There were three types of beauty, Norway decided.
The first were the conventionally attractive: the ones who fit the mold perfectly, not a shade too pale or an inch too short. The perfect nose, the perfect mouth, the perfect face. No matter how long you looked, you cannot see how, to anyone, they could be unattractive, after time, however, their perfect face blurs with the countless other perfect faces you have seen. Eventually, you forget about them.
The second type were the hauntingly beautiful. There was something that drew your gaze to them, may it be the flatly red lips, the enchanting thin, lightly lashed eyes, or the regally broad shoulders. You stare at them for a little longer, and you notice the things that make them look strange to others. However, you cannot decide whether they are truly attractive or not, so they are seared in your memory as the unreplicatable beauties, the ethereal.
The third category was Denmark.
Perhaps it was awe, perhaps it was love, perhaps it was a wild infatuation. Norway was fascinated by Denmark's beauty. He had been, since the beginning of time.
Even if they loved another who looked nothing like Denmark, even if they hated Denmark to the very core, his attractiveness was recognized by all. What is supposed to be a relative opinion was an undisputed fact for Denmark.
He was beautiful when they were children, his blue eyes brilliant and clear and his cheeks rosy. His voice clear and ringing, his hair that shone as brightly and brilliantly as the sun. He was beautiful when they were teenagers, the sharp edge of his cheekbones and his clear, even skin. His thin, proud neck. His fingers thin and calloused. His narrow hips. He was beautiful when they were older, his sharp jawline and the smooth dip of his adam's apple. His deep scars scattered throughout his body that gave him a byronesque appearance only he could pull off. His muscles that caught the glow of the early sunrise. His easy charm in the way he conducts himself.
Norway had spent centuries convincing himself that he loved him, centuries convincing himself that he didn't, and even longer telling him to forget about it all altogether.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't forget to rumble of his voice when he laughs, the liquidity of his voice speaks, the clarity of his voice when weeps. He couldn't forget the serenity in his face as he slept, the perfect curve of his lips when he smiled, the delicate flutter of his eyelashes when he wakes. He couldn't forget his elegant yet imposing build, his strong, gentle hands, his kisses that tasted like the brisk ocean breeze. His long legs. His curving waist. His lips that form a delicate 'o' when he gasps.
Because Denmark simply refuses to be forgotten.