In light from rust-coloured candles, Norway dances. His arms move, his body moves, and then his arms are suspended, emotive, fingers loose but everything else held taut. He freezes en pointe, and his calm face viewed in profile by Denmark doesn't bely any of the strain on his legs.
He trembles only once, imperceptibly.
Norway has strong legs, a body strong for its size which could have been perfect for ballet if his good Norwegian sense and values hadn't have always dismissed ballet as a foreign, European affectation. He has a national ballet company of course, but he has never thought to join it. Even when times were tough, when the stage was perhaps preferable to monotony of empty, hungry days.
Aside from a handful of stances and this-standing on the very tips of his toes with his full weight bearing down—he doesn't have much to show for his years and several attendances to various ballets.
But it's still enough for Denmark to occasionally ask—dance for me, Norway? At times like this for him, not with him.
The summer sun is low on the horizon, casting a low glow on the world: the beach, the sea, the grass, the few clouds, Denmark's summer cottage and its copse. The colours left in the world this hour are deep and mature, almost brooding, much more austere than the normal, day-time Danish colours. The playful blue sea is almost silent and black; the horizon has gone from yellow to orange to muted copper; Denmark's and Norway's heads have shaded several shades closer to brunet.
Typically this is not a whimsical time of day, nor is it Denmark's favourite.
But, he and Norway are burning candles. No electric lights, to evoke a particular feeling and mood and atmosphere they haven't felt for a while. It isn't a particularly missed time, but it was a good time.
Norway finally breaks from his en pointe hold, rests with his feet in fourth position. One foot behind the other, the lead foot flush with his shoulders. Forced to stand straight and with shoulders down, presently he looks two centimeters taller and two (physical) years younger.
One of the larger candles sputters. Norway looks to Denmark for a second, silent, one hand still positioned over his blond head.
Denmark stands up, and as he is crossing the room he brushes against the searching frond of a sizeable fern. He pulls Norway to him—the other's position is relinquished and broken, his good posture replaced by an arched back and slumped shoulders.
"It's a good thing you never considered a ballet career," Denmark says, hugging Norway tightly for a moment. A quick squeeze, to harden him the blow. He lets go of Norway and says, "A bit of seaweed could dance with more emotion than you."
"Probably a rock could, too," Norway says, shaking his head, shaking off anything that could come across as criticism. He knows he can't dance well. Doesn't want to.
Nor understand how to, really. He twines his fingers with Denmark's, leans against the other, rocks slowly back and forth like a boat on a calm sea. This movement he does understand, is something he likes.
Smiling, Denmark wraps an arm around Norway's shoulders. He allows the movement to continue, moving in synch with Norway's body as it moves him. "I could, too."
"Danish courtly manners?" Norway asks.
"Something like that," Denmark says. He laughs a little bit, looking down at Norway.
"I imagine it as—" And Norway pauses for a moment, letting himself be guided by Denmark who wants them to begin at least stepping. Their sea-movement, their push-and-pull model of waves, is slowly transitioning into a basic four-step waltz. Several classical songs immediately start playing in Norway's mind. He looks up and continues, "I imagine you trying to charm a noble lady with a bit of prancing, a nice little jump, and a nice ass."
Denmark laughs, says, "It is a nice ass, with or without ballet and tights.
Amused but frowning, Norway huffs. "I wasn't done, you. Anyway, that, or you learnt it from one of those Germans. Probably the artsy pansy one."
"Austria, you mean."
"You know, back then an artist could really only be as great as his patron was rich," Norway says. "Most of those great Germans, Frenchmen, and other European artists were family pets. Baubles and bragging rights." He seems a little bored, saying it. He thinks that his contempt for aristocracy is much more subtle than it actually is.
Denmark just laughs. Their current stepping reaches a fourth count—at the start of their next cycle, Denmark grabs Norway's hand and steps vigorously, excitedly, at this next first count. He could have a debate with Norway about nobility; he could remind Norway that the nobility as he thinks of it is beyond antiquarian; he could remind Norway that his contempt of wealth is laughable with all of that oil money tucked away in Norwegian custody.
He just dances with Norway.
"I could dance ballet, but here I'd probably saute something over. The room's too small. Besides, it'd be boring dancing by myself. You don't know any parts."
"Hmm," Norway says, dancing a little slower now. He seems bored and uninterested and a little vaguely irritated at something—seems a little emotional.
And this, for Denmark, is one of the times Norway's unknowingly at his most charming. Not alluring—despite the mature light and hour, and the dancing (which is evocative of mature light and situations, and sensations). Eventually their box-waltz resolves into the dance from earlier, a simple movement which mostly resembles a wave. They are both leaning against one another, swaying with each other, Norway's hand on Denmark's back, Denmark's hand on Norway's back.
They sway for a while. A breeze from the Baltic comes up eventually, briefly blowing into the open windows in Denmark's summer house. Candles flicker, and in that moment Norway shivers as gooseflesh blossoms before he pulls Denmark closer. A bit drowsy, Denmark smiles, thinks that, if anything, Norway has at least got the elegance and respectable mystique of a weather-beaten island.