Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been Malaysia's idea.

He needed accomodation, somewhere, somehow, after the amber-eyed nation had decidedly dragged him across half the globe. Staying with the three of them was an option, yes, if he didn't want to get any sleep.

Iceland sighed internally.

Malaysia, Philippines and Indonesia were good natured. That was for sure. They were doing everything they could to ensure the icy-haired nation had a proper welcome into some of the cultures of ASEAN — though, that was exactly the problem. They were doing… a bit too much.

Apparently, the odd introduction to cuisine had been the least of his concerns — heck, it even found them a disturbingly common topic. But in the next twenty-four hours, Iceland found himself nearly thrown off a motorcycle, wandering aimlessly around the rainforests of Borneo for three hours until Indonesia had realised that he was missing, and collapsed from heat stroke. Twice.

Right now, he just wanted to stay somewhere that wouldn't put him in a potentially life-threatening situation.

Surprisingly enough, Malaysia's suggestion was a feasible one. "You can stay at adik's house!" He had an excited sparkle in his eyes as he grabbed the icy-haired nation by the wrist. 

"Ah… are you sure he wouldn't mind?" 

"Of course! He might even let me into his room again — the last time I've been in there was in 1944."

As the amber-eyed nation continued rambling, Iceland couldn't help but liken this mysterious brother to his own predicament. At least (and thankfully) Norway wasn't here to ruin his stay.

He lives on an island too, the icy-haired nation mused, surveying his surroundings. Sitting at an area no more than a fraction of what his own territory encompassed was a bustling metropolis. Skyscrapers intertwined with flats that stood as high, the ground paved the flattened grey that was asphalt and concrete. Everything was manicured within an inch of perfection, a flawless arrangement that almost seemed artificial.

It was the complete opposite of the rainforests, and the lively order in chaos of the markets that dotted the streets of its adjacent populace. A somewhat blissful change in scenery, if not a tad dull.

They had entered the airport (an airport? It looked like an entire shopping mall) when a flashing image caught his eye.

A series of box-shaped panels, intricately carved with marble patterns and curling arches. It stood at about two stories high, with little stores across the first floor, detailed with what Iceland recognised as shops he had seen multiple times earlier on.

The second floor, where a spanning digital billboard was mounted, played a short film of animated figures weaving in and out of the structures.

"Shophouses¹. They're old residential buildings with small shops on the ground floor," Malaysia explained, gazing at the magnificent display. There was an odd tinge in his voice — it almost sounded like pride. "Adik thought a heritage zone within the airport would be the best way to introduce tourists to his country. Apparently the video had been the work of four local artists, depicting a romance story in the 1930s."

The icy-haired nation watched, awestruck, as their lives played out in miniature. It was quite genius to design an airport as a tourist attraction, and probably generated a great deal of revenue as well.

A few minutes passed and the film faded away, leaving an enlarged Welcome to Singapore! banner spread across the screen and—

Iceland's breath hitched.

Raven hair framing a lightish Asian complexion, sporting a small tuft of white which curled across his forehead like a crescent moon. Startling violet eyes that held the soft glow of twin amethysts.

A beautiful, beautiful smile, gentle and charming and damn his heart fluttered.

"He's amazing, isn't he."

The icy-haired nation blinked. He'd forgotten Malaysia was beside him.

The latter gave a loopy grin, the haze of admiration clouding over his amber eyes. "He's come so far… it's a shame he refuses to call me abang anymore. I'd do anything to see him smile in person."

Iceland felt something stir in his chest. So would I, he found himself thinking, and his face promptly flushed a deep shade of red.

*

Malaysia brought him to an oddly complex establishment by the name of Our Tampines ("It's pronounced 'per-nis', not 'pines', and not… you know.") Hub. It looked like a gigantic recreational community building, and apparently had a seven² storey library.

Iceland stood at the entrance for an entire two minutes, light blue eyes trailing up the facade. 

"I'll be heading off now," the amber-eyed nation announced, waving as he broke into a sprint. "I'm going to surprise adik."

With that, Malaysia was gone, kicking up small puffs of dust on the concrete.

"…Jæja," the latter mumbled eventually, stepping into the library. The immediate blast of coolness and the slight whiff of vanilla from the books atop their shelves were quick to welcome him.

It was a bit… awkward, though. He found an uncomfortable number of eyes drawn to himself, curious and intrigued, even more so now that Malaysia had left. Ice-coloured hair and blue eyes didn't belong anywhere in Asia, let alone in a community library.

Their personification has purple eyes though, Iceland recalled, blinking. He briefly wondered how Singapore managed, with half a dozen pairs of eyes on him wherever he went. Not to mention that the majority of his population, and travellers from abroad, would instantly recognise his face if they'd seen any of the billboards.

Keeping his eyes focused front, he pretended to ignore the fascinated whisperings of a pair of girls. 

"Wah, he damn chio right?"

"Duì lor! I jealous sia…"

Despite understanding only half of their conversation, the icy-haired nation felt his cheeks burn, suddenly struck by a fervent wish for someone to slap someone sense into him — but Mr. Puffin was a good twenty-hour flight away.

"They're calling you pretty."

Iceland whirled his head around.

Beside him stood the last person he'd wanted to see, yet contradictory as it was, the exact person he hoped to see. 

Djöfullinn.

Head tilted slightly, bicoloured bangs falling to his shoulder as a gloved hand reached for a book on the shelf. Violet eyes shining with thinly veiled amusement, a sliver of a smile tugging on his lips. 

"I wouldn't deny that either."

By now, the icy-haired nation's face was about as red as Germany's during Oktoberfest. "I— uh—"

"I haven't been to Iceland before, though. But from the pictures, Reykjavík is positively beautiful. And Mr. Norway had also been quite detailed in his description of you."

…Well. That was unexpected, if not slightly disappointing.

"Thanks? I guess?" What else could he say? He could sense a presence behind him — the girls were still staring. Out of shock or amazement, he didn't really want to know.

Singapore smiled again. "Malaysia brought you here?"

"Yes…?" Iceland blinked. He had no idea what the latter was getting at. Speaking of Malaysia, where on earth had he gone to look for his brother? 

"I figured as much. Perhaps you'd like to do a bit of actual sightseeing? I'm a capable tour guide, or so I'd like to think."

What was he supposed to say? He couldn't reject such a blatant invitation, could he? "S-Sure," he mumbled, pushing down the redness threatening to flare on his cheeks.

The latter had reached the sliding doors of the library when he paused. Turning around, a brilliant, sparkling smile on his face as he bowed slightly, a faint halo of moonlight surrounding his petite frame. 

"Welcome to Singapore."

Chapter Text

“…Both parties remain committed to fostering bilateral cooperation through sustained dialogue and mutual understanding…”

The words had become but white noise around Liam. Meaningless, meandering jargon — it was hard to maintain a cordial smile when the meeting had been going on for three, four hours now.

All for… an advertisement collab.

The caffeine's wearing off, he mused, blinking the exhaustion out of his eyes. He'd raided the pantry for every packet of instant kopi O kosong they had, which, quite evidently, hadn't been enough to wipe away the sheer dreariness of his current predicament.

It's been downright frustrating, at best. A month-long exchange programme, which as of now had been: one, proposed by his boss, two, rejected by the other company's boss, and three, insisted upon tirelessly by his boss again. As usual, the little nation was there simply as a bargaining chip, in the less than ideal situation of listening without being listened to.

Sometimes, he liked to imagine how different his life would be if he hadn't chosen to be by Harry's side. 

That was how it had started, after all. Down the rabbit hole of policies and politics, clambering back up when he quit, and getting dragged down again when the people recognised his face a bit too often.

Eventually, becoming a model meant giving up his authority — that was, the authority that they acknowledged and respected.

Did he regret it? Perhaps, especially when the outcome of that decision included such moments like now, but internal affairs hadn't been particularly enjoyable either. You win some, you lose some, anyway.

Liam felt a nudge on his shoulder.

His boss was side-eyeing him in the manner that implied the need for assistance. Hey, he mouthed, which was more or less a rather succinct way of saying Stop standing here smiling like an idiot, convince him for me, this is supposed to be your cup of tea.

The little nation bit back a sigh. It almost always came down to this. 

Inhaling deeply, Liam widened his smile, forcing a passionate lilt into his tone and a slight sparkle into his violet eyes. Upright posture, direct eye contact (even if meeting the eyes of someone much taller than you was an absolute pain).

Communication was more about impressions and body language than actual talk, after all. He'd been to and been involved in enough rally speeches to know how to say what the people wanted to hear.

Here's to another day of OT.

“If I may, Mister Lim…”

*

By the time they'd come to a somewhat compromise, night had already hung as a massive quilt of indigo in the sky. Devoid of stars, the brightest source of light were instead the street lamps stationed every twenty metres across the length of road, shining unblinkingly onto the grey sedan below.

Hundreds of unmoving eyes staring down at this dumbass incapable of saying no to his boss, Liam mused, removing a hand from the steering wheel to pinch his nose bridge.

A pounding migraine had blossomed about two hours ago, but he had been forced to ignore it until now. For all his effort at maintaining body language and social cues, his stakeholder — no, his boss’s stakeholder — hadn't cared enough to read between the lines.

Then again, most adults treated him like a child anyway, a lost kid who had wandered into the office while his parents were not looking. His size, or the lack of it, hardly helped either, giving his taller colleagues and clients the impression that he was merely a part-timer trying to earn a quick buck. 

Which was ridiculously stupid, given his career history.

Getting out of his car, the little nation spared a moment to clean up his appearance. Emil was sure to chide him if he looked too exhausted, even if this was the state he ended up like every single night.

The latter had come to stay for a few weeks before returning to Reykjavík, after attending a conference in Hong Kong not too long ago. It might have been a lot easier if he'd just stayed put in the city, but, in Leon's words, Go put your boyfriend’s workaholism on a leash. 

Had Liam the chance, he would've bluntly pointed out that his own people were hardly any better.

Greeting him at the door was a certain feathered ball of grouchiness. 

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Mr. Puffin squawked, perching atop the iron gate¹. He poked the latter's chest accusingly with a wing. “We've been waiting for ya to drag ya submissive ass home. Your lil’ boyfriend's still asleep.”

“Hello to you too,” the little nation replied tiredly as he locked the door behind him. Still, a sliver of a smile tugged at his lips; as much as Emil's tiny companion seemed to be perpetually annoyed by his sheer existence, that disgruntled banter was tens of times more enjoyable than sitting in a stuffy room with a table full of idiots for ten hours. 

Mr. Puffin seemed to snort, puffing his feathers up indignantly. It formed a small fluffy shield around his ego. “Whatcha smilin’ at.” 

“Nothing.” Liam tossed his bag onto a bean bag, heading towards his study. He'd probably heat some rice left in the fridge later on, make a simple dish for himself. 

The scene in the living room made him stop in his steps, eyes softening.

Emil leaned against Fishball’s pristine fur, his head drooping ever-so slightly to his shoulder as he slept. A smooth, flawless hand resting lightly on the merlion’s back — he'd likely fallen asleep while stroking her. 

His work-life balance was an impressive one, if not jealous-worthy. Sleep deprivation? Imagine. Perhaps it was something about the cultural differences between Asia and Europe, or his own astounding level of efficiency; either way, he never seemed to suffer from the same stress and grievances that his boyfriend faced on a daily basis.

The little nation quashed the urge to sneak into his arms and snuggle in. Tempting as it was, he still had work to do.

His study had been reconfigured from what was supposed to be his bedroom. It was basically an empty room fitted with multiple shelves, a desk, a wardrobe and a monitor set. Documents and paperwork sticking out haphazardly from unsorted stacks, books and stationery splattered across the desk, clothes strewn across the floor as a result of the days he hadn't the time to wash them. 

Normally he'd either fall asleep on his swivel chair or lie on Fishball's body — there was no need for a bed or sofa if resting on a giant furred creature (with her permission, of course) was an option.

Besides, Liam didn't get a break quite nearly enough to need such furniture.

Setting the papers down on his desk, the little nation allowed himself to sigh. Two pending log sheets, a conference tomorrow, another photoshoot timetable to draft for the next month, and an email to write declining a particularly persistent request, explaining that no, he wasn't going to strip himself for a body wash commercial in the most polite manner possible.

“For someone with the second highest English proficiency in the world, it's appalling that the word ‘rest’ doesn't exist in your dictionary.”

Liam pressed his bicoloured hair against the latter's chest, a hand reaching out to touch his face. “You tell that to my boss.”

“As if you'd actually let me do it.” A blissfully cool chin rested gently on his shoulder. “It's already eleven. Even Fishball didn't stay up.”

“I'll take a break later.” The little nation powered on his laptop. “You can go—” 

Emil grabbed his hands, jerking them away from the keyboard. 

“You are going to take a break now,” he announced, dragging the latter out of his chair.

Now far away from the judgmental eyes of the public, Liam allowed himself to pout, crossing his arms childishly. “It's Friday. All the deadlines are flooding in before the weekend.”

“It's Saturday in less than an hour's time.” The icy-haired nation silenced his protests with a quick peck on the lips. “For your boyfriend, okay? Or I'll get Fishball to forcibly remove you from your study.”

The latter felt his petite frame freeze, suddenly and inexplicably. Violet eyes shifted, widening ever-so slightly as he raised his head to meet Emil's. 

It was happening again.

It had been a while since he had someone who actually cared. To feel like he was being loved — along with this hope came the irrational fear of being left alone again. A creeping anxiety that stemmed from years of betrayal and distrust, that distant wariness eventually twisted into a mind-consuming paranoia.

(There was a reason his room was always a mess; it was a reflection of what went on beneath the facade of happiness. Chaos.)

But deep down, this yearning gnawed at his gut, ravenous and desperate to be fulfilled. And he wished — no, he craved — for the latter to satisfy that desire.

Did Emil know? Perhaps he did. The way his eyes lit with thinly veiled concern, the way he now carefully adjusted the little nation's posture, the way the words Are you okay? hung from his lips, quiet but flooded with emotion. The icy-haired nation was no stranger to isolation himself. 

In a sense, they were lifebuoys, bobbing along the unforgiving rivulets of life, clinging on to each other for survival. They needed each other, in an unseen entanglement of red threads, in an unspoken promise of a better tomorrow.

And because of this, Liam wanted to believe it was worth giving love another chance.

Before he knew what he was doing, his body had crashed into Emil’s, arms wrapped firmly around his back. Feeling the latter’s cool skin under his fingers — a confirmation that he was actually here, he was actually by his side.

The icy-haired nation didn't respond, instead rubbing soothing circles on his own back. It was trembling, almost imperceptibly, but slowly relaxed as his fingers traced the contours of his spine.

A comfortable silence lingered between them.

“Thank you,” Liam mumbled finally, closing his eyes as a small smile broke across his face.

(Thank you for staying.)

*

Mr. Puffin stood perched on the kitchen counter, appearing less than impressed to see them. “Finally,” he grumbled, flapping onto Emil's head. “I would've gone in to drag ya ass out, but I might need to bleach my eyeballs after that.”

The icy-haired nation stuck a finger through his feathers, eliciting a horrified screech from the bird. “You should bleach your own mind of whatever disgusting thoughts you might have had of us.”

“I ain't the only one who thought y'all were doing things,” Mr. Puffin snorted, jabbing an accusing wing at Fishball, who had been standing by the doorway. 

The aforementioned merlion's eyes widened as she scrunched her pinkish nose, scandalised.

Liam ran a hand through her pristine fur, opening the fridge with his other hand. A small Tupperware container of overnight rice stood on the middle shelf, as well as a plate of ingredients he had prepared the night before.

His hand had hovered over the container when something else caught his eye.

“Tāngyuán²?” The little nation gestured at the bowl of cling-wrapped glutinous rice in his hands. Emil had been busy in his absence.

The latter rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “It's the Winter Solstice today, isn't it? You'd probably kill me if I lit a bonfire in your house, so I thought I'll try making one of your traditional dishes instead. I'm not sure if I got the recipe right, though.”

What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful boyfriend, Liam thought, a warm, fuzzy feeling bubbling in his chest. He set the bowl down on the counter, tiptoeing slightly to plant a soft kiss on Emil's lips.

Mr. Puffin sped off the icy-haired nation's head and onto Fishball's muzzle, covering her eyes with his wings.

The icy-haired nation combed a hand through the latter’s hair, petting it. “It's the least I could do, taking up space in your house.”

He jabbed a finger at the bowl. “We should get started. Knowing you, you probably skipped lunch again, didn't you?”

“…Yes.” Well, there was really no point in lying. Emil would eventually find out anyway, even if it meant tracking his digital transaction records until he found the last payment he made for a meal.

Still, there was no need to inform him that he hadn't slept in three days.

“And you still want to continue working through the night.” The latter gave him a look, eyes softening with concern. “You have to stop pushing yourself so hard.”

Liam didn't respond, fixing his gaze on the tiny ball of glutinous rice in his palms. Stop pushing himself? It was like banning Arthur from drinking tea for a day, or confiscating Feliciano’s lifetime supply of pasta.

Work ethics, however shitty they might be, are still a key component of a country's economic foundation. Manpower, technical skills, ability. It was imperative that everyone and everything played their part within this area of 734.3 square kilometres.

(What else was there on this island to sell? No natural resources, hardly a sustainable location for manufacturing when sand was hundreds of times more valuable than gold, and a sole one percent of its land allocated to agriculture. “Rich” didn't equate to “self sufficient” in a place like this.)

But for Emil's sake.

“I'll try,” the little nation said finally, looking up to face him.

The icy-haired nation nudged his shoulder lightly. “Of course, I understand if it's difficult to cut down your workload so easily, so I'll try to make whatever time you have at home as enjoyable and well-rested as possible, okay?”

“Thanks.”

Thank you for everything you've done.

(Thank you for making me feel human, a living, breathing being, not another tool to be utilised.)

Emil cradled Liam's face in his hand, his smile warm, gentle, and oh so beautiful.

“Anytime.”