Disclaimer: Do not own Hetalia
A/N: Hey guys, this is my first time writing a DenNor fanfic and to be honest, I don't really know much of the two. So it's pretty much flying blind here. Constructive criticisms are much appreciated.
And I apologize in advance for a OoC Denmark
Enjoy~
:)
"Love is like a bird. Hold it too tight and it will crush. Hold it too loose and it will fly."
Norway
It wasn't something I wanted to admit. The complexity of it all made it that much harder to swallow. So I hid shamelessly like a coward, as if nothing ever happened after every time it did. If refusing to look at myself in the mirror each time I shower would help me to forget, then I chose to do just so. If living under a false pretence of serenity granted me a temporary escape, then I would alter my mind so it skips over the undesirable parts.
A facade, that's all it ever was.
It hurts him more than it does me; even though he disagrees with me every time I say so. But honestly, physical discomfort is nothing compared to what he goes through afterwards. The pain on his face, like a serrated blade, carves its way into my heart and hacks it into a million pieces. "Norge," he would whisper into my ears with a voice as soft and broken as the ocean that separated our land, "I'm sorry."
It was nights like those do I actually see the real Denmark, fragile and vulnerable under the pale moonlight shining through the window. He would wrap his big strong arms around my waist, and I would run a hand through his tousled blond hair. A muffled sob would escape his lips as he pressed his head against my chest, and I knew there was nothing I could do except to offer comfort to the poor, breaking man in my arms.
And then, we would go back to normal, pretending like always that nothing had ever happened.
Denmark
The thing Norway is trying to forget, I had that for quite a while now. At first I thought nothing of it because what I did barely affected anyone I care about. There were people trying to help me but I just ignored them, simply because I felt that there was no need to go into complex concepts for something that wasn't even that upsetting. At that time, I didn't bother anybody with my behaviours. And I lived rather happily too, with the worst being only some broken furniture after every attack.
Furniture can be replaced. He cannot.
It wasn't until Norway moved in with me did I realize the terror of my own violence. It would take only a little spark to throw me completely off the edge. An unknown anger brewed beneath my carefree exterior, just waiting to be released on the closest innocent victim. One moment I would have an insignificant argument with Norge and the next, he would be backed up into a corner, with my uncontrollable fists mindlessly beating him senseless.
He told me it didn't matter because he loved me nevertheless. But I know that deep in his heart, he minded.
Each scar and bruise on Norway became a reminder. I engraved them in my heart just as I engraved them physically on his body. There were nights where I deliberately unclothed him, just to count how many mistakes I've made in the past, to stare at them until every little blemish end up knocking me breathless.
Norway hated this routine. And I was fully aware of it. But as desperately as he wanted to forget the whole messed-up situation, I just cannot bring myself to forgive what I've done. To forget means letting me off the hook, like he's giving me the permission to hurt him again.
I gave him a knife to defend himself during those times when I went berserk. He simply laughed and refused the deadly weapon. With a caring hand, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair out of my face. "You don't mean it." I remembered him whisper, offering me one of those rare smiles he only gave to Iceland.
I almost believed him.
It's ironic how in every hopeless aftermath, when Norge is limping and bleeding from my brutal outbursts, he ends up being the one comforting me. He would run his delicate long fingers through my hair and whisper encouraging words into my ears. There was nothing I could do except to submit under his touch. I loved embracing Norway, taking in his scent that reminded me of the salty sea he so loved. Despite the temporary illusion of peace, we both know that the next attack would be not far away. All the same, he gets up the next day, pretending that everything is going to okay.
Even though I know I was going to hurt him again.
Norway
One night was especially bad. I couldn't remember what we were talking about but all of a sudden he just stood up and glared at me. The irises of his radiant blue eyes turned dark and that was when I realized the assault was coming. Bracing myself, I remained impassive as I tried to stare him down. It barely did any good though because he picked me right up and took me to our bedroom.
With his rough calloused fingers wrapped around my throat, Denmark had successfully pinned me against the wall. An enraged frown twisted his features from what was usually a heart-warming smile. Apprehension enclosed upon my nerves. It was only then did I truly realize the genuine strength of the former Scandinavian King.
I was thrown down next, forcefully against the hard wooden floor. My eyes shut tight in anticipation for the following impact and like always, it came. His hand left an imprint upon my flushed cheeks. The sting was great but I did not dare to cry. It would cause Denmark too much pain if he sees it afterwards. A tear-stained face would be much harder to cover up than a broken heart.
Kicking was a regular of these beatings. With the tip of his foot dug into my lower abdomen, breathing became an increasing difficulty. Every hit left a decent bruise that would take weeks to fully heal, but it doesn't matter because I wasn't going to look at them. Through years of living with this sort of violence, I've taught myself that oblivion was the greatest medicine to fear.
And then, as sudden as it had begun, the pounding had ceased. As my body trembled with relief, my mind did not. Neither do I dare to open my eyes because if I do, I know I would be faced with the overwhelmed, defeated expression that did not belong to a man as powerful as Denmark.
"Norge…" his wavering voice barely audible against my exhausted panting, "I'm sorry Norge, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it I swear!" He bent down and caressed my cheeks, his fingers cold against my heated skin. His touches were as light as feather, as if anything harder and I would disappear. With my eyes still closed, I leaned forward and slowly began to kiss him, feeling his lips upon my bruised mouth. He tensed at first but slowly warmed up to the passion. Soon, the tip of his tongue was begging for entrance, and I granted it, willing to present myself completely to him.
The kiss was merely a distraction. As Denmark slowly remembered the situation, he pulled back and looked at me warily. The concerned and ashamed emotion in his eyes had returned, dimming those brilliant blues with traces of doubt. He picked me up with one hand behind my shoulders and one behind the back of my knees, carrying my trashed body toward the bed. Before I could stop myself, a tiny whimper escaped my lips as the tender skin of a newly formed wound came in contact with the wooden bed frame. Through my heavily-lidded eyes I could see a hint of desperation flashing across the man's handsome face.
Then the custom starts again. Denmark would gingerly remove my shirt to examine those bloody gashes and bruises. A careful hand would trace around them, sending exotic shivers down my spine. The touches were always incredibly gentle, such a great contrast to his brute strength from before. He would stare at me for hours, memorizing every little details of the precedent violence. I hated this routine because my bruises will heal, but each injury will leave a permanent dent in his heart.
For both Denmark and I, my indifference to these attacks became a protection. Perhaps if I wear the impassiveness long enough, it will replace my actual emotions.
Denmark
Norway assumes that I don't know when I'm doing when I turn berserk. But in truth, I do. I can recall in exact detail every blow I had given him. Despite what he thinks, I know I'm always fully aware of my actions. And that's what scares me too. It's like there are two people living inside of me. One is the happy-go-lucky man in which everybody is familiar with and the other is the power-hungry demon who feeds on dominance. So far it's only been physical injuries I'm inflicting on Norge, but I don't know when that ugly monster brewing within is going to step over that boundary and does something irreversible.
I'm too afraid to even imagine the possible consequences.
During those lonely nights where I was half asleep, I would unleash the dreaded question that caused such turmoil in my head. "Are you going to leave me?" my mouth would whisper before my brain even registered what I said. Part of me desperately wanted him to say yes, so he'll no longer be a sufferer of my brutality. Part of me wanted him to say no, wanted him to stay with me as he was the only thin piece of thread that kept me together. "Of course not," Norge would reply, "who else can I yell at when I'm angry?"
"Liar," I would shake my head and pull him closer, toward my dying heart.
It wasn't like we didn't try to work something out. We did. I went to one of those frustrating and useless therapy sessions where everybody would sit in a circle, and we would each take turns admitting our mistakes. Admitting the mistake was nothing. If that can stop me from what I do, then I'll shout it out to the entire world. My pride I can easily gave up, but Norge I cannot. We've been living together for so long that waking up and seeing his sleepy face by my side became the norm. Maybe that's why it was so hard to let go, he was already a part of me, already an irreplaceable essence of my world. But if he stays, I will only hurt him more.
An idea formed in my head, and the very thought of it sent terrifying chills down my spine.
Norway
Denmark had been acting differently for the past few weeks. Not much different, as he still had that goofy grin on his face every time I'm around, but different nevertheless. Ever since that last attack, he began to talk a lot less than usual. Generally, this would be considered a good thing because his frequent chatters always gave me a migraine. But even for him, it was a little extreme. Everyday, instead of laughing and constantly bugging me, he just sat there staring out the window.
I wanted to ask him what's the matter but I was too afraid of his reaction. The past few days have been nothing except bliss, and I didn't want to push my luck. It will only take a tiny flicker to ignite his flames, a small spark to reveal the dark side of Denmark in which nobody sees.
The nights he was rougher. Instead of treating me as a fragile glass doll like he always did, he took me with much more passion. Hands explored the surface of my body, leaving behind heated skid marks everywhere he touched. The kisses turned a lot more invasive, but I loved them all the same. Bruises formed, but for a whole another reason. There was nothing I could do except to submit under that strong, muscular built. My body shivered when he panted the words I so badly wanted to hear into my ears.
"Norge, I love you."
Then, he held me in a bone-crushing embrace, almost as if it was the last night we were going to spend together.
Denmark
The last couple of days were an absolute nightmare for me. On the outside, I had to remain my cheerful bubbly self so Norge won't suspect anything. Inside though, my mind was exhausted. The cruelty of my idea tore my heart apart. The faint blurry line between my own selfish desires and what was right blinded me. I could barely eat, sleep, or do anything for that matter. The only thing I remember was holding Norge everyday; taking pleasure in what was still mine before everything disappears out of my life.
I chose a warm, calming night to carry out my plans; mainly because I didn't want the harsh cold wind to further irritate his wounds. The entire day was disturbingly peaceful, and Norway had done nothing to provoke me. His face was as emotionless as usual. I also tried to stay calm but any attempt ended in vain when I remembered what I had to do. Finally at dinner, the amity broke.
"Denmark, tell me what's the matter." His voice was rigid and firm. Like there was no way I could lie to him without him knowing it.
Well then, let the acting begin.
With a force that surprised even me, I pounded my fists onto the table, shaking the plates and teacups. While trying hard to keep my voice steady, I stood up and glared at him. My legs though, betrayed my carefully composed confidence as they shook slightly under the heavy ambience. "What did you say?" a voice that was harsh and cold came out of my mouth, a voice I didn't even recognize.
"You heard me." Norge replied, his face collected and cool, keeping his feelings all to himself. This was frustrating. I didn't know what he wanted or what he was thinking.
I got out of my chair and walked toward him. Each step emphasized to show off my superior strength. He cringed but stayed at his place. The flinching took my breath away. The fact that he was scared only made this that much harder.
Grabbing the collar of his shirt, I lifted him off the floor with one hand and tried to stare cruelly into his eyes. Struggling, he looked back at me with first confusion, then a determination so fierce that it almost knocked me senseless. Slowly shaking my head from the temporary stupor, I took him to the living room and slammed him onto the floor. The landing thud and his surprised cry shot their way into my heart, shattering it in a million different pieces.
"You don't challenge me, ever!" I commanded while kicking him in the back of his legs, where I know will hurt but brings the least damage to his crucial organs. "I'm going to make you regret you've ever stepped into my house!"
"I'm sorry."
His apology threw me completely off guard. For a quick second, I just stood there, trying to battle a sudden rush of guilt. What did he have to apologize for? He wasn't the one planning on beating me to a point where I can barely move a finger. Seeing his unwavering expression made me want to kneel down and hold him in my arms. No, what I'm doing now was for his future, a future free of violence, a future free of me.
Remembering what I had to do, I continued my performance, praying that my temporary hesitation did not deceive my actual emotions. I leaned down to just inches away from his face. This way, he can memorize the insanity on my face, and hopefully that would be enough for him to walk out the door.
I growled, and grabbed his ashy blond hair. "Get out!" Run, Norge. Run so you'll never get hurt again. "Get out! I never want to see you again!"
With a look of dismay on his face, Norway slowly shook his head, like a mother trying to coax a stubborn child out of denial. "You don't mean that, Denmark."
"Shut up!" my fingers reached out and wrapped tightly around his throat, leaving just barely a passageway for breathing. "You don't fucking know anything about me! Just stop it! Stop trying to pretend that nothing is wrong, stop pretending that you're the good guy! Get out of my house now and never come back!" Translation: I love you too much Norge, that's why you have to leave. Leave, so you can be safe.
Seeing his pale face at this distance reminded me strangely of the first night we spent together. Like a fast-forwarded movie, the memories played before my eyes. I remember hugging Norway, and laughing with him under the colourful Northern lights. "Annoying anko," he would mutter with a disapproving face but secretly smile because that's just how he is. And then I would giggle too, feeling as if my entire soul had been lifted.
Norway had saved me from the scary monster in my heart. And now, I'm going to save him.
Norway
There was definitely something off with Denmark, with the way he acted, and the fact that he zoned out every other second. So at dinner, I unleashed the dreadful question that, if not carefully phrased, would most certainly light the flames.
And it did.
One simple enquiry and Denmark erupted. Pounding the tables with his fists, he stood up and glared furiously at me. I flinched involuntarily as he walked closer and lifted me by the collar of my shirt. The sunny blue irises in his eyes glowered.
And that was when I realized that something was different. Despite the superior strength, he was gentler, more controlled in his actions. The wild, untamed look that always occupied his eyes during one of these attacks was missing. In place of it involved a fearful emotion, carefully veiled with pretend anger.
He's acting.
The realization caused both confusion and amusement. Denmark was a terrible actor. I guess that was what's expected of someone who wore their heart on their sleeves. As one can easily tell from his blunt personality, drama was not one of his strongest abilities. He has some stupid ways of doing things but by no means did he ever reduce to lying. Maybe it was because I could always tell when he wasn't telling the truth. Taking into consideration of his poor theatre skills, he's actually doing a pretty decent job.
"Get out!" he breathed onto my face, a voice hard and unnerving. The back of my legs throbbed with the sting that resulted from his previous kick. Determination filled my veins even when he wrapped his rough fingers around my neck, nearly cutting off my breathing. There's a hidden message behind those harsh words that Denmark was trying to get across, and I think I know what that might be.
He wanted me to leave, and he was going to beat me until I do.
I could imagine the possible reasoning behind his decision. One would be that he actually did want me to get out of his house. That I highly doubt because then those "Don't leave me, Norge" he mutters sometimes when he's asleep wouldn't make too much sense. Another likely motive could be that he was having one of those attacks again and was unaware of his own words. I lingered on this possibility, but soon had it crossed out of my list as well. Denmark was acting for sure; his carefully crafted mask might've fooled someone else but certainly not me.
This boiled down to the last option. And as much as I don't want to believe it, I knew it was true. The idea involved the stupidity and naiveté in which only Denmark embodies.
He was going to create as much aggression between us as he can, so I would leave voluntarily.
As if that'll work.
Maybe it hasn't gone through his thick head but he needs to understand the fact that if I wanted to leave, I would've left a long time ago. If I didn't feel like putting up with Denmark's messed up behaviour, then I wouldn't have stayed a single second. But I did put up with it, and I did stay. So no amount of physical pain was going to change my mind.
His breath was close to my face, cool air mixed with a slight scent of alcohol. Trying to comfort him, I smiled and stretched my arm to caress his cheeks, attempting to distract him from his foolish scheme. And it worked too, for about half a second. I could see a flicker of longing in his eyes before he suddenly realized what was happening and resumed the performance.
"No!" he growled, and kicked me hard in the stomach. I doubled over in pain, with the smile still plastered on my face. "Get out Norge! I said I never wanted to see you again!"
Despite my body's protests, my brain commanded me to shake my head. My trembling arms slowly began to push myself up, only to be knocked down once more by his brutal force. Under the dim lights of the stars outside the living room window, this process repeated. Again and again and again and again.
…
The next few hours were a blur. I could only remember Denmark's exhausted face and my own panting. The amount of endorphin my system released to block out the pain had me completely drugged. Blood trickled down my face and into my mouth. It tasted like a mixture of iron and salt; if I wasn't paying attention, I would've swore that it tasted the same as his tears.
And then I got up, and walked toward the door.
Denmark
When I saw the determination in his eyes, I knew it was going to be a long night for both of us. But I had never predicted that it would last hours. The worst part was he never even attempted to fight back. The clock stated that it was well past midnight and to be honest, I don't know if I could continue anymore. If I do, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up killing him.
He was strong, too strong for his own good. To be able to withstand my attacks for so long without a single whimper, Norway possessed quite a formidable endurance. Normally I would laugh at him for this, "You're too durable Norge, like you're made out of rocks or something." But now, the only sound my body could possibly make is that horrid choking sound which seemed like a hybrid between a sob and a cough.
Finally, he got up. I stared and waited for him to do what I wanted him to this whole time, though I secretly hoped he doesn't.
But he did. As his limping body slowly trudged by me, I held my breath and watched. Norge walked, gingerly and gradually toward the wooden door. When his broken fingers wrapped themselves around the metal doorknob, he turned back, beautiful amethyst eyes that resembled much of the sky at sunset rested upon my shoulders. I wouldn't dare to look back, as that will betray the sudden rush of the salty, bitter tears trailing down my cheeks.
The door opened, then shut, resounding in a loud and clear thud.
So here I was, standing in this empty living room stained with Norge's blood.
Standing all alone.
Norge
The night air was warm and refreshing. The breeze brought out a whole different sense of awareness to my body. It was actually rather bright outside, regardless of the time of day. The moon shone brightly upon the land, casting swaying shadows of the nearby trees.
For some bizarre reason, Denmark reminded me a lot of the moon; startlingly brilliant even in the darkest nights. His laughter, though stupid, always manages to cheer me up. He wasn't perfect, just as the moon isn't of a smooth, glossy surface. But his flaws made him who he was, and that's just fine with me.
Like the moon, he has a shadowy side; a side that he hid from the rest of the world. But when it actually boils down, there really isn't much difference between his two personalities. It was stubborn of me to try and ignore his darker one. Ignorance meant that I didn't really understand him. And I wanted to understand him. I wanted him to show me his shameful face, and his pathetic tears, because in the end, no matter what happens, I was going to be there with him.
Though I promised myself that I would never leave Denmark, I did because I needed answers. And I will find them. And I will help him. In perhaps a few more years, there would be a cure to his bipolar personality, and I will be there with him every step of the way.
A/N: Hehe, sry for the really abrupt, really awkward, and really sappy ending. But it is a school night and I really want to finish it today. Again, I apologize for Denmark's out-of-characterness.
Beta: Denmark's too poetic, change it.
Me: But- but- but- *sputters*
ANyways, there might be an epilogue to this 'cause I actually like this story a lot and is not quite ready to let go yet. ;) But that depends on whether I hav time and the number of reviews (*hint hint nudge nudge*)
:)
Constructive criticisms (or reviews of any kind) are always welcomed!