Quiet Storm
The Nordic house was quiet, save for the steady crackling of the fireplace. Iceland sat on the couch, his legs curled under him, his usual stoic expression set as he focused on the book in his hands. Snow had begun to fall again, a soft layer dusting the window ledges outside.
Sweden entered the room, his tall frame nearly brushing the top of the doorframe. He carried an armful of freshly chopped wood, his movements deliberate and steady. He set the wood by the hearth, dusted his hands off, and glanced at Iceland.
"Book good?" Sweden asked, his deep voice breaking the silence. It was gruff but gentle, as if he were trying not to disturb the calm too much.
Iceland looked up briefly, his silvery hair catching the warm glow of the fire. "It’s fine," he replied tersely, then went back to reading.
Sweden didn’t mind the curt response. He had long since learned to recognize the younger nation’s quiet affection hidden behind his cool demeanor. He moved to the window, looking out at the snow. The wind was picking up.
"Storm’s comin’," Sweden noted.
Iceland merely hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes still on the page. He didn’t like making a fuss about the weather; storms were part of his everyday life.
Sweden’s gaze lingered on Iceland for a moment. The younger nation’s frame seemed even smaller in the oversized sweater he wore, and it struck Sweden just how much of a height difference there was between them. He let out a low chuckle, which caught Iceland’s attention.
"What?" Iceland asked, suspicious. He marked his place in the book and narrowed his eyes at Sweden.
"Y’r tiny," Sweden said simply, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Iceland scowled, cheeks flushing faintly. "I’m not that short. You’re just unnaturally tall."
Sweden crossed the room, looming over Iceland in an almost comical way. He tilted his head, as if measuring the younger nation with his eyes.
"Still small," he said matter-of-factly.
"Am not!" Iceland shot back, standing up now. He barely reached Sweden’s chest. The sight made Sweden’s lips twitch with amusement.
"Prove it," Sweden challenged, his blue eyes sparkling with rare playfulness.
Before Iceland could respond, Sweden leaned down and scooped him up with ease, one arm under Iceland’s knees and the other supporting his back. Iceland let out a startled yelp, his book falling to the floor.
"What the—Sweden, put me down!" Iceland protested, squirming. His pale face turned crimson, though whether from anger or embarrassment, even he wasn’t sure.
"Y’r lighter than I thought," Sweden remarked, completely unfazed by Iceland’s protests. He adjusted his hold slightly, cradling the younger nation as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Let me go!" Iceland demanded, his voice rising. But there was no real anger in his tone—just a mix of flustered annoyance and something he didn’t want to admit was…fondness?
Sweden didn’t respond, instead turning in a slow circle as if showing off. "Perfect fit," he said with a rare smirk.
Iceland groaned, covering his face with his hands. "You’re impossible."
Sweden chuckled softly, the deep sound reverberating in his chest. After a moment, he set Iceland back on his feet, though he kept one hand on the younger nation’s shoulder to steady him.
"There. Big ‘nough now?" Sweden teased, a faint warmth in his tone.
Iceland glanced up at him, his usual deadpan expression softened by a faint, reluctant smile. "You’re an idiot," he muttered, but the words lacked bite.
Sweden simply nodded, a contented glint in his eyes. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and steady.
The fire crackled softly, and outside, the storm began to howl. But inside the house, the warmth lingered, not just from the hearth but from something quieter, something unspoken between them. And for Iceland, who rarely let himself relax, it felt strangely safe.
