She kissed him fervently, fire in her lips. He sat there, cold as ice. His arms were tied with fraying rope, which dug into his hardened skin and left angry red marks where his blood pooled. In the dim light, their hair tangled together, a single slant of moonlight brushing against the two lost children.

Only the sound of kissing resonated in the cold cement room, and she pulled back, one hand still trailing over his face. Her nails scraped along his sharp, lean cheeks, ending with a tapered chin. He was a handsome boy, he had always been her handsome hero, stoic and dignified even in momentary defeat. He would free himself, soon enough, a game they played of cat and mouse, hide and week for the children who wanted so hard to be adults.

She kissed his nose, and trailed over to his thick eyelids. Like patience on a monument, he closed them, and she kissed them wetly and felt his eyelashes tickle her lipstick. She was beautiful, because she saw him in her mirror. Parts of him, the most important parts, if she closed her eyes and felt her cheekbones, she could imagine it. She could feel his hand on hers, she could feel they were children and lost and out of control, the fated infliction laid upon them because the adults were children, lost.

Slowly, she pulled back his hair until his chin stuck up in the air. He stared at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes in a poor act of defiance, but she only softly stroked her long fingers through his fiery red hair and kissed him full on the mouth, lips soft and gentle, but forceful enough so she could feel his teeth and she stroked his hair, fingers full of his white neck and touching the Adam’s apple that stuck sorely in his throat, which might move one day, move and call her sister.

--

He probably thought he was funny. Hilarious. It wasn’t that funny. He just made the coffee, as always, pretended the deadweight wasn’t there.

“Nor,” he called softly into his ear, “Nor.”

Ignore it. Always ignore it, keep a stoic face. Nobody had to know the feelings he had underneath, the slow feeling, the deep attachments rooted in years of pain and tears and sickness and diseased sorrow. In his own reflection in the murky black coffee, he could see he was old in his youthful face, the lines missing but the darkness of his eyes still there. And still, he saw the childish grin on Denmark’s face, the one he always wore when he was draping over Norway.

And he draped, draped like his life depended on it, both arms stuck out and hanging around his front, tugging at the frays of the ribbons, tugging them apart and back to the olden days when dirt filled his mouth and the ocean breeze filled salt in his ears and it was only them, children touching each other on the face, and not adults with long limbs and loud laughter.

“Nor,” he called again, and this time he responded by swatting him. Annoying. Too close to his ear. He tried to settle down, read the newspaper, drink his coffee, ignore him. Ignore the soft calls of Nor ringing in his ears, telling of a deeper love than chasms could find, a wider love than the world could see, a more meaningful love than he could ever find sipping coffee with his news.

--