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Description
     Our hearts beat, his and mine, in rhythm, in sync. We are the same, in more ways than one, and this is wrong, what I'm thinking.
     He bandaged my wounds, like he's always done, and our hearts diverge as mine speeds up. Just his touch can do this, his fingers pulling wool over my wounds, cool and thin and gentle.
     He pulls back and his heart stops beating into my back—I feel empty, without it there.
     He takes my arm into his hands, surveying his work, and I hear the soft exhalation of breath through his nose that means he's satisfied. I close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear it. Just a few more seconds in his arms.
     It's worth it.
     "You can get down now," he says, and I try not to shiver at the coolness of his voice, a chilling monotone with just the faintest hints of emotion.
     He and I are ice, ice and snow. We're cold, cold at the surface, cold to the touch, cold on our faces and in our hearts.
     But we're warm when we bleed. When we're cut and our blood spills out, wet and hot and violently red, we're warm, and the cold feels good.
     I slide off his lap, and I can hear him as he stands. He offers his hand, and I take it—I don't even have to look. This is a routine we've followed a thousand times before, old as the ages. He has always done this, pulled me to my feet and brushed my sleeves down and smoothed out the hair on the top of my head, and I have always smiled and allowed him a hug.
     But I don't smile today, just stare coldly back up at him, as if cold is all I have been today, as if I have not been warm and bloody and violently, violently red.
     His fingers stop working in my hair, and I barely keep the red from showing in my cheeks as he tilts my chin back. My eyes, which I had opened, now close.
     One day I will be the one taking care of you, I had promised many times before. The words echo in my head, devoid of feeling, of meaning. That day, the day for me to cool him after he has been warm, has yet to come. And I know it's wrong, but there are other warmths of his I wish to cool now.
     "I thought you were too old for childish fights," he chides, and my eyes close just a bit tighter in response.
     "It was not a childish matter," I say, but this is a lie and we both know it. Attacking America so openly, so suddenly, so stupidly, was anything but mature. It was childish and petty and ridiculous. But lately I have just been so red…
     He makes a soft sound of disagreement but sets the subject aside. He lightly strokes the sides of my face, and the red rises, staining my cheeks, and he chuckles, so soft you couldn't hear it if you didn't know what to listen for.
     "Come give your big brother a hug," he beckons, and my eyes snap open and I am suddenly white, not with snow but with heat, and I throw his hands from my face and turn on my heels.
     "I will not call you my brother!" I shout, leaving him behind as I open the door and run out, coatless, bootless, into the cold, into the white, where maybe I can blend, maybe I can disappear, but my arm is caught and he draws me back to him, holding me to his chest so that I can feel his heart beat against mine, and we're in sync again, fast, speeding, pumping the warmth through our bodies.
     "I didn't ask you to call me brother," he says, and his words cut, such an edge on them as to cut diamonds. "I just asked for a hug."
     I let him hold me. I let his cold and the cold of the snow around us cool me, and eventually I return the hug. Our hearts slow together, and continue to beat together. They are the same. So much of us are the same. Too much of us, but not enough, because he is cold and steady and clear-minded. He is beautiful and right and everything I have ever wanted to be.
     I am hot and wavering and red, red, red, and he has said that I am beautiful, but above all I am wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
     But we are tall and we are fair and we are brothers and we both bleed and we can both be cold and he might be better than I am in every single way, but we are the same and our hearts beat the same and there is no doubt in my mind that our tears would taste the same if he was crying now as well.
     I am a powder keg, and he is the damper to my fuse, but I am nothing to him. Nothing but his brother. Nothing but the same.
     And I lift my head and look him in the eye, and his face may be blank, but I know he feels something, and I want him to be red, red like I am, red and warm so that I can cool him.
     Our heartbeats are the same, faster than humanly possible as I lean up and place my lips against his, and they're soft, like I thought they'd be, and cold, like the rest of him.
     Our heartbeats are the same, I can feel it through our chests, and I expect him to throw me off, because I am his little brother, nothing but his little brother, too much the same as him to ever be with him.
     But I feel his hands gripping me, one on my hip, the other on my shoulder, and his lips press firmly into mine, putting force behind the chill, and when I open my eyes his face is flushed and I smile as I lean further forward, moving my hands to mirror his.
     Our hearts drift out of sync as mine slows, steadies. I have been ready for this. I have been waiting for this. I have been hoping and wishing and praying for this, and I don't have to be ashamed of the red anymore, of the heat, because we're the same. He, and I, my brother Nor. We're the same, too much the same but just enough, and when we come back for air, Norway's hand leaves my back to wipe the rest of the tears from my face.
     "I don't want to call you my brother," I say, and he leans close, bringing both hands up to touch my face.
     "Then don't," he replies, and our lips meet again, but this time he's not scared, and neither am I. I don't think I've ever been happier.
     I just hope he feels the same.

Description
     Our hearts beat, his and mine, in rhythm, in sync. We are the same, in more ways than one, and this is wrong, what I'm thinking.
     He bandaged my wounds, like he's always done, and our hearts diverge as mine speeds up. Just his touch can do this, his fingers pulling wool over my wounds, cool and thin and gentle.
     He pulls back and his heart stops beating into my back—I feel empty, without it there.
     He takes my arm into his hands, surveying his work, and I hear the soft exhalation of breath through his nose that means he's satisfied. I close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear it. Just a few more seconds in his arms.
     It's worth it.
     "You can get down now," he says, and I try not to shiver at the coolness of his voice, a chilling monotone with just the faintest hints of emotion.
     He and I are ice, ice and snow. We're cold, cold at the surface, cold to the touch, cold on our faces and in our hearts.
     But we're warm when we bleed. When we're cut and our blood spills out, wet and hot and violently red, we're warm, and the cold feels good.
     I slide off his lap, and I can hear him as he stands. He offers his hand, and I take it—I don't even have to look. This is a routine we've followed a thousand times before, old as the ages. He has always done this, pulled me to my feet and brushed my sleeves down and smoothed out the hair on the top of my head, and I have always smiled and allowed him a hug.
     But I don't smile today, just stare coldly back up at him, as if cold is all I have been today, as if I have not been warm and bloody and violently, violently red.
     His fingers stop working in my hair, and I barely keep the red from showing in my cheeks as he tilts my chin back. My eyes, which I had opened, now close.
     One day I will be the one taking care of you, I had promised many times before. The words echo in my head, devoid of feeling, of meaning. That day, the day for me to cool him after he has been warm, has yet to come. And I know it's wrong, but there are other warmths of his I wish to cool now.
     "I thought you were too old for childish fights," he chides, and my eyes close just a bit tighter in response.
     "It was not a childish matter," I say, but this is a lie and we both know it. Attacking America so openly, so suddenly, so stupidly, was anything but mature. It was childish and petty and ridiculous. But lately I have just been so red…
     He makes a soft sound of disagreement but sets the subject aside. He lightly strokes the sides of my face, and the red rises, staining my cheeks, and he chuckles, so soft you couldn't hear it if you didn't know what to listen for.
     "Come give your big brother a hug," he beckons, and my eyes snap open and I am suddenly white, not with snow but with heat, and I throw his hands from my face and turn on my heels.
     "I will not call you my brother!" I shout, leaving him behind as I open the door and run out, coatless, bootless, into the cold, into the white, where maybe I can blend, maybe I can disappear, but my arm is caught and he draws me back to him, holding me to his chest so that I can feel his heart beat against mine, and we're in sync again, fast, speeding, pumping the warmth through our bodies.
     "I didn't ask you to call me brother," he says, and his words cut, such an edge on them as to cut diamonds. "I just asked for a hug."
     I let him hold me. I let his cold and the cold of the snow around us cool me, and eventually I return the hug. Our hearts slow together, and continue to beat together. They are the same. So much of us are the same. Too much of us, but not enough, because he is cold and steady and clear-minded. He is beautiful and right and everything I have ever wanted to be.
     I am hot and wavering and red, red, red, and he has said that I am beautiful, but above all I am wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
     But we are tall and we are fair and we are brothers and we both bleed and we can both be cold and he might be better than I am in every single way, but we are the same and our hearts beat the same and there is no doubt in my mind that our tears would taste the same if he was crying now as well.
     I am a powder keg, and he is the damper to my fuse, but I am nothing to him. Nothing but his brother. Nothing but the same.
     And I lift my head and look him in the eye, and his face may be blank, but I know he feels something, and I want him to be red, red like I am, red and warm so that I can cool him.
     Our heartbeats are the same, faster than humanly possible as I lean up and place my lips against his, and they're soft, like I thought they'd be, and cold, like the rest of him.
     Our heartbeats are the same, I can feel it through our chests, and I expect him to throw me off, because I am his little brother, nothing but his little brother, too much the same as him to ever be with him.
     But I feel his hands gripping me, one on my hip, the other on my shoulder, and his lips press firmly into mine, putting force behind the chill, and when I open my eyes his face is flushed and I smile as I lean further forward, moving my hands to mirror his.
     Our hearts drift out of sync as mine slows, steadies. I have been ready for this. I have been waiting for this. I have been hoping and wishing and praying for this, and I don't have to be ashamed of the red anymore, of the heat, because we're the same. He, and I, my brother Nor. We're the same, too much the same but just enough, and when we come back for air, Norway's hand leaves my back to wipe the rest of the tears from my face.
     "I don't want to call you my brother," I say, and he leans close, bringing both hands up to touch my face.
     "Then don't," he replies, and our lips meet again, but this time he's not scared, and neither am I. I don't think I've ever been happier.
     I just hope he feels the same.