The rooms told the story better than he could. He never considered himself a skilled storyteller- he was far too inarticulate, his tongue slickened with the damned drink and his mind endlessly bursting with descriptors, idioms, and intricate wordplay. Their dance was clumsy and a waste of effort- time to be better spent on preservation. So he scattered his relics instead, the way he had the ashes of many a fallen warrior, and allowed the observer to document what they could and let the rest fall as it was. He had a curator's eye, building the set before the script and allowing inspiration to be tangible from the start.
And the rooms span quite the parable.
In the room closest to the stairs, where his pressing concerns- a wretched burn, charring everything in its wake and leaving his eyes soiled, muscles taut, lips tight, veins pulsing, bones cracking, heart racing, sweat pouring-could be dealt with instantly and certainly. He knew from the dreadful aftermath how his mind curdled, the grotesque artifact failing to correct the stagger of their step and the turns of the hall. There were dents, cracks, breaks, and dips where not welcome, and that was only speaking of the wall.
Maybe, in a hundred or so years- when the home was furnished with red ropes and pamphlets, a battalion of tourists armed with time-cushioned curiosity swarming about their scratched parquet, stories would be fabricated of the debauched walls. The tragic (yet glorious) tale of a battle raging on, the powerful lords of the North in a twisted dance of dysfunction, the term 'relinquish' little more than rumour and treaties scrawled with double-edged knives.
And none would speak of how Denmark fucked Sweden right across that charming little ambry.
Sweden's room was much like the man himself- completely devoid of charm. Not a fine little fixture or expressive art in sight. It was a mausoleum for peace, the scratched up floorboards serving as the epitaph. And that was more than it deserved. It was the Room for Sweden, and whatever moniker had been affixed to it before was peeled off like flaked skin under nails. Didn't really mean shit anymore, for the day two great blond men elbowed their way through the door, spittle and curses flying every which way, the room had become forever tainted. A palpable fury had overtaken the room, and the only available air rested behind the lips of the other. Two beasts to watering hole.
And it had worked, in a cracked little way. For while swords could slice and blunts could break, nothing worked better than a little abject humiliation. Just the way Sweden had writhed about with broken whimpers and heavy pants was satiating, and nothing was more beautiful than the knowledge that he had captured the great bear of the North. The little chill running down the spine of Europe, trapped by two arms and a leer.
I think I love you now. It's a hell of a feeling here, Sve, so let's keep it as is. You understand, right? You, like this. We can change it all up now, make this one for the ledger-the monumental fuck, where big boy Sve learns from his stupid mistakes- and maybe things will go in a little smoother next time.
It hadn't.
To make things this personal was one hell of a mistake; because vices always morphed into addictions before he could so much as think. A favourite of his took place one particularly nasty winter evening. From trapping Sweden between his legs (You've got a bit of an iron deficiency there, Sve.) to Sweden pressing his bruised chest against the ground- all against a crackling fire, a nice little touch of ambience. The poker was the main prop, and for costume, the fine little scar nicking past his ear and down towards his neck.
He called it "I Know Why I'm Doing This."
Because if he was going to play the monster and Sweden the hero, he would be able to chalk it up to Sweden's ridiculously overblown ego. He wasn't the one who began the whole deal, for it was Sweden's teeth sinking into his collarbone before any other roles were filled. And it was Sweden who had pushed his head precariously close to that fire, mumbling (couldn't even fucking enunciate when issuing death threats) that he could just turn that face of his into a twisted little lump. Mask t' match the player.
The history of war was tinged in grey, but Sweden insisted on the eternal dichotomy. There was pure, goodly, virtuous Sweden- the only fucks he had were tender little touches and gentle kisses with Finland, sweet Finland. And then there was the twisted little lump, who had indeed also fucked Finland, sweet Finland. A cock up the ass with bouncy thrill was the same whether coated in pink petals or the red of torn fissure.
"S'different." Sweden said. "When there's love. Nothin' y'do is 'cause of love."
Ah.
But there was Norway.
The very location of Norway's room spoke volumes of the self-control Denmark managed in those moments. There was a sharp turn, three matching doors, and a stubborn little threshold. The very nature of the room was a work in itself. Things tended to be left behind with casual carelessness- books, clothing, and so forth with promise of reclamation upon the next return.
Plus, this room actually had a window.
The script was far more direction and far less dialogue. Norway usually entered first, carrying his usual poise and careful posture. Composition intact, he removed his own clothes (it wouldn't be the same if Denmark did it, because that would be controlling and monstrous) whilst Norway kept his belongings carefully stashed over by the furnace. His clip was always the last removed, his hair tumbling into his eyes, and that had made Denmark laugh the first time he'd seen it.
"Your hair is a lot longer than I thought. Jesus, can you even see?"
"What difference does that make?"
The script was rather formulaic to boot- Denmark wouldn't have liked it in any other situation. He liked snappy dialogue, even though he was complete shit at producing it on his own. Norway was the one who could spin words into weapons, blankets, music, and everything else all at once. Yet during sex, Norway insisted on silence. Denmark pretended he didn't mind- it was a fine change from Sweden's boar-like grunts.
And nothing terrible ever happened then. Because Denmark loved Norway. Norway kept him human.
Come nighttime, Denmark would be prepared to cajole Norway back into bed with him. Norway would be dressed and off to his own quarters without so much as a "thank you". Occasionally, he deigned to toss out an excuse.
Iceland's probably hungry.
Iceland needs to go to bed. He won't go unless I tuck him in.
Iceland was running a bit of a fever earlier. I want to make sure he's alright.
Denmark didn't give a fuck about Iceland, not then. He wanted to bring Norway to his chest and bury his nose in his long hair, feeling the silken strands and smooth skin below his calloused fingers and submerge.
He'd actually tried drowning, once. He knew it wouldn't kill him, because he was a nation and until Copenhagen was reduced to flaming rubble and his faithful citizens tumbled off the Jutland in a heady choice of cold before burn, his lungs weren't in any danger of stilling. Yet after losing a nice young man to Poseidon's fury, he decided to learn just what such death entailed. His superior at the time- he couldn't even remember, they may as well have been a drunken hallucination for all he could discern them- had tutted at his morbid curiosity, but Denmark argued that they were his people. Their suffering was his own cross to bear (supposedly), and if he was going to do this job properly he was going to have to martyr a little.
A martyr, Sweden.
The drowning hadn't been so unpleasant, but maybe that was just because he knew he wouldn't die. It was probably worse for the mortal. They would be too busy thrashing about, gripped in fear and distracted by thoughts of what they loved. All Denmark felt was his lungs gripped in iron, muscles tightening without consent, and pleasant little pricks of cold niggling where they could. If he could die like a normal human, this wouldn't be a bad way to go. He was being doused- so enlightening, a little knowledge gained from the silent criticisms of the cold. It was nature's way of telling him that he ran too hot. Denmark decided that the icy scourge was far more pleasant than Sweden's morality cat o'nine.
And so he decided to fuck Norway, and what an experience it was. Not without mild drawbacks, of course. To wit: the closing scene.
Occasionally, Norway stayed with him (it took a little incentive, sometimes). He wouldn't look at him, but that was alright. Denmark was just happy to hold that lithe body to his own, to whisper words of love and promise and gratitude (Norway deserved so much of his gratitude; his voice couldn't manage to vocalize it all, but he did his best). Norway never answered, and that was alright, too. He was just happy to have somebody completely intact before him, living proof that his hands weren't a catalyst to ruin. There wasn't a single bruise, scratch, or bite marring Norway's pretty pale skin.
Denmark could take the most delicate of them all and leave him the very same as before.
Sweden was wrong.
Ughhhh, this ending is poo. Ah well. I wrote this, like, a dog's age ago on the kink meme and then nobody read it. So I decided to continue the trend and post it here. Because why not. If you were wondering what the shit that was, the initial prompt was "sex without love". Would you have guessed that? I wouldn't. Thank you so much for reading!