Norway's skin was like the newly fallen snow. It was pale and perfect, only marred by slight imperfections that were barely noticeable. However, just like the fallen snow, sometimes those imperfections were not so minute, not so easy to go unnoticed. Just as the scar of a wagon track could make its way across the landscape. So, too did scars rope across Norway's skin. As they lay in the soft sheets of the bed, Romania slid his fingers across the other man's skin, following each mark from beginning to end, trying to imagine the battles they were earned in. They were all marked with scars. It was impossible not to be, and each one was fascinating. Even if he couldn't hear the story, he could feel the difference between the smooth skin and the rough scar. He could be fascinated by the touch alone
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