The Dane's house was abnormally quiet aside for the soft tapping of rain upon the roof and on the windows. The weather was rather dreary, as was his mood.
He had been in his room the entire day, laying upon his bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling. His mind was replaying the past few day's events, using the ceiling as a sort of "screen" for him to visualize everything on. It was the same effect as closing one's eyes and using the eyelids to do so, save for the lonesome darkness.
The first day a fight broke out among Denmark and his Swedish counterpart. Needless to say, such fights occurred countless times throughout their history of knowing each other; however, none had been as brutal as this. Details aside, in the end Sweden had simply left Denmark's house, taking Finland, who has served as a spectator to the fight, with him.
Enraged at their absence, the Dane's home turned into what looked like a battle site – broken glass cluttered the floor, and he had put his ax to use at decimating several pieces of furniture. The Norwegian hadn't served as much comfort either; instead he had disappeared from Denmark's presence, consoling a jittery Iceland in another room.
The second day Denmark had become aggressive with Norway, anger from the day before still flourishing. The Norwegian put up with it, as he was accustomed to, though he did find the situation a bit more unbearable this time around. He resigned to a room with his younger brother that night.
The third day Denmark was alone in the house. The pair of brothers had left within the night (for they were well aware that he was a heavy sleeper, and wouldn't wake to even the slightest sounds amidst the night's silence). Their departure was inevitable.
The fourth day not much was done by the wild-haired man, lost in a slight depression.
The fifth day was the same.
The sixth day was today.
The springs on his bed squeaked as he sat up straight, sliding a leg off the side and lackadaisically standing up. A hand reached up to rub a swollen red eye; it was apparent he'd been crying.
Being alone, he had no one to boast to about how "awesome" he was; how he was the, self-proclaimed, "King of Northern Europe"; how he'd always "be on a higher level than the other Nordics". Consequently, he had no reason to speak, and he was just beginning to realize how sore his vocal chords were from speaking all the time before he was quieted.
The silence allowed him to hear new noises that he'd otherwise never notice. A clock was ticking in a nearby room, its incessant tick-tock annoying the Dane to a point where a headache was beginning to develop. With a groan, he shuffled his feet out of his room, seeking out the clock.
It was on a shelf among books that were rarely touched. He picked up the clock, mindlessly hurling it across the room and into the wall to rid of the noise. Its face shattered, and the ticking finally ceased to exist. The glass collected on the floor with other glass that was already there from days before.
Massaging a temple, he turned back to the bookshelf, bending down to get a better view. He reached out to a book unlabeled on the spine, pulling it out to reveal a dull gray cover. Small gold letters that read "ALBUM" were printed neatly in the middle.
Denmark exited the room, album shoved under his arm. He descended a staircase, making his way into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee; had Norway been home, the Dane would've made him make it.
Minutes later the rich smell of the drink wafted in the air. Denmark sat at a table, head resting on its surface. The porcelain cup that held the coffee was to one side of him, and the album to another. He fingered the corner of it.
When he was through with this particular round of sulking, his head lifted and he brought the cup near, taking a quick sip. The album was drawn near, too. A layer of dust was pushed from the top and the cover flipped open; he wanted memories – different, happier memories – to comfort him.