life that really matter, and pay no heed as to how he is perceived by others.
But as the weeks go by, the nagging word that has settled in his brain has decided it likes it here and no matter how hard Norway tries to evict it, it refuses to budge. A month after that fateful conversation, he is forced to admit defeat, and angrily stuffs it into the pocket of his shirt, where it will remain pointedly ignored for the next decade or so.
Like most nations, Norway has more than one place he calls home. A flat in the heart of his capital, a cottage by the coast large enough for the Nordics to come and stay in, a cabin in the mountains... More residences means more opportunities to see how his people are faring, to treat them all equally instead of favouring one county over another. Yet the home he is most fond of is nestled deep within Bøkeskogen, so isolated nobody has ever come to visit - although Norway's magical friends may have more to do with that than its geographical location.
At a simple glance, the house appears abandoned. Only the vegetable plot Norway dedicates most of his days to benefits from the gentle touch of sunlight; the rest forever hides under the shade of towering beech trees, sheltered from both sun and rain. Although he has rebuilt and repaired it so many times, narrowing down its architecture to a specific era would be impossible, it looks far from modern. Who could possibly live in such an archaic place in this day and age, one might wonder. Upon closer inspection, however, signs of life appear. The well-tended to plants and vegetables, the whistle of a boiling kettle from inside, the smell of freshly-baked bread. And, of course, Norway himself, going about his daily chores, changing the bird feeder one moment, weeding the flower beds another.
In the warmer months, it's rare for him to spend more than a few hours inside. Too many things require his attention, from the vegetable plot to the chickens and their eggs to the wood he needs to split and stack in preparation for winter. He can't grow everything he needs to live comfortably, but he is provided with enough that he only needs to make the long trip to the nearest town once or twice a month.
This constant stream of tasks leaves him with little time for anything else. This suits him. He likes having things to do. It isn't that he dislikes doing nothing - he has a certain fondness for sitting outside with a good book on summer evenings, as he does for curling up by the fire with his knitting in the dark winter months - but his mind needs to be kept busy, lest it wander too far from his body. Alone in the house, he has no one to remind him to eat, sleep or drink if he loses himself in his thoughts.
But every now and again, solitude threatens to become loneliness. After all, he is still the Kingdom of Norway. He still yearns to see his people, to witness the joy their tragically short lives bring them. He misses spending time with the few nations he considers friends, too. Although he sees them at World Meetings and during work meetings, it's never quite the same thing as drinks and nibbles in somebody's living room.
So, when loneliness knocks at his door, Norway leaves the quiet of his home to find seasonal work among his people. His extensive knowledge of the area makes him an excellent guide, and he quickly finds himself accompanying students on field trips and tourists in search of adventure on long hikes through the forest and around the burial mounds that this place is known for. Joining their conversations lifts his spirits, that small sense of being a part of something enough to chase away the shadows in his heart, if only for a short while. It is nice to observe them like this, to see what his people are becoming and how they have changed since he mingled with them last.
Today, he is in charge of a class of noisy teenagers. Curious things. They grow so quickly; one day a child, the next, a fragile imitation of adulthood. These ones can't be older than fifteen. They jabber among themselves with no care for the disturbance they may be causing, such a raucous bunch he is strongly tempted to walk them straight back to their bus. Yet the moment he opens his mouth, they immediately fall silent. One of the perks of nationhood. He may be a stranger to them, he is also familiar in a way none of them can comprehend. Talking over him inexplicably feels like blasphemy.
He suggests they split into three groups, trusts the accompanying professors to keep to the intended paths he highlights on their maps. No use in everyone going the same way at the same time. He will explain the history and geography of the area at various meeting spots he also marks down, and in the meanwhile will leave each group to their own teachings. No one finds any reason to object, and he watches in amusement as the students huddle up to form their own groups. Games of rock, paper, scissors are played, bargains are made, all so as many friends can remain in the same group as possible. Some, he notices, are holding hands, and laugh at exaggerated laments that they would choose their partner over their dearest friends. Others glance at the object of their secret affections with adoration, playing their cards just right so they end up in the same group. Norway shakes his head at their antics. Silly things. They remind him of Sweden before he and Finland became a couple.
The group he takes charge of is a surprisingly pleasant one. Their endless energy and countless questions remind him of Iceland when he was younger, so it is all too easy to pass down pieces of his vast knowledge to them. Every now and again, someone will ask him something about himself - how old is he? Where he is from? How does he know so much? - trying to narrow down what it is about him that confuses them so much. He answers these inquiries in as few words as possible - twenty three, Tønsberg, because he has always found nature and history fascinating - content to keep them wondering. After all, no matter what he tells them, they will talk. Best to give them very little then regret saying too much. Far more fun to be a myth than a legend, he has always found.
Unsurprisingly, they are the first to reach the lunchtime meeting point. Although Norway suggests they eat - so they can set off sooner and he can show them more things, things the others won't have time to see - his group insists on waiting for their classmates. Not that he can truly blame them. They like being outside the classroom, and he has managed to capture their interest, but spending time with their friends will almost be more important to them than whatever these woods have to offer. So Norway leaves them to their phones while he perches on an old tree stump and pulls his lefse out of his backpack. The early June sun dapples the floor, and he can't help but tilt his head back as he eats so its rays can warm his face.
The rest of the day goes by quickly. In the blink of an eye, they are back at the initial meeting point, the first to arrive yet again. The teenagers settle themselves down on the grass, a whirlwind of whispers and chatter as they wait for their classmates to arrive. Daisies have taken over the soil here, and Norway watches as his wards try to weave them into a crown of some kind. It takes all his self-control not to laugh at how much grief the simple task seems to be causing them. Humans are determined little beings, though, and by the time the others join them, their creation could almost pass for a tiara.
Its purpose quickly becomes clear. Cheers of "kiss, kiss" fill the air as a member of his group places the tiara on a blushing classmate's head, in what must be the most melodramatic declaration of love Norway has ever seen. The teachers shake their heads and roll their eyes, but when they step in to scold their pupils, it is only for the ruckus they are making rather than the romantic gesture itself. One of them turns to him with a weary laugh.
"Ah, to be young again!"
Norway keeps a polite smile on his face, but says nothing. Confusion is clouding his thoughts. All that effort, all this noise, for this? A relationship unlikely to last longer than a few months? Why? His people's joy is contagious, but the exact reason behind their happiness remains unclear. What is it about romance that captivates them so?
Why does he even need to understand it? Is there any harm in dismissing it as just another silly human custom and not sparing it another thought? If he were human, perhaps this confusion would bother him. Perhaps he would wonder what exactly he is missing out on. But the Kingdom of Norway is not human, so he pushes his bewilderment to the back of his mind and focuses, instead, on the colours of the cars that pass them by.
And yet, come evening, cradled by solitude in the comfort of his own home, he can't help but think back to the conversation he had with Iceland all those months ago.
Why had he brought up that kiss with Denmark? The memory isn't a fond one; why renew its longevity by talking about it? Even now, if he concentrates, he can still hear Denmark desperately trying to sound casual as he asks Norway whether he's ever thought of kissing him. He can still feel the surprise and confusion such a question stirs, because why would he ever want to kiss his best friend? He still remembers giving consent for one kiss, just to see what all the fuss is about. His lips still tingle, nausea choking him, as he thinks of lips against his own, of the awkwardness of the whole thing. Why not let himself forget? Why continue to think about how Denmark had smiled afterwards, but he hadn't been able to do anything but grimace? Why not banish the first time he had felt guilt at letting someone down from his mind?
It must be a human thing. He has been spending a lot of time with them lately. Perhaps they're wearing off on him.
Nonetheless, he can't help but re-examine the word Iceland mentioned so casually the last time they spoke. Asexual. An interesting word. It both fits and doesn't. Online testimonies echo his own experiences in some ways, but in others, they come across as utterly foreign. It doesn't take him long to stumble upon a new word, one that sounds best paired with the first. An awkward term, when he tries to speak it out loud. Oddly youthful for a nation who has lived for over a thousand years. What if people bother him about it, question his right to use it, demand justification to prove it fits?
Yet again, he finds himself closing his laptop and moving on to other things. But this time there are two words, not one. And this time, instead of angrily stuffing them in his shirt pocket, he carefully tucks them away. For safekeeping. Just to remind himself that nationhood can't be blamed for his confusion. Perhaps this lack of understanding of what society deems to be love is human after all.
Halfway through the month of August, he reaches out to Denmark and Sweden. Suggests they take a few days off work and go camping together. A simple trip, one that requires very little in terms of organising. One they will likely spend fishing, with a deck of cards at hand and countless threads of conversation to unravel. A holiday with just the three of them, for once. Just like old times.
Not that Norway would have an issue with Finland tagging along. The younger nation has a heart of gold, despite his tendency to nag everyone - and the fact he still doesn't understand that Norway prefers listening to heavy metal by himself, not in a crowd full of people, although he appreciates the kind thought - but they aren't close in the same way the three ex-vikings are. Besides, Finland and Sweden are together now, married even. If Finland came, then Denmark would insist on bringing his current partner, whoever they may be, and Norway would end up spending the trip by himself. Not that he would ever say such fears out loud. He isn't that selfish, he doesn't think. At least he hopes he isn't.
(The thought of inviting Iceland doesn't even cross his mind. His brother hates camping with a passion, and besides, this is an outing among friends, not family. Chances are he already has something planned with his own companions.)
They decide to stay in a campsite bordering one of Sweden's great lakes. There are too many people here, as might be expected - although Norway suggests they go wild camping instead, his friends insist on having access to decent facilities - but Sweden knows his lands well. Once the tent is set up, he leads them to a quiet spot where they can fish without being disturbed.
Thus, the first day is spent in relative peace and quiet. When evening falls, they make their way back to the much quieter campsite, to cook today's catches over the barbecue. It isn't quite the same thing as an open fire, but the food tastes nice, and there's something oddly quaint about sitting at a little plastic table while Denmark hovers over the grill. Once their plates are cleared, Norway volunteers to do the washing-up, and Sweden immediately offers to go with him. To help him dry, is his excuse. To have a few precious minutes of silence, away from Denmark's incessant chatter, in reality. Or, Norway soon realises, because he is worried about him.
"You seem distant."
He resists the urgs to sigh, dunking a plate into soapy water. Curse Sweden and his never-ending concern for others. "Do I?"
"Something on your mind?"
"Isn't there always?" He shakes his head. "Nothing for you to worry about."
Fortunately, Sweden doesn't press him any further, simply nods as if that explains everything. It's one of the things Norway likes best about him. Even back when they were married - the lowest point of their relationship - Sweden respected his boundaries. Not once did he expect them to share a bed or a meal, or even hold a conversation. In fact, he was perfectly content to let his husband simmer in quiet resentment for years, until he gained his independence.
Norway doesn't miss those days. Those bitter years when they hated each other with a passion still weigh on his mind from time to time. As nations, the reasons behind their hatred was understandable. As individuals, however...
He sighs. Jealousy. What a vile emotion. What did it matter if Norway spent more time with Denmark than Sweden? He still cared for the both of them equally. If only they saw things his way, instead of insisting that one was stealing what rightfully belonged to the other. Ridiculous fools. Treating him as if he were nothing more than a possession, a trinket to hang around their wrist and show off to the rest of the world. They gifted him flowers and jewellery and poems, as if he were a prize to be bought, and no matter how many times he accepted them coldly or refused them entirely, they hadn't stopped until he hated them just as much as they hated each other.
"You know," he muses, as he empties the dirty water down the sink, "sometimes I think it's a miracle we're still friends."
Apparently that's the wrong thing to say. His old friends frowns at him, eyebrows furrowed, concern plain on his face. Before he can launch into a lecture, however, Norway softens his voice.
"Nothing for you to worry about, I said. Just feeling old and nostalgic."
Sweden snorts, accepting the reassurance. For now. "Imagine what you'll be like in another millennia."
Norway can't help but chuckle, although the thought of living another thousand centuries frightens him. "Heaven forbid."
By the time they make it back to the tent, Denmark has tidied their things away and dragged their sleeping bags over to where the table and chairs were. The sun has yet to set, but that doesn't stop them from making themselves comfortable. The sky has more to offer than stars, after all. Heads almost touching, they watch the clouds slowly fly over them, painted pink, then gold, then blue, before vanishing entirely, engulfed by darkness.
Expecting silence is just wishful thinking at this point, but Denmark manages to keep his voice down to a whisper. Mostly, anyway. Every now and again, Norway has to elbow him so it doesn't become a shout. Serious conversation turns into friendly banter, and by the time the sun finally sets, Norway has heard enough. Tuning his companions out, he retreats into his own mind.
A long time ago, back when their bodies were those of children, Iceland told him that he didn't necessarily see him as a brother, but as home. At the time, Norway didn't understand. Now, however, the term makes sense. Friends is such a flimsy word to describe his relationship with both Denmark and Sweden. They are friends, true, but, more than that, they are home. They are the warmth on rainy days when life is no longer worth living. They are the bitter words that turn hollow with the passing of time. They are the laughter that rings out around a dinner table laden with delicacies, just as they are the sobs that echo in an empty house after a fight. This... thing they have - not intimacy, but something else, something far, far more meaningful, something he has no word for - it is home.
Love, some may argue. What he is describing is nothing more than love. But Norway disagrees. Love is too cheap a word for this feeling. He doesn't love them the way Denmark has loved countless people throughout his lifetime, nor does he love them the way Sweden loves Finland. He doesn't love them like he loves Iceland, who he would tear himself apart for - and has done, many, many times - if it meant keeping him safe. And he doesn't love them like he loves England and Romania, for their love is so much easier to put into words, because both of them understand.
Or, well, Romania understands. So does England, in a way, but not to the same extent. Romania is affectionate in that way all relations of Rome tend to be, the kind of affection Norway doesn't usually tolerate, but that feels different coming from him. Norway is content to spend an evening watching television with his head on Romania's shoulder or Romania's arms wrapped around him, because they both know it doesn't mean what others think it does. For them, it is simply a sign of trust, a byproduct of being close friends.
Not that Norway blames people for their annoying rumours. After all, he is always pushing Denmark, his so-called best friend, away. Why should he treat Romania any differently? If only they could look past their preconceptions to see that Norway and Romania are far more alike than Norway and Denmark will ever be, and therein lies the reason why one's hugs are appreciated while the other's are, more often than not, rejected.
Recently, Norway has been wondering whether Romania has heard of asexuality before. Would the concept resonate with his friend as it has with him? Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Romania still longs for a partner, has even fallen in love many times. Kissing doesn't disgust him, although he prefers holding hands. The thought of having sex with someone fills him with nausea, but he craves intimacy. It is these differences that create a barrier between the two of them, one made up of small but important details each considers a mystery.
For Norway, sex is dull, romance nothing more than a cage of compromise that keeps him from living free, and sexual attraction a confusing notion he can't quite wrap his head around. For Romania, sex is disgusting, romance a beautiful dream, and sexual attraction a complicated concept he nonetheless has a basic understanding of. And yet, despite these differences, they have far more in common with each other than they do with others.
And really, isn't that enough?
"What'cha smiling about?" Denmark interrupts his thoughts, as always, but this time, Norway doesn't mind.
He hesitates to share his musings with them. How freeing would it be to tell them his suspicions about his identity? Would telling them how deeply he cares for them make their days? Or would it be an awkward thing to say? What if they don't understand? Perhaps leaving it a little longer would be better. After all, they have an eternity ahead of them. Why the rush?
"Nothing much. Just wondering whether aliens would have their own personifications or not," he lies.
His friends exchange an amused glance. Do they know he's hiding the truth from them? Or do they genuinely think he ponders human-alien relations on a daily basis? Either way, they don't tease him about it. Instead, the conversation turns to outer-space and the world of science-fiction, until Sweden begins to doze off and suddenly, it's time for bed.
But while Sweden and Denmark drag their sleeping bags back inside, Norway leaves his where it is. There's a strange lightness in his being tonight, one that keeps him awake until the sun begins to rise. Happiness, he thinks, before sleep finally pulls him under. He feels happy.
As the years go by, Norway grows more and more fond of the word Iceland put inside his head and the one he uncovered by himself. Having a term that describes his experiences is liberating, in a way. Nonetheless, he keeps it to himself. It's personal. Private. No one's business but his own.
Yet, every now and again, the sudden urge to tell someone, to let them know, threatens to overwhelm him. Not because they need to know, but because telling them would make his identity no longer a secret. Keeping it from them feels like hiding it, in a way. As if he were ashamed of himself. And while that is an oversimplified, almost cruel way of considering the matter - in reality, Norway is afraid of telling somebody, because he hates opening up about himself, because he is terrified that whoever he tells will immediately dismiss him and let him know how wrong he is - it continues to nag at him. Even now, while there are more pressing concerns - such as the blizzard currently raging over the Icelandic countryside - the thought continues to intrude.
Sweden and Finland took their leave the moment the black clouds appeared on the horizon. They have chosen to stay in a hotel room in town with Ladonia and Sealand, so Iceland's home need not be any more cramped than it currently is. Their sudden departure has left it rather empty. Outside, the wind howls, and they are all mildly concerned the morning will see them snowed in, but the thump of Denmark's music through the thin walls - heaven forbid he miss his evening workout - somehow manages to drown it out. Yet, despite all this, the living-room feels oddly peaceful.
Norway sits on the sofa, his yarn laid out beside him. He has quite a few jumpers to make this year, so he's hoping to get them finished before the next World Meeting. This evening, he is working on Belarus', a pretty mix of purple and white wool that should keep her nice and warm this winter. Then he'll have Wales' to do, and he would like to make Scotland one as well. White and green with a dragon on the chest for the former - overly patriotic, maybe, but he knows his friend will appreciate it -, and for the latter, something not necessarily ugly, but made from as many clashing colours as possible, because Scotland has a decent sense of humour, and won't mind his brothers teasing him every time he wears it.
Once, Norway considered knitting a fresh article of clothing for each of his friends every year. But his list of friends keeps on growing, and he is a busy nation, so that idea is quickly thrown away. Instead, he makes them a jumper, or a hat, or a pair of gloves, every decade or so. Better to give them something they will actually wear than something destined to collect dust at the back of a wardrobe.
Iceland sits at the other end of the sofa, occasionally eyeing the spreading mess that is Norway's knitting supplies with an unhappy stare. Mostly, however, he scribbles away in that journal of his, blind to the world around him. Poetry, according to Denmark. For nobody's eyes but his own. Oh, he's let the older nation read a few poems, enough for him to try to convince the teenager to get them published, but the suggestion is always shut down. It isn't meant to be read by others, apparently. Iceland writes for no one but himself. Why share his work only for people to interpret his heartfelt emotions in a way contrary to what is intended?
A ridiculous line of thinking, if you ask Norway. Then again, perhaps he only finds it ridiculous because of how much he treasures interpretation. How much poetry has he read, concerning the love of a poet for his muse, as something completely different to what was intended, something far more meaningful to him? Try as they may, the artist has no control over who stops to admire their art, nor can they control what is taken from it. The only way to conserve its meaning is to keep it to themselves like Iceland does, never to be read by another. There is no other way for its interpretation to be truly unique. And even then, can one truly say that something they write now will still have the same meaning in ten years time?
Norway's own words are often interpreted by others, no matter how much he wishes they weren't. "Not interested in any of that" is his standard response to questions regarding why he is still single or who he might be attracted to. It rarely means what he thinks it does. And it is these interpretations that explain why he is asked these same questions, over and over again. As if his answer might have changed since the last time he answered. It's frustrating.
Perhaps it's this frustration that has the secret spilling from his lips as he sits there, immersed in his knitting. A simple sentence that cannot be interpreted any other way.
"I think I'm asexual."
It's the first time he's spoken the word out loud. For years he has handled it carefully; even now he cradles it close to his chest, a butterfly whose wings he is terrified he might accidentally break. It feels... strange... to share it with another. Strange, but not wrong.
His heart hammers in his chest as Iceland pauses, his pen hovering over the page. Violet eyes meet his. Blink.
"Yeah?"
His throat inexplicably dry, Norway can only nod. He tries to focus on his knitting, hoping the familiar motions can ease his sudden nerves.
"Remember you bringing it up a while ago. Wanted to let you know you were right."
The weight of his brother's stare is making his skin itch. He is familiar with that stare. It is the one he receives whenever Iceland realises he no longer knows this stranger he once considered a brother. There is no malice in it, but the jumble of words that pour from his mouth are messy, a desperate cry for help, because Iceland wants to be a good younger brother, but he isn't sure what response Norway needs from him right now.
"Oh, okay. I mean, cool. Good to know. Uh... just ace or uh... aro too?"
Norway continues to knit. He is making a mess of this, he knows. Should probably just stop before he ruins the jumper. "Both."
"Nice. Awesome." And finally Iceland smiles. An awkward smile, perhaps, but a genuine one. "Thanks. For telling me, I mean. It means a lot."
And as easy as that, Norway's anxiety turns to relief. It takes all his concentration to keep his composure - because if he were to suddenly burst out laughing, he thinks he might give Iceland a heart attack - but somehow he succeeds in shrugging, as if this entire conversation is of no importance to him.
"Of course. Only brought it up because I remember you mentioning it, though. Not worth making a fuss about."
But that doesn't mean that Iceland's quiet acceptance doesn't make the world seem a lot brighter.
His brother's phone buzzes, and as Iceland drops everything to answer whichever one of his partners has just texted him, Norway lets himself smile, turning back to the messy stitches he now needs to correct. Is this what freedom feels like? No, it isn't. A simple term to explain his experiences won't suddenly make him feel more free than before. But perhaps it can help others understand him better. Perhaps it will make them see that he is free, that he isn't destined for a miserable existence simply because he will never have anyone to share his life with in that way. Perhaps it will help them understand that for him to be tied to another would be no different to cutting the wings of a butterfly purely because you find them pretty.
Denmark's music stops. The howling of the blizzard sounds louder, now. Soon, Norway will have to put another log on the fire. Soon, Denmark will come downstairs and fill the room with ceaseless chatter. But for now, he basks in this pleasant feeling of contentedness, the words he keeps in his shirt pocket finally emerging to settle on his shoulder instead.