It happens every now and then. It's not often enough to be habitual, but not rare enough to be strange.
On a single stroke of spontaneous luck, sometimes Norway will walk into his home to be greeted by a low melody vibrating through the walls. He isn't alarmed. In fact, he even gets a bit excited.
He simply places his belongings down and takes a moment to be swept away by the old, nearly forgotten melody that resonates through his halls. He nearly thinks about just standing there listening to the beautiful sound and appreciating it for what it is; but all too soon, his fingers begin to twitch. His body becomes antsy and his plan of just enjoying the music is dismissed. He moves silently to the parlor where the case sits on its respective shelf.
Hastily, he flicks open the case and marvels at his old friend. The familiar feeling of his fiddle nestled between his shoulder and jaw is very comforting. A rare smile pulls at his lips. His fingers splay on the strings lining the neck of his instrument. The bow becomes an extension of his arm as he draws out a sweet, lengthy note. The one tone soars through the house.
The deeper melody from the living room momentarily pauses.
Denmark gives Norway a few seconds to walk to the living room and join him. When Norway enters the living room, his violin is settled back into its playing position. Denmark smiles up at him, his own cello comfortably resting against his shoulder and leg.
Without even a single word, the two run their bows against their eager instruments together. At first it just seems to be an improvised tune, almost to re-familiarize themselves with their current situation. Yet it isn't too long that a private song begins to dance in the still air of their home, crisp and alive. Denmark's deep strings run low and long, while Norway's violin jitters a quicker tune.
Denmark's heel starts to tap the floor to the rhythm, his hand sliding up and down the neck of his cello and finger pads pressed firmly against the wires. His mouth is quiet, his brows furrowed in concentration. He's positive his heart beat is in synch with his music. His arm elegantly bends to allow his notes to gently moan out from within the wooden confines of the cello, a strong sensation rushing through his system as he plays.
Norway's fingers fly across the neck of his violin, his arm fluidly swaying to allow the bow complete control over his movements. He resists the urge to sway to the music as long as he can, but eventually his feet are taking him on a small journey around the living room, sliding and skipping to the beat.
It's an interesting tune they play together. It's fast, but not too fast. It isn't sad, nor is it overbearing with joy. It's a song that echoes down the long corridor of history, settling for the theme of contentment.
The song coils around the two tightly, holding them in a warm, welcoming embrace. The song is old as the wind that blows across their beaches, but somehow it's still just as alive as when they played it by the fire, celebrating a successful hunt in the woods. Somehow, its liveliness manages to pulse a strong sense of nostalgia through their heart of hearts.
Norway can almost feel the grass beneath his feet, the warmth glowing from the pit. He can hear the distant waves crashing against his rocky shore. He can picture Denmark's face watching him as they celebrate.
His eyes were wide and young, his hands clapping to the melody Mama Scandinavia had taught Norway to play so long ago. Denmark's shoulders had been cloaked in a mass of thick fur, his tunic dirty from exploring the land all day long. He remembers being all curled up in a mass of animal skins by the hearth in front of the longhouse, snuggling together to keep warm, all the while that melody playing in the back of their minds.
Lost in the deep depths of the music, Norway still distantly heard Denmark's light voice say, "Play it again, Norge! Play it again!"
Another smile contagiously spread across Norway's lips as he continued to dance across the living room.
It wasn't until a few decades later that Denmark decided to pick up an instrument and begin to play with Norge on those nights by the fire. When he did, he had wondered why he hadn't done it earlier. Why hadn't he allowed himself to be wrapped up in the strong ribbon of an instrument?
It's always such a joy to see Norway so engrossed in something Denmark could understand. It was even better when he too could participate in it.
So when he hauls his cello against his body, and Norway is drawn by the ancient melody, his heart swells with a unique happiness nothing else in this universe could cause.
Just him, his cello and Norway. That's all Denmark thinks he needs to be happy.
They play still, their minds melting into a pool of memories. The two aged countries finally draw out a final note, dragging it out from their strings as long as they can. They let the music settle down like dust before opening their eyes.
Norway's large, velvety eyes gaze at Denmark fondly, his cheeks pink. Denmark has a quirked smile lifting the side of his mouth. He shifts a bit and sets down his cello, opening his arms.
The latter takes a moment before setting his own violin on the couch and moving over. He seats himself in Denmark's lap and hesitantly accepts his crushing hug. Denmark buries his face into Norway's shoulder as he feels Norway's arms wrap around his neck.
Norway nuzzles him, sighing.
Sometimes he forgets how peaceful Denmark has become. He has to remember that behind all that annoyingly obnoxious loudness that bounces off all four corners of the globe, he's simply a happy, optimistic man. He kind of has to remind himself that in these modern times, he and Denmark are no longer vicious warriors fending for themselves.
When did that even come to be? It's hard for Norway to remember. He wonders if Denmark feels the same way.
Denmark pulls back after a few comfortable moments.
He slides his hand up and entwines Norway's fingers with his own. Norway notices a soft edge to Denmark's crystal eyes. Some time ago, those eyes were fiery and sharp, glinting with an itching for battle and domination. Now, they're loving and truly protective, soft and gentle.
Norway briefly wonders if his own eyes have changed. Surely they have. Perhaps they've grown warmer, more understanding and patient. He can't be sure though.
"Thank you," Norway whispers, breaking the long silence.
"Thank you," Denmark responds.
A flutter of kisses peppers Norway's cheeks and lips. He sputters a bit but doesn't make any move to resist them. Eventually the two get up and go to the kitchen for their long overdue dinner.
Their instruments aren't even glanced at for another month.
So this is Chapter 1 of an ongoing fluff series I think I'll have for these two 'v'
Not all of them will be in the canon-verse I don't think. It's just a place for me to dump drabbles and oneshots into the world without having to create a brand new story for each one! :D
Tell me if you like the idea or not! Thanks so much for reading!