Work Text:
The Olympic village is nearly sacred. A place of peace where Nations and their athletes can gather without fear, no matter what current relations are or what wars are being waged. For the Nations themselves, the games are a time to relax, to show pride in their people and friendly rivalry with their peers.
"Aarg!"
For most of them.
The Netherlands looks up from where he's studying the speed skating match-ups for tomorrow's race on his iPad. America is struggling his way out of a pile of snow that seems to have spontaneously fallen off the roof of neighboring Canada House. "Dammit Matt! I'll get you yet! JUST WAIT UNTIL THE HOCKEY MATCHES!!"
A faint cackling drifts down from the rooftops, and Netherlands rolls his eyes. Even he knows better than to mess with Canada during the Winter Olympics. America will never learn.
Someone just behind him snickers, and Netherlands turns to see Denmark sauntering up the street toward him, lifting a hand in greeting. Netherlands nods in return, and Denmark comes to stand beside him, watching America try to shake snow out of his coat.
"Your boyfriend is nuts in the winter."
Netherlands gives him a sidelong look. "He's not my boyfriend."
"Your hands say otherwise, man."
Netherlands glances down instinctively, then remembers he's wearing the Team Canada mittens that Matthew had given him just before opening ceremonies. (His smile was so sweet when Netherlands produced an orange-and-black toque in return.) Netherlands shifts his iPad into one hand and wiggles the maple leaf in Denmark's face. "The downside of mittens is you can't tell I'm flipping you off. I bet you stole Norway's hat."
"I tried," Denmark does his best to look mournful, but Netherlands has known him too long. "It wouldn't fit over my hair."
"Now that I'd believe."
Denmark continues pretending to look pathetic for a moment, then gives it up and leans against Netherlands' shoulder companionably. "At least we'll never lose you in a snow bank. There's such a thing as too much orange, Ned."
Netherlands gives him a long look, eyebrow cocked in that particular way that means he thinks Denmark's being an idiot. It's shockingly similar to Norway's expression for the same thing. (That may or may not have been a deciding factor the first time Netherlands and Denmark rolled into bed together, centuries ago.)
"My royal family is the House of...?"
"I know that!" Denmark grins and holds his hands up, unrepentant. "Doesn't mean you have to paint yourselves in it."
"Our flag is red, white, and blue. Like half the other Nations on earth," Netherlands says dryly, and Denmark pauses. "I like to be able to actually identify my athletes from a distance."
"...Never thought of it that way," Denmark concedes. He pushes off from Netherlands' shoulder to start walking, but grabs hold of Netherlands' scarf to tug him along. Netherlands sighs, but doesn't resist, following along. Denmark can be like a force of nature sometimes, restless and relentless as the tides, and it's much easier to float along in his wake than to try and dig in your heels.
Denmark pulls him all the way back to the hotel where the Danish athletes are staying and into the hotel bar. Netherlands finally manages to untangle his scarf from his neighbor's fingers and tuck his iPad back into his bag, raising an eyebrow when Denmark turns to look at him, finally pausing, as always, in the aftermath to consider his course of action. "...You don't have anywhere to be, do you Ned?"
Netherlands rolls his eyes, sliding onto the nearest bar stool and raising a hand to catch the bartender's attention, maple mitten and all. "Not really. I don't have any more events until tomorrow, and my king's busy with IOC things, he won't notice whether I'm around or not."
Denmark beams, happily plopping down onto the stool beside him, bumping his knee companionably against Netherlands'. "Good for you, same for me. Gotta love royals in the IOC."
Netherlands debates swatting him, but settles for ignoring the chipper poetry and strips off his mittens instead, tucking them carefully into his bag. Denmark snickers, and to his own chagrin Netherlands feels his ears going red. Luckily his beer arrives just then, and he nods his thanks to the bartender, busying himself with the distraction.
Not many Nations wear their rings anymore. Or if they do, they only wear the rings of their very closest allies, their "family". Times have changed, and while bright jeweled rings were a mark of huge status in the Middle Ages, and normal in the Age of Exploration, these days that much jewelry (especially on men) is an oddity. The European Nations at least have their EU rings, big shiny sapphires surrounded by a ring of tiny diamonds, usually worn on their right pointer.
(Denmark, for his part, wears Norway's, Iceland's, Sweden's and Finland's arrayed on his left hand, and Greenland's on his right pinkie. Norway's and Iceland's he's worn forever, but Sweden and Finland tend to fluctuate depending on how recently he and Sweden have gotten into a fistfight. But 2014 looks like it's going to be a good year, and Denmark's feeling generous.)
Netherlands' right pointer is conspicuously empty, but Denmark knows better than to ask about that, having been subjected to his growling soliloquies about all that's wrong with the EU before. Nor is he at all surprised to see Belgium and Luxembourg's rings; it would have been weirder if Netherlands wasn't wearing them.
But on Netherlands' right middle finger, right next to the missing EU band, he's wearing a ring that Denmark is both slightly surprised and incredibly amused to see. The band is a pale wintery gold, the diamond on it the clearest and brightest to come out of the Northwest Territories, flanked by two smaller rubies to imitate the Canadian flag.
Denmark lets out a loud laugh, clapping Netherlands on the shoulder and nearly making him slosh his beer. Netherlands gives him an unimpressed look, but Denmark completely ignores it. (Most people, and probably even most other Nations, would interpret that expression as disdain. But Denmark has known him for a long time, knows that faintly disapproving almost-scowl is just Netherlands' default expression.) "I told you he was your boyfriend."
"He's not," Netherlands remarks calmly, taking a long drink of his beer to save it from spilling if (when) Denmark jostles him again. "He's a good friend and close trading partner. Stop putting it in human terms."
Denmark rolls his eyes, signaling the bartender for a beer of his own but his attention still on Netherlands. "You send him flowers every year for seventy years, and you don't think 'boyfriend' is the right word? Should I use husband instead?"
His tone is light but he's only partially teasing, and they both know it. Netherlands' ears turn red again, and he resists the urge to bury his face in his scarf like he did when he was much, much younger. "No. Give it a rest, Den."
Denmark shrugs with absolutely no intention of giving it a rest. "I'm just saying, what the two of you have is something really special. We don't get the chance for that very often." Netherlands starts to open his mouth, but Denmark cuts him off, looking surprisingly serious for once. "Ned, name one other pair of Nations, current or past, that's had even close to the sort of romance you and Canada have going on."
"...You and Norway," Netherlands answers after a moment, and Denmark's face twists up into a funny little expression, like he's trying not to laugh and sneeze at the same time. "Or Finland and Sweden."
"That started off way different, though," Denmark latches onto the eternal distraction of gossiping about his neighbors to avoid talking about himself and Norway. His beer arrives, and he takes a grateful gulp, even if it is a Heineken. He keeps talking almost before he's swallowed, words piling up on top of each other in the face of Netherlands' impassive stare. "That started out practically a kidnapping, and I'd never call Sverige 'romantic', not even now. Yeah there's love there, but it's old love, familiar love, love that grew out of decades of living together, not like this sweet syrupy stuff you have with Canada."
One of Netherlands' eyebrows twitches at the terrible syrup pun, and for once Denmark can't tell if it's out of annoyance or amusement. He forges ahead anyway, eyes sliding down to regard his beer rather than his companion. "You are so, so lucky, Ned. You don't even know."
Whatever Netherlands is going to reply, he never gets to. The door to the bar bangs open, and they both look up to see England standing there, covered in a fine dusting of sugar snow that's melting as they watch, making his hair go darker with damp and doing nothing to quell the snapping fire in green eyes. As soon as he spots the other two Nations at the bar, he storms over, bulling his way in between them and grabbing Denmark's still-mostly-full beer to drain it dry. Denmark tries to protest, but England slams the bottle down on the counter and shoots him a venomous look before whirling to grab Netherlands' by the arm and drag him off his stool.
The solemn mood between him and Denmark is entirely broken, and Netherlands definitely looks amused at whatever has England so enraged. "Is your hotel door jammed again, Arthur?"
"No," England starts pulling him toward the door. "I need you to drag Canada off the curling rinks. He keeps trying to ride the rocks while we're trying to practice like some bloody figure skater-"
The door closes behind them and Denmark shakes his head, retrieving Netherlands' abandoned beer. He finishes it himself and tosses payment to the bartender before wandering after the other two.
If there's one thing that can be said about the Olympics, there's always good entertainment.