Denmark should know better by now, but it's never been a good idea to bring out the hard liquor in front of Norway. Make all the jokes you like about Denmark's fondness for alcohol, but an innocent round of drinks can turn foul in an instant if—and when—Norway decides he just wants to get drunk. Given the right mood and a bad day, Norway is far more likely than Denmark to have drunk himself into a stupor before the night is out.

"Slow down already, Nor," Denmark warns. That's his alcohol, the jerk. He'd appreciate it if he gave the bottle back. "If you throw up I'm not gonna clean up after you."

Norway glares at him.

"M'not gonna throw up."

"I'm serious. No one's actually proven our type can't die of alcohol poisoning, you know. I'd rather not find out tonight."

"Shut up." Norway tilts his head and drains his shot glass, gasping afterward like his throat's on fire. "I'll quit when I want to."

Denmark is pleasantly surprised to find Norway miraculously still alive a few hours later. He might be collapsed on the sofa, but he's still breathing at least—maybe not for long if he keeps lying face down on the cushions, though.

"Nor," Denmark calls. An empty bottle falls from Norway's limp hand and goes rolling across the floor. He would probably be dead right now if not for the whole immortality thing. "You haven't said anything in ten minutes. Y'okay?"

Norway turns his head and says, like it's taking a lot of effort, "too much t'drink."

"Now you think so?" Denmark irritably goes to pick up the bottle and toss it in with the recyclables. Environment first, yelling later. He comes back and adds, "you drank literally all my booze. How did that even happen?"

Norway stares at him pitifully.

"The room's tiltin'."

"If you'd shared," Denmark goes on, "instead being a show-off, maybe it wouldn't've turned out this way. I could be drunk and happy right now, but no! You drank everything. Ugh. This is horrible. You're horrible. And you call me an alcoholic—"

"You are an alc'holic!"

"I'm not the one who only drinks when he wants to forget everything come morning," Denmark points out. "And stop slurring, you're doing it worse than usual."

Norway throws a pillow at his head but misses spectacularly. It hits the lamp instead.

"And now you're attacking my lamp!" Normally, Denmark wouldn't mind all this because talking to Norway has always been a lot like fighting. But the fact that he's tired and frustratingly sober and worried he's going to have a tragic cushion drowning on his hands is really pissing him off. "Nevermind. It's late and I'm going to bed. Are you gonna be alright or do I need to call for an ambulance?"

Norway huffs and throws his legs halfway off the sofa, managing to make himself look like an uncoordinated jellyfish in the process.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't feel my legs."

He makes another fruitless attempt at sitting up but he only manages to slide down further onto the floor. He looks like he's doing a self-invented yoga pose.

"You really overdid it," Denmark says, almost in awe. He notices Norway's hairpin slowly falling out, and his heart sinks with it. "Hey, are you okay?"

Norway gazes at him with a face that is the portrait of a sad, sad drunk.

"M'sorry I drank everything."

"You look plenty sorry," Denmark admits. He sighs and points down the hall. "Toilet?"

Denmark isn't used to being the mature one, so he can't say he's ever had the privilege of standing outside the bathroom and listening to someone else throwing up. He's usually the one doing the hurling, so it's interesting to see things from this perspective—suddenly he begins to understand just how disgusting it is to listen to, and he's even feeling a little guilty about the poor souls he's gone drinking with in the past. If he had to be the one on this side of the bathroom door more often, maybe he'd reconsider his usual practice of drinking to the point of a black out.

"This is surreal," Denmark says out loud. "When was the last time it was this way around? You hammered and me sober, I mean?"

The door opens and a very pale Norway appears behind it, clutching the door frame and wearing a nasty look.

"Never," he grumbles. "You've never been sober a day I've known you."

"Well hey there!" Denmark says fondly. He takes Norway by his arms and helps him stand up again. "I figured you'd be done soon. Sounded a bit less chunky towards the end."

"What'd'you got in there that smells s'bad?

"Probably the stuff I clean the toilet with," suggests Denmark, and he pokes his head in to sniff. He wrinkles his nose. "It does kinda smell like toxic chemicals n' vomit now. Do you promise not to throw up again if I help ya into bed?"

"Can't promise," Norway says, miserably.

"Well, I have faith in you. Tally ho!" Denmark grabs him by the waist and, mostly for his own amusement, tosses him halfway over his shoulder like he used to do when they were younger. Denmark doesn't really consider until afterwards that subjecting an extremely inebriated person to sudden movements is a bad idea.

"Oh God," yelps Norway, like he's honestly too confused to figure what just happened, and he nearly strangles Denmark by throwing his arms tightly around his neck. "What the hell'r'you—"

"Urgk," Denmark answers. "Stop trying to kill me!"

He wrestles with him for a moment to get his arms off, but then he hears Norway gag over his shoulder and decides to abort the operation. Denmark quickly leans down and as soon as Norway's feet are back on the ground he lets go and lurches back into the bathroom. He doesn't quite make it to the toilet this time, so Denmark gets to see every bit of his performance as he hunches over the sink instead.

"You're gonna stop up the sink, you idiot!" Denmark sighs. "It's not made for that!"

But there doesn't seem to be much left in Norway's stomach, fortunately. He finishes off with a few dry heaves before turning the faucet and letting the sink fill with a blast of hot water.

"You stupid—" Norway snaps, and turns on him as fast as he dares. "You stupid—Den, you're—" He pauses and the mental strain is clearly evident on his face. "You—are—stupid!"

"Well who knew it'd give you vertigo, Jesus Christ." Denmark would be a lot angrier for being yelled at if he wasn't pretty sure he's accused Norway of much dumber things while drunk, like hiding his socks from him. He adds more gently, "I'm sorry, Nor."

"S'okay," Norway answers, and he looks at him strangely, either because the word 'sorry' just came out of Denmark's mouth or because he's just very drunk and bewildered in general. He turns back to the sink to catch a handful of water to swirl around in his mouth. He spits it back out, adding morosely, "prob'ly just gonna throw up again anyway."

"Well try not to for a second," Denmark advises, and this time he puts out his arm first to give proper warning before lifting Norway up. Norway wisely presses his face to Denmark's shoulder to avoid looking at the ground and Denmark, also wisely, double checks to make sure his cargo is secured and unlikely to get dropped. He readjusts his grip a few times and without further ado, begins his careful journey up the stairs.

"Now this brings back memories," Denmark says, filled with cheery nostalgia despite the faint smell of sickness still lingering around Norway. "I did this a buncha times when you were still just a lil' thing—you used to fall asleep in front of the fire and I'd always have t'carry you up to bed. 'Course, that was before you got fat and hard to lift."

"I didn' get—"

"Sweden never got that treatment," Denmark says sadly. "He kicked me one too many times. Fin and Ice were good kids though. And as for you, you were never good. You don't have a good bone in your body. And yet here I am, all these years later, feeling sorry for you and carrying you to bed like a little princess!"

"M'notta princess," Norway grumbles.

"The bedroom at last!" Denmark (softly) kicks open the door and goes in to deposit Norway on the bed—Norway doesn't express an ounce of gratitude, but he does tilt sideways and drop onto the pillows like he's made of cement.

"Hey, where the heck did your hairpin go? You had it in a while ago—"

Norway lifts his arm to feel for it in his hair but comes up empty handed.

"I dunno."

"You don't think you flushed it did you?"

"I dunno." Norway rolls over drowsily. "Look fer it later. Th'lights off downstairs?"


"Locked ev'rything?"

"Yeah, earlier I did."

"Stove's off?"

"Yes." Denmark yanks the blankets over him just to shut him up—God, he doesn't think he's ever wondered this kind of stuff while drunk. Or sober, for that matter. "Get some sleep, Nor. I'll drag the trashcan over in case you gotta throw up some more later. You just enjoy the right of the night before the hangover sets in and you feel even worse, okay?"

Norway folds down the blankets and looks—actually, Denmark doesn't know what that face is about. He looks vaguely frowny, but his eyes are—

"Was that—?" Denmark feels a huge grin coming on. "Was that an appreciative look just now? A 'Gee whizz, thanks for being ever so kind, Denmark' sort of look?"


"You don't have to be shy." Denmark gets right up next to his ear because he knows he hates that. "Go on, tell me just how much you appreciate me."

"Shut. Up."

Denmark sighs. He takes a step back. He launches himself over Norway and onto the other side of the bed, coming down with a crash that shakes the bed like an earthquake. Norway clutches his head like he's just trying to keep his brain from rattling around in his skull.

"Den," Norway says.

"I'll let it slide this time," says Denmark, prodding Norway in the chest. "But if you ever drink like that again I swear I'm gonna be a whole lot more obnoxious about it. You either drink like normal, responsible Norway, or you at least leave me enough that I can get drunk too and not worry about it. Got it?"

Norway knocks his head into him, probably with the intent of giving him a bruise, but it doesn't quite work because instead he just ends up with his head lying on Denmark's shoulder. Norway ultimately cuts his losses and snuggles up to him.

"Me drinking norm'ly," he mutters, "s'not 'xactly responsible anyway."

"True enough," admits Denmark. "But you don't normally get to the point of throwing up either, so don't do that anymore unless you have a good reason. Alright? Alright. Good night, Norway."

Denmark leans in to kiss him, and, not exactly wishing to know what stomach acid and booze tastes like in Norway's mouth, pecks him innocently on the forehead instead. Norway lets out a soft snore in reply.

Denmark observes him for a moment before gently pinching the sides of his mouth.

"Thank you, Denmark," he whispers, in a terrible impersonation of him, making Norway's lips flap, "for being so nice to me and also for being so incredibly smart and handsome. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Norway's mouth twitches and he turns his head, snoring louder now. Denmark decides maybe he should be smart and go looking for that hairpin and a bottle of aspirin.