Just a quick oneshot I wrote while waiting for the doctor for our appointment today. I tried to do something different with working on a DenNor fic instead of my usual USUK, SpaMano ones. Forgive me if they're OOC. I'm not at all used to working with the Nordics yet. :/ I wish I could understand and work with them better. They need more doujins and screen time imo. Hurray for my 20th fic!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. All rights go to Hima-papa.
"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like?" He asks him on that pale, moonlit night in 1397, a thousand stars twinkling in his eyes like a million questions that hung in the sky, falling falling falling and landing right on the very tip of his tongue. "If there was ever a spark - you know, like some moment of love or some moment of lust or something like that - that could happen between you and I?"
"What do you mean by 'if,' anko?" the blonde asks coyly, a glint of mischief flickering in his eyes as he moves closer to shrink the gap that lay between them. "Isn't there already one happening now?"
The response takes him aback and he's left stunned, speechless. Eyes glued onto the Norwegian boy – lithe frame, tender lips, upturned curl and all. Large amethyst eyes that stared straight into his soul, withholding a shroud of mystery that shook every fibre of his being, right down to his very core; the enigma of this strange, beautiful boy luring him in, desperate to find out more.
But they were not lovers – that, they could never be. Not in this day, not in this age, not in this lifetime at the very least. This sort of thing just couldn't be accepted by their kind of "conservative" society. It's strange to think how something as pure and brilliant as his – no, their – love could be looked down upon as something so sickeningly and irreparably wrong in the twisted views of their prejudiced world. But it was.
Not that it was a bad thing, to be honest. He did not force himself to act upon it, did not involve the other party in his selfish, solipsistic, egotistical whims. He kept them hidden to keep the other happy. So that, at least for Norway, there would be no pain nor injury nor crime involved.
These were just emotions that he felt, mere feelings that he wished to have reciprocated. Just knots in his stomach and a flutter in his chest, an innocent, messy bundle of feelings he hid, but could not control. It was love – a bright, wonderful, beautiful one-sided affair of love that devoured him whole and left him in the sky, soaring and flying in fleeting, passing moments of joy.
"Never mind," he says, forcing smile as he pushes the other away. "Forget what I just said, that wasn't right."
There's a silence that hangs in the air as he stretches the gap far out between. A wordless exchange of remorse and regret, spoken by quivering lips and widened eyes.
"Jeg elsker deg," Norway breathes a whisper, a faint response hoping not to be heard amidst the deafening silence and creaking floorboards.
But Denmark catches it, and he feels cheated. It's in Norwegian, very close to his native tongue, so it's quite easy for him to understand what it means. Nonetheless, he smiles and feigns innocence, hoping to prolong their conversation for just a little while longer.
"Hey, what does that mean?"
"It means 'I hate you,' stupid anko."
"Oh, I see. I'm sorry."
Norway opens his mouth to speak, expression slightly pained, but the words catch in his throat. He hisses faintly and clucks his tongue in response. "Suit yourself," he says tersely, as Denmark watches him turn his back and walk away, the sound of his footsteps weakening with each passing second.
But it was much too late now for the Dane. He had let his thirst build up for far too long, allowed his feelings to linger and ebb and grow and swell right up until this very moment, where they lay inside of him; a colossal wave of emotion struggling then spilling then surging with a roar.
Simply put, he could not handle this for much longer.
"I'm sorry, Norge."
And then there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of fans that whirred above him, the hot breath that tickled his neck, the smaller arms that wrapped around his frame, pale white hands gripping him right back. Crescent nails digging his palms, the boy leaving behind markings of his self on the Dane's dry skin, imprinting shapes and curves and moons as his own ensign. The taste of sparkling cider that met his lips, his tongue sparring with the younger's own, the feeling of their bodies as they melded into one. It was hot and he was dizzy, but even then, this moment felt perfect – brief, fleeting, awkward, but perfect. He was sure of it.
Then the boy breaks the kiss and tugs the Dane closer, a soft clink of the metal cross in the other's hair, a breathy whisper gracing his ears.
"I hate you," he says, voice seemingly resolute.
But that is a lie. He likes him and he loves him and cares for him so much more than anybody else in the whole wide world. His teases are all but affectionate gestures to grab hold of his attention, his punches a simple excuse to touch and feel him, feel the sensation - the calming warmth - of their skin brushing past one another.
He never tells him, though. Never admits to the Dane that there really is no way of falling out of his love for him now. They've simply fallen far in too deep.
So he says it again, says it three times, five times, ten times more, like a mantra, hoping to ameliorate the unsteady throbbing he feels in his head, his chest, his heart.
But the web of lies he had so carefully built is slowly snipped away with every tick of a passing second; the facade of his once-strong resolve breaking and cracking and crumbling down to a hot mess of kisses and breaths and sweat and limbs, bodies entangled in the other's own.
"Stupid bróðir," he muffles a curse in the elder's chest. But this time, he does not pull away.
"Well, well. You're a clever one now, aren't you, Norge?" the Dane comments, a smug grin finding its way onto his features.
"Only when the situation calls for it," he adds, pressing a finger to his lips as he gestures to the room beside them, where his younger brother lay asleep. "Now shut up and be careful now, lest the child will wake up."
A smirk.
"Silly bror, when was I never?" came the sly reply, accompanied by a chaste kiss snatched from eager lips.
"Jeg elsker deg. I hate you, anko," the boy whispers, almost breathlessly, in his ears.
He looks up, eyes gazing at the night sky amidst snow-covered mountains, at the ethereal, argentine moon that smiled down at them, at the thousands of stars that sparkled and shone and reflected themselves in the large orbs of violet that looked and watched and stared right back at him.
"Jeg elsker dig. And I hate you too, bror," he replies, smiling all the while.
But that's a lie too, and they both know better than to think otherwise.
Translations:
Jeg elsker deg - I love you. [Norwegian]
Jeg elsker dig - I love you. [Danish]
bróðir - brother [Old Norse]
bror - brother [Danish, Norwegian]
Anko - a dialect of northern Japan for 'older brother.'
So yes, from these translations, you can pretty much tell they were lying/seeing past each other's lies this whole time. Hurray for ambiguous fluff, hahahaha!
Why the year 1397, you ask? Well, the year 1397 was when the Nordic union was actually formalized through the Treaty of Kalmar (thus, it was called the Kalmar union) and I couldn't think of any other better time period for them to actually get together than this one, because if I put them together in a modern AU kind of thing, then this whole same sex union wouldn't be as controversial as it was perceived to be in older times. I didn't bother making this a totally historical fic because I feared being inaccurate, since I'm not at all familiar with Scandinavian history and just did some research on wiki for basic stuff. Hope this A/N was sort of helpful and educational for you, hehe.
Please leave a review and have a nice day! :)