A/N: Wrote this a few years ago.
Some days he just stays in bed, breathing. Slowly and steadily. He opens his eyes to watch the ceiling. Wooden, dark. Old. He doesn't want it to look that way, doesn't want it to remind him of anything, but it does, and he watches it. Memories are painful. Pain is good.
Only when he drifts back to sleep do his eyelids slide closed.
On other days he does things. Little things, like cleaning. He puts things away. He always puts things away. The shed is full of trinkets and tools, ones that are broken and others that are just there. Might need them later, he thinks. Might just need them later.
Then he does bigger things. He acts on impulse, or out of habit. He thinks that he does, at least. It's easier that way.
And suddenly Norway stands reluctantly at his doorstep.
Norway doesn't look at him for a long time. He's not sure if it's weeks, or months. Maybe years. The way he passes his days doesn't change much. Norway makes his own breakfast. Norway cooks his own lunch. Norway eats dinner alone. They rarely meet, even though they both mostly stay in the house. And when they meet, Norway looks away.
He doesn't really mind.
Norway doesn't answer Denmark's letters. Sweden knows this because he takes care of the mail. It's one of the little things he does, one of the things he's always done. In retrospect, he thinks, he shouldn't have cared so much. Letters are just letters. He mostly lets Norway do what he wants. One of the little things Norway does is send letters to Iceland. He writes those letters neatly. He writes them often.
Iceland doesn't answer Norway's letters. Norway knows why.
He's angry sometimes. He wants to fight. He wants to slam his own head into the wall until it bleeds. He doesn't do that. Well, he does, once. Norway comes in at that time. He wonders if Norway tries to meet his eyes then, but he probably doesn't.
Norway stops him and leads him to bed.
He can't fight. He should have, but he couldn't. He can, but he shouldn't. He dreams about this during the following night. He doesn't breathe slowly or steadily when he wakes up. It's early, and other birds are singing. He wants to go out.
Norway is in the kitchen, and he turns to look at him when he enters.
They eat breakfast in the garden.
The times change slowly. Norway doesn't seem as reluctant anymore. Denmark might have thought that Norway gave in, maybe that he even liked it. Others might have thought a lot of things about it, but Sweden did not. He knew how it was. He wondered if he could do something. He could. He wondered if he should do something.
They didn't really argue a lot.
Then the times change more quickly. One day Norway tells him that it's been decided. Sweden doesn't wonder about anything. It's one of those days. He lies still in bed, and Norway stands still by the door. Norway wonders if he's going to get up. He doesn't. Norway asks him if he's going to do anything.
He feels strange then. It gets harder to breathe. Norway is suddenly next to him, and Norway's arms are around him. His face is pressed against Norway's shoulder, and the fabric covering it begins feeling wet. He understands that his tears are the cause of that. Moments pass.
"Thank you", Norway says, calmly. "It could have been worse."
He doesn't know what to say. He tries to stop crying.
Norway leaves.
And the times keep on changing, almost too quickly. But change is good. Change will keep him busy, he's told. Keep his mind on new things. It doesn't. The world around him grows unstable. Small things become big things. These are strange times. A growing feeling of something unknown lingers in the air.
While he is occupied with things from the past, Denmark is occupied by Germany. So is Norway. There's not much he can do, but he does what he can. There's a lot he should do now, he thinks. There's a lot he should have done then. But he does what he can. He has to, even if it's not enough.
Nothing is ever going to be enough.