The Power Of Words And Glasses
(It should be noted that this references and earlier fill on the KM, not written by me, in which Iceland gets out of debt by selling videos of himself being molested by a tentacle monster. If anyone has the link to that or the deanoned link, if you could give it to me I’d be eternally grateful.)
The Power Of Words And Glasses
“Yeah!” Crows America, eager as always to direct attention away from his disastrous and much-mocked attempt at revitalizing his economy. “I mean, it was pretty slutty of you Icey.”
Silence descends. America is young, and stupidly powerful. He does not ‘read the atmosphere’ because he lacks any need to. America stands tall and proud, even when hamstringed by his own collapsing economy. He is fearless. He has no enemies.
He has just made himself five.
Have you ever noticed that, when made in a complete vacuum, sounds are magnified? In that dread, terrified silence, the click that Sweden’s glasses make has he folds them sound like a gunshot, and from the way that it makes everyone flinch, it may has well have been.
For long, eternally endless moments, no other sound is made. Even if one was, it is highly unlikely that England would be able to hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears at the speed of a frightened rabbit’s. He barely dares to breathe. America is so young - he doesn’t know -
The scraping of chairs against tile sounds like fingernails running down a blackboard. England cannot make himself look up. His eyes are fixed blindly on the table, and suddenly he realizes that he has been counting his heartbeats.
“What did you call him?”
Denmark’s voice is perfectly polite and colder than death. England is a child again, with a Danish king on his throne and this man is ripping out his guts and calling them his and he’s being killed every summer, killed and culled and raped and slaughtered and conquered and made vessel and
“What did you call Iceland, America?”
Slow, perfectly measured footsteps, like a pendulum. It should not be as terrifying as it is, and still England is unable to look up.
“What did you call Iceland, America?”
The footsteps pass England and come to a stop over where he knows that America is sitting. Don’t answer, he silently begs his … his brotherloverallysonbetrayer. Play dead and let his anger burn out.
But, of course, America is unable to listen to him, even when it is in his best interests. “You saw the video Denmark.” His voice wavers slightly, but there’s an undertone of pouty petulance that makes England’s heartbeat skyrocket again.
Poor America, poor, brave, matchless America, has never had a cause to develop a sense of self-preservation because poor, beautiful, undaunted America has always, always believed his actions to be the correct ones.
“I didn’t ask that, America.” Denmark sounds as unmovable as a rock, and like a shark smelling blood and fear, goes in for the kill. “I told you to tell me what you called Iceland.”
Silence again reigns, England dully wondering how America will manage to get himself out of this one.
“A slut.”
America is quieter now, England can almost hear the thought dawning in his otherwise empty skull that perhaps this hadn’t been the best course of action. He’s sure that one glance at America’s too expressive blue eyes would prove this theory true, but he cannot look up. And he damns himself as a coward and a fool for it.
This is the second time that he has been unable to give America what he wants.
But … he cannot allow this time to end up like the first. So, he gathers himself together, pushes past the child inside of him that is shrieking in fear and death and impotent rage, and looks up.
Denmark and Sweden flank America, standing so that all England can see is their backs and America’s pale, terrified face.
“Don’t call him that. Ever again.” Sweden’s voice is flat, uncompromising and utterly lacking in human inflection. If England wasn’t so busy trying not to hyperventilate, he might feel vindicated at how quickly America nods in response.
“Good.” Denmark’s voice purrs, the contented sound of a well-fed man eater. England opens his mouth - to say what, he doesn’t know, but that lost, scared look on America’s face calls to the bruised part of England’s heart that only thinks of America as his little boy. But it’s then that Denmark and Sweden turn around. And it’s then that England feels his heart stop beating.
Sweden is not wearing his glasses.
It sounds stupid, and of little importance. But Sweden is not wearing his glasses. Sweden is not wearing that thin contraption of wire and glass that lends much needed humanity to his face. But it’s not the blankness in Sweden’s expression that is so gut-wrenchingly terrifying. It’s the lack of animation, of mercy and of any acknowledgement of human values. It’s the look in his eyes, that of an old, old being who has killed and killed and killed, not because he was ordered to but because he enjoys it. America may be the lion in the corporate jungle, but he’s just a blind-born pussycat when compared to the ancient, battle-forged Lion of the North. And it terrifies England to think that.
No one says anything as the two Nordics walk out, pausing only to collect the protective huddle that Finland and Norway had formed around Iceland. In silence they continue out, but when Sweden reaches the doors, he pauses and looks back.
“America. Iceland’s name is Iceland. Use it.”
America, too far gone to respond, simply stares. Sweden nods at him and leaves.
Omake:
“I never knew that Denmark-san and Sweden-san had such potent killing auras.” Japan will later say to Greece, cradling a half-full cup of green tea. “Now I know how Naruto-kun felt when he faced Zabuza-san.”
Greece, long used to his lover’s … odd tendencies, will simply nod and wonder if he can pretend to fall asleep and get a quick grope in that way.