Nothing
He sits on the couch at two in the morning, alone in his home, quiet, other than the bitter winter wind of December.
He's curled up in his nightclothes, typing a number into his cell phone, and then presses delete. And he types again. Deletes. Backspacing over the meaningless digits.
He knows he can't call—he could never bring himself to—but he at least tries.
He's not okay, and he can't communicate.
He tries to text instead. But he gets stuck, hung up on words. He doesn't know how to begin. "Hey," he types, finally, and his thumb clicks SEND.
He waits. He stares blankly at the screen, hardly blinking. He hopes he doesn't get anything back. Or maybe he does.
"Hey," is what he receives a few moments later, a mirror image of the emotionless greeting that took him hours to finally say.
Maybe he was still mad.
Frowning, he has already planned his next words.
"You need to come over," he says, and nothing more.
"Okay," Denmark replies back, not asking why. He knows why.
Norway unravels himself and feels the wood creaking beneath his feet as he unlocks the front door. And he slowly sets himself back down on the couch again, sitting rigid, uncomfortable, his pride ruffled. It's stupid, he says to himself. He should've never said anything. It would be easier.
He empties his mind and dissociates from reality, knowing he has exactly twenty minutes until Denmark arrives on his doorstep, chilled by the subzero temperature as the Dane trudges through the snow, still half asleep.
Norway doesn't blink as the door creaks open. He knows Denmark will leave his coat and shoes by the door, not bothering them to put them away. There are more urgent matters to attend to.
"I need to make something warm to drink," his house-guest sighs, teeth still chattering. And he walks off.
Norway doesn't even look at him. He ignores the noises of clinking ceramic and the water faucet, the low hum of the microwave and beeping buttons. He feels like all time has stopped.
Without asking, Denmark has made him a mug of hot chocolate, and he hands it to him. He still refuses to make eye contact and his jaw is locked firm. But he holds the blue glass between his palms, feeling the heat snake up his body like vines on an old building.
Denmark sits next to him, and he too, says nothing.