Italy's hosting the conference this year, but it's Germany as usual that's leading the presentation. The room breaks out into murmurs and bored applause once he's done, and Norway shifts back in his seat, trying to alleviate muscle sores from sitting in one place for too long.

Denmark notices his shifting and places a hand on his thigh. It's cool in the room by Italy's standards, but just a touch warm for a Nordic nation. Norway squeezes Denmark's fingers appreciatively before pushing them away. It's too distracting and far too warm for his peace of mind.

Once they're dismissed for a recess, nations mill around as finger food is served. For once, France and England aren't bickering, too hungover to actually form words. Prussia seems to be in a similar state of dishabille, though nothing's stopping him from having a very loud conversation with America. Norway takes the time to stretch and rub the nape of his neck.

"Getting old." He mutters.

"You're just stressed." Denmark laughs, overhearing him.

"I've got so much shit to do back home." Norway grumbles.

"Don't think about it then." The Danish nation advises flippantly. "C'mere. Let me fix your tie."

Norway doesn't protest when Denmark steps closer into his space, his hands coming up to fix the dark blue tie matching his light blue shirt. Contrary to popular belief, Norway isn't the type to favor starched shirts and pressed slacks, though he's been told once or twice he seems the type. And he vehemently detests wearing those little silk nooses propriety demands he wear for business. He doesn't mind it so much when Denmark sends him off to work, though, because when he does, he'll fix Norway's tie for him and peck him with a good luck kiss. It's a little something they've just sort of done the last few decades, something routine that's domestic and couple-y that makes Norway melt whenever he thinks about it.

"There. Done," Denmark grins, and it makes his eyes crinkle endearingly.

"Thanks," Norway says, dragging the other nation closer by the tie for a kiss. "Mm!" Denmark hums in surprise, his hands resting on Norway's hips even when they've pulled slowly apart, the action practiced and familiar.

"What was that for? Not that I'm complaining."

"It's tradition, isn't it? You fix my noose, I give you a kiss for your trouble." They're getting looks from the other nations, mostly because the lovey-dovey stuff is more expected of Sweden and Finland, but they sometimes forget Denmark and Norway are every bit as married and every bit still in love.

They settle down once Italy announces that the conference is resuming, and Denmark complains he'll have to redo his own necktie again.

"I'll make it up to you. Later," Norway promises.

"That so?" Denmark says lowly, his eyes taking on a smoldering heat.

"Later." Norway reiterates, but doesn't push Denmark's hand away when it rests on his knee for the rest of the conference.