Characters: Denmark, Norway
Pairings: DenNor
Genre: Characterization practice
Rating: PG
Summary: Norway comforts Denmark
Foreign
Norway kisses Denmark's neck, a quick peck, collapsing against Denmark's back and shoulders, creeping over his side as his ghostly hands find their places on his lover's chest. Denmark stares at the ground, at the shattered pieces of a porcelain mug, devoid of liquid, empty. He doesn't recognize Norway's touch, which is strange. He isn't melting in pleasure that Norway is giving—hard earned affection, a taste that his efforts aren't fruitless and his pursuit of love isn't hopeless. Norway knows that something is wrong, so he kisses him again on the neck, then on the cheek, cupping his hands on the sides of Denmark's defined face, the rough touch of stubble underneath his fingertips.
"Dear, what's wrong," he asks, the words immediately feeling foreign and wrong on his tongue. He is not supposed to say those words—they contradict everything that he is and that he chooses to be.
And yet Denmark doesn't reply, he only breathes and focuses on the broken parts.
Norway shifts and pushes him backwards, sinking his lips into Denmark's slowly, then he quickens the pace, biting and nipping his lip to tease out a response, using his tongue as a clever tool to show that he really means it, that he's really concerned, and that he really does care.
Norway knows that he has him when he feels Denmark's tongue against his own, and he smiles, knowing that he's got his attention, that he's lured him in. Denmark is so deprived of affection that the moment he's on the receiving end he's moldable and desperate for more. He lets Norway continue to perform his lip games, and he shudders as Norway's hands slip underneath his shirt and explore.
"I'm not mad at you," Norway says, breaking off but hovering close. He retreats farther as Denmark tries to capture him again. "I'm not mad at you for breaking the glass, if that's what's wrong."
"'s not it."
"Tell me."
"I'm just sad, Norway. It happens sometimes."
"Don't be. I'm here."
Denmark sits up. He knows he's not going to get anything more out of the exchange unless he plays along. This time, it's Norway who cradles him in his arms, becoming the supporter, and brushing the back of his neck with soft kisses while he talks. He's never sure why Denmark is sad, but he has a low day every once in a while.
Norway has his low months.
But Norway knows that it's bad when Denmark starts crying, weakened and tired of hiding it. Norway grips him tight, and he cries a little too, sympathetic and releases his own inner pain. They cling to one another until the tears stop.
"Say it," Denmark says, sniffling as Norway wipes the raindrops off his face.
"I love you," Norway says, and the words still feel foreign, but not as wrong.