Eeek, thank you to the reviewer who pointed out my historical error! It was awesome of you to let me know.
1.15.12: I editted this to add in Denmark's accent, because he was lacking one. xD
Norway lay prone on the ground, his face stinging from the sharpness of the snow pinching his skin. No white flakes were falling from the sky, but a fine powder created flurries in the dim, pre-dawn light. It danced through the raging winds, causing indigo eyes to water from dryness and cold and although he would never admit it, defeat. His face was level with a pair of thick, furred boots that stood too far out of his reach, a distant warmth or menacing symbol of what was to come. He flinched when Sweden's feet took a confident step towards him.
Sweden, his hair thrown back from the fierceness of the wind, held a hand out to Norway in a friendly gesture that had bittered to a firm demand.
Norway reached up towards the man's outstretched hand, knowing that he would be unable to stand on his own. He grasped cold, solid fingers in his palm to pull himself upright and face a pair of dark and eerily triumphant eyes. The whites sparkled like the glazing of ice atop a day's snowfall, realizing how far they had come to get what they wanted. Sweden's stony face remained in a shallow grimace, and Norway's features mirrored his with a casual frown, but there was a true sadness behind the weak man's scowl. He wasn't lost, but instead had a path stretched out in front of him that he wasn't able to avoid no matter how much he longed to stray away. He was headed towards a life with Sweden, the very man who was tearing Norway from the lovely, smiling person always present at the back of his mind.
Memories of sharing warmth and tales of adventure, of spending the night with full bellies while lazily staring at the distant lights in the sky, of a big hand ruffling his hair, drifted through his mind. He was starting to shiver, feeling frightened and alone, but the sharp pounding of his heart against his ribcage was a strong reminder of what he was fighting for. Now the wind was making his eyes water again.
"No!" came the voice of a desperate man stumbling through the snow. "Wait!"
Neither of the figures turned, or acted as if they heard at all. Norway used a second hand on Sweden's forearm to get onto wobbly, numb feet before releasing him and stuffing his icy fingers into his pockets. The Swede's skin felt strangely cool through the fabric of his sleeve, lacking a certain degree of warmth that a human should have. Norway blamed it on the severe chill in the air, ruffling his own blonde hair into his face to hide wet eyes.
"C'mon," Sweden said at last, his voice raised slightly to be heard over the wind but still nothing more than a mumble that tripped over two simple syllables. "'F we leave now, Denm'rk and th' others won't see us go."
Another loud, pained shout of "No! Norge!" was carried away by the wind as Norway nodded solemnly. As much as it hurt, Norway and Sweden had agreed that departure in the early hours of the morning would be the best option, to avoid painful goodbyes. He yearned to see Denmark one last time before they parted so finally, to trace his jawline and run his fingers through his hair and ignore the idiotic grin he'd be given. But the Dane would never allow Norway to leave him, even willingly, without an all-out brawl with Sweden. And still, Norway could not bear to have his last memory of the fantastic, frustrating, surprising man be one of sadness. As he stared at his own tracks in the snow, words laced with frantic worry and pain were shouted at the young man, but he could not hear, and simply nodded at Sweden instead.
The shouting man, standing too far away to be heard, but unable to catch up to the stoic duo no matter how quickly his legs moved, began to holler more loudly. His screams were met by a sharp howl of wind in his ear, a stinging handful of snow flooding into his face. His heart broken and his will defeated, Denmark didn't stand back up when his ankle twisted and his knees hit icy, unpleasant softness.
A broad-shouldered, anxious Dane shot up in bed, his covers trapping him in his own body warmth as he struggled to make sense of reality. He had suffered through that dream again, of Norway's departure to be with Sweden, where he was always a bystander with a voice just not loud enough and legs just not fast enough to make a difference. Denmark had a feeling in his chest that the blankets would not warm, an emptiness in his gut that he knew breakfast would not fill. Nonetheless, he stood abruptly in a careless flourish that sent comforters tumbling to the floor and made his way out of his room and towards the kitchen.
Even as he fished in the pantry for the last of the raspberry pastries and dug into the sweet flakes of dough, Denmark's mind was focused on his Norge, missing the treasured not-quite-smiles and the scent of coffee that hung like a cloud around his small form. The sweet turnover between his lips seemed so wrong without the smell and sound of brewing coffee in the background, although he could never make the air taste just like Norway's favourite brew. Even after so many years of separation and loneliness, Denmark still had that same nightmare of the events before the morning he woke to find Norway's bunk empty and cold. He still thought about the soft paleness of his lover's skin and the way his calm voice rolled soothingly through one's ears no matter what he was saying.
The sound of heavy and groggy footsteps shook Denmark out of his dreaminess, reminding him of the presence he shared his home with as a frail and delicate, silver-haired boy made his way towards the fridge. Iceland was not awake yet, a fact made obvious by his unintentional lack of attention towards Denmark. Once he had a glass of orange juice gripped tightly in one thin hand, he mumbled a hello to the Dane. He was up fairly early for a Saturday morning, judging by the fact that the sun hadn't yet reached its peak height. The young man was definitely a heavy sleeper, someone who could lie in bed all day if he had no reason to be productive.
Denmark secretly wished he could be the same way, but he was haunted by a memory every time he closed his eyes.
"Good mornin', Ice," he said, smiling cheerfully at the distraction the teen provided. "Ya goin' out with Hong Kong and Seychelles again today?"
"Don't I always?" he replied, muttered and laced with annoyance. Saturdays had become a day where Iceland abandoned his housemate in order to spend a day with friends, but it left Denmark with too much to think about on his own. Saturdays were lazy days of reading and thinking and occasionally, just staring at the palms of his hands and remembering how Norway's warm hand had seemed so small gripped in his own. Saturdays were the one time during the week when he could indulge in memory of what he had lost, could miss it and drop his usual sunny smile for a few dragging hours. Iceland downed his juice quickly. "We're leaving early today. Sey's idea, but she has no idea what kind of morning person I am."
Denmark chuckled at the boy, while he shrugged into a clean shirt and slid on a pair of old, beaten-up sneakers. "She'll need all the luck she can get ta avoid gettin' her trees wilted by yer glare."
"Huh," Iceland huffed, fairly unamused. "Anyways, bye. Have fun lazing around the house all day."
"I will!" Denmark called, smiling at the strained conversations they always seemed to have. In fact, ever since Norway had left them, things had gone from brotherly to downright awkward. As much as Denmark loved the boy and wanted to protect him like a "big brother" should, rage and jealousy flared up at the thought of him.
Because, on the night that Norway had made his secret departure, he had also told his young, silver-haired little brother that he would be leaving and not coming back. Denmark, on the other hand, had been left in the dark and hadn't been given a chance to say goodbye, to hold the man close, whisper goodbyes and I love yous that would only be returned by the sad look in Norway's eyes. A part of him, not as small and insignificant as he would like, blamed Iceland for not stopping Norway, for not fighting as hard as he could to keep his big brother close to him. If he had confided in Denmark instead of Iceland, Norway wouldn't have broken his union with Denmark to form a meaningless, forced one.
Some Saturdays, Denmark could only wonder why Norway was so tempted by the idea of independence to leave him behind. What had originally gone through his head, which made him want to get away? Surely he still loved Denmark, despite the decades that they had been apart. The Dane would not allow himself to believe any different.
This Saturday was not a change from the others, and Denmark spent all afternoon lying on the couch, his face pressed into a pillow that smelled too much like snow. He hated the fact that snow never fell outside of his window, just everyone else's. There were no winters spent frolicking and building forts outside of his own home, none cold enough to require roaring fires and scalding cups of hot chocolate. Instead, he had a thick, disgusting grayness in the sky.
The quiet click of his doorknob turning after a few hours alerted Denmark that Iceland had already returned home from his day with Seychelles and Hong Kong. The door opened slowly, tentatively, sending a coolness flooding into the next room. It was closed equally as gently, a soft sound that was barely audible over the sound of Denmark's own breathing. He wondered where the boy had gone out to with his friends, and how he'd gotten home so soon.
Denmark rubbed his eyes, still groggy and lazy after his long day of doing nothing, and sat himself up to greet Iceland. Just as he made his way to the hall, his socks sliding dangerously across the wooden floor, the front door swung open again, narrowly missing his face.
"Danmörk!" Iceland called as he carelessly walked in. "Who's here? I saw a taxi..." The words trailed off when he shut the door and saw Denmark's flustered features and furrowed brow. "What...?"
"Didn't ya just come in?" Denmark asked him, blinking. He swore he had heard someone walk in the door just before Iceland had.
"Yes?"
"No—I mean, a minute ago, I heard someone come in 'nd thought it was you. But ya just walked in now..." Denmark looked the boy up and down, staring at the heavy shopping bags weighing down his arms and the old sneakers he wore too often.
"I bet he's just hearing things," a third, calm, nostalgic voice suggested from the doorway to the kitchen.
"Brother!" Iceland shouted, dropping his bags to the floor in a loud, messy heap and throwing himself at the man as an automatic reaction. The man, blonde-haired, thin, and barely taller than his little brother, took the boy into his arms gently.
Denmark merely gaped. His heart was soaring, pounding too quickly in his chest to let him form a competent thought in his head. Because Norway was standing right there, his smirk slowly fading while his arms tightened around the boy protectively. Denmark blinked hard, sure that he was still asleep on the couch and simply having a wonderful dream about the man he missed so terribly.
"You need a haircut," Norway muttered, tugging lightly at the locks of silver on his brother's head. The sheer sound of his voice made Denmark's heart stop for a long second, because it was exactly how he remembered it: calm and smooth, like the bubbles in a great beer. And, staring intently into the deep indigo eyes that avoided him and instead were captivated by Iceland's hair, Denmark decided that he was very much awake. It was his Norge.
"Shut up," Iceland retorted, pulling Norway back to arm's length to stare at him and like Denmark, make sure he was really, truly there. Once satisfied, he forced his mouth to a trademark scowl. "It took you long enough to get away from Sweden."
Norway looked past Iceland at Denmark's dumb expression, nodding dismissively at his little brother's comment. He tucked a lock of hair behind Iceland's ear, then walked past him to look up at Denmark. The Norwegian's soft blue eyes held pain and longing and a hint of sentiment as they gazed at his lover. They were so close, but not close enough by Denmark's standards. The fronts of Norway's shoes were pressing into the tips of his toes, and their chests were almost—almost—brushing, but there were still a few inches of space between them.
Norway caught Denmark's eyes for a dragging moment. Then, wordlessly, he reached up to twirl the tip of the Dane's bangs around his index finger. Denmark could have leaned into the touch, closed his eyes and sighed and really felt at home again, but his stomach was doing somersaults and he couldn't concentrate on anything besides Norway's eyes.
"You need one too, idiot." The little Norwegian tried to sound nonchalant, but he couldn't help the excited rise in his voice when he spoke.
Denmark placed a warm, heavy hand on his upper arm, ready to wrap him in a suffocating bear hug, lift him up off of his feet and show him how much he missed the man simply by their closeness. "Nor..."
Norway brushed the hand off of him, stepping backwards. His eyes decided to avoid the Dane after that, and he busied himself by bending down and gathering the discarded groceries. He stuffed them into Denmark's arms, then retreated back towards Iceland.
Denmark swore the two of them could hear his own heart break.
"Aren't you going to start dinner?" the guest asked, wrapping a thin arm around Iceland's shoulders. "I'm starving. And I need to talk to Ice." Iceland sent his housemate a pleading look.
Denmark smiled and nodded, putting on a convincing façade. If dinner would make Norway happy, he'd gladly make it.
The meal was loud and bubbly, yet had an undertone of awkwardness that would not dissolve in the air. Denmark chatted away about anything and everything he could think of, sticking to lighter subjects. But at every pause in the conversation, Iceland sent a question hurtling towards his brother. He wanted to know what he had been doing all this time, away from them and likely doing something more interesting at Sweden's house than they were at Denmark's. Each of the man's answers were clipped, a single sentence at best, sending the message that he definitely did not want to talk about it. A certain unobservant Dane took no notice and kept the conversation going nonetheless.
He heaved a heavy, contented sigh and directed his attention at Norway. "I made dessert," he announced, knowing the Norwegian's sweet tooth would at least be paying attention. "But it's still in the oven, so we can eat it later."
Norway and Iceland nodded distractedly while Denmark grinned idiotically. They silently left him to clean up with nothing more than a sympathetic glance from the silver-haired boy as he made his way back into the living room.
Denmark could hear the murmured calmness of their voices as he slowly and mechanically washed dishes, Iceland surprisingly quiet and compliant while his older brother relayed a story. At first, Denmark thought he was hearing his first account of the events that had happened while his lover was under Sweden's rule, but as he strained his ears to listen harder, he realized that the story was about trolls and heroes and maidens. The fairytale began out darkly, and the characters' situations only seemed to get worse, accented by glimmers of false hope.
It was a Swedish fairytale.
Waiting until the voices in the other room quieted, he slid the pie, warm and deliciously inviting, out of the oven to cool. He really had nothing else to do in the kitchen, but something—perhaps the ringing silence in the air—kept him from barreling into the living room to pull Norway close and never let him go. Something was off, wrong, because Norge wasn't returning his gazes or even acknowledging him. Denmark sat himself down at the kitchen table, propping his head up with both hands. Throughout the entire separation, all of the years he'd been without his lover, there had been a knowledge that Norway would return to him, and their reunion would be sweet, blissful, and lovely. That knowledge was kicked down a notch by the Norwegian's strange avoidance and ignorance of him, and made Denmark doubt the relationship he believed could last through years of lost contact.
It was quite a while later that the soft padding of feet on hardwood reached Denmark's ears. His head shot up hopefully, but he felt a guilty wave of disappointment when only Iceland poked his head in the doorway to look his housemate over. The Dane's eyebrows rose questioningly.
"He fell asleep on the couch," Iceland said in a hushed tone. "...He's all yours."
Denmark couldn't help but smile at the knowing look in Iceland's eyes.
Norway's sleeping face—relaxed for once, not exactly in a frown—instantly caught his attention, and sea blue eyes slid over the pale skin. He gazed at the round slope of his forehead, down to the translucent eyelashes that brushed the dark circles under his eyes. Kneeling beside the man, Denmark whispered his name. When no response came, he deemed it safe to reach out with a strong, though slightly trembling hand, and brush a thumb along cool lips. His palm pressed against Norway's cheek, fingers spread apart from the pinky tucked in the ridge of his jaw to the index finger just barely touching a few thin eyelashes.
"Don't touch me." The Norwegian's eyes opened plainly to stare accusingly at Denmark. He merely grinned, from ear to ear, and removed his hand only to slide it down to Norway's side and take his small hand in his palm. The Dane's heart rushed triumphantly when no further protests came, and stroked his thumb along Norway's knuckles. They were ice-cold.
"Jeez, Nor, yer freezing," he noted.
"It's cold in here," Norway muttered in response. "You need a blanket in this room."
Denmark sighed softly, resting his chin on the couch's cushion, very close to Norway's. "Ya can't sleep here, then, if it's too cold."
"Yes I can," he grumbled stubbornly. "Just get me a goddamn blanket, you idiot."
"Ya at least hafta get up ta brush yer teeth before bed."
"I don't have a toothbrush."
The Dane's soft, breathy laugh ruffled a few strands of Norway's hair. "You've gotta have one. Yer always prepared."
"Shut it," he grumbled, finally sitting up and shoving Denmark's head off of the couch. He chuckled in response, thrilled to be speaking with his Norge again, even if he was being grumpy.
Once Norway retrieved his toothbrush from the bag of his few belongings, Denmark sent him an overjoyed Danish grin from the foot of the stairs.
"Race ya!" he chuckled childishly, bounding up the steps two at a time. The other man chugged behind lazily, turning down the kind offer to go at his own slow pace. When they were both heading towards the bathroom, Denmark boasted noisily about his fantastic victory.
"Your bathroom's too small for two people," Norway huffed, annoyed. "We can't both fit at the sink without your stupid elbows hitting me."
"Aw, Norge!" he laughed in response. "I don't mind standin' close ta ya!" He slid into the room beside Norway despite the small man's shoves against his shoulders and frightening glares. The only moment he stopped to acknowledge the discomfort was when Norway sent a fist flying in the direction of his jaw. It connected lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to knock his toothbrush out of his mouth and smear toothpaste all over his face.
"Sorry. My hand must've slipped."
Denmark laughed heartily, and grabbed for a towel to scrub the minty mess off of his mouth. "I see."
"Serves you right for getting in my way," Norway said, stubbornly putting the blame on the other's shoulders. Denmark merely grinned, shrugged, and began to walk out. "Wait."
Norway grasped onto his arm, bony fingers pressing into the skin of his wrist until they could feel a strong, steady pulse. "Huh?"
"You've still got some on your face," the Norwegian explained, not meeting the brightly lit, blue eyes that stared at him up and down. They both stood there for a long stretch of time, Norway stalling and Denmark waiting for the inevitable swipe of cool fingers on his cheek or—even better—lips wiping the toothpaste away.
The towel was stuffed roughly into Denmark's face by little hands before Norway walked briskly away. Denmark's lips turned up against the thick, scratchy fabric. It was great to have Norge back.
When he was sure his face was void of all traces of toothpaste, Denmark finally made his way his bedroom, and was unsurprised to find an exhausted and pouting Norwegian between the covers of his bed. "It's more comfortable," the man made as an excuse. "And I didn't want to have to go all the way downstairs."
Denmark clambered in beside him. "Yer always welcome."
"Shut up and go to sleep, Den." He turned on his side, stubbornly facing his back to the Dane. Denmark frowned at the lack of affection, although Norway was never one to dish out a flurry of kisses and cuddles at every waking moment. But the elder man was heavily disappointed by the lack of hugging their reunion had been filled with, so he listened to the slight tingling urge at his fingertips, snaking his hands around his lover's waist from behind. "Don't—"
"I missed ya," came his rough, cracked voice as he ducked his head into the nape of Norway's neck. "I really, really missed ya."
It took a minute of flips in Norway's stomach and shuddering breaths from Denmark before the smaller man rolled over so that they were facing each other. "Stupid, why are you crying...?" He reached up with a slow, delicate, steady hand to brush a few tears away, but the icy coolness of the fingers sent an abrupt shiver through Denmark.
"I'm just so happy to have ya back, Norge," the Dane choked out, catching the hand that had now begun tracing small circles underneath his eyes. His own large hand provided solid warmth to seep into the skin, which brought a contented sigh whispering off of Norway's lips. "Yer so cold."
"It's cold there," he explained, not exactly needing to explain what he meant by there. And, in a sudden burst of longing, his barriers crumbled to dust and he gathered himself close to Denmark's chest. The sheer heat radiating from him was like a human furnace, the arm wrapped around his waist and the hand grasping his own not enough to chase the cold away from his bones. He wrestled his hands away from the Dane's gentle hold, sliding them down to bunch up the fabric of his shirt and rest on a smooth, hot stomach.
Denmark's initial reaction was to jump back from the unpleasantly cold fingers on his abdomen, but Norway looked so comfortable, so unbelievably happy that he couldn't bear to pull away. The small man's breathing was slowing and even though he couldn't see the face half-turned into his chest, Denmark guessed that the eyelids were drooping with exhaustion that could finally be relieved.
"We'll be together like this again," he told Norway assuredly, kissing the top of his head. He smelled like coffee and snow and sweat and some other scent that he couldn't ever place, but the nostalgia from the days past swam in his head. It was Norway's scent, even if it was laced with slight desperation and the last remnants of pain. The Norwegian's breath was growing steady and draggingly slow, his hands still limply resting against warmth as he drifted into a quiet, contented sleep.
Norway gained independence on June 7th, 1905, following the disbandment of the Norwegian and Swedish union.
Denmark woke up to find his bed empty.