He sighed and gently propped himself out on the pillow. Norway was a quiet sleeper. He seemed like a marble statue that belonged in a renowned museum, with his tranquil face that was lathered with masculine beauty and with the softly white blanket draped on him with more elegance than one would think a blanket is capable of. With his eyes, Denmark traced his friend's delicate cheekbones, his proud, refined nose, and his thin, elegant neck before pulling himself away to see dawn's spindly arms clear the sky for the sun's silent parade.
He loves Norway—he always had. He was one of his closest friends, the roots of their friendship were millenias old. It had evolved over time: It had transformed from twinkling, childlike laughter, to bright, naïve young dreams, to loud cheers over drinks, to tearful goodbyes, to raging anger, to burning, passionate kisses, to civil acknowledgement of the existence of each other, to whatever they were today.
Sometimes, he likes to spend his nights with Norway. Beautiful, beautiful Norway. With him, the nights seemed to last for little more than a second. Years ago, they would wake up to an awkward silence as they tried to figure out what it all meant. Nowadays, they've become far better at forgetting about the night before.
He slid out of bed, the sun shrouding his back with a golden glow. Norway shifted a little in his sleep, unhappy with the loss of his warmth. Denmark bent over and began scavenging the suite for his his discarded clothes.
He could hear Norway slowly sit up on the bed as he woke, and he felt Norway's bluish eyes fix on him as he tugged his boxers so they rested snuggly on his hips. They didn't exchange a word. Then slowly, Norway slid off the bed to gather his clothes and made his way to the bathroom, his feet pitter-pattering against the wooden floor.
It wasn't until he was sure that the other was out of the room that Denmark dared to turn around to face the bedside table and reach for almost-full bottle of rich, red wine the two had cracked open last night to excuse their actions. With one hand wrapped around its thin neck, he brought the bottle to his lips and gulped down the remains. He should've died from alcohol poisoning a good many years ago.
With a burn his in throat and a pounding ache in his head, he set the bottle down carefully back where he took it from. He was wiping beads of red from his lips when Norway returned. He was already dressed in one of his crisp white shirts with the blue pinstripes, an expensive satin tie knotted neatly at his neck. Denmark glanced down at his shirtless self sheepishly.
"You shouldn't drink so early in the morning," Norway reprimanded him in a disapproving tone, "I'll see you downstairs for breakfast," he questioned in the form of a statement.
"You bet! Grab me some coffee if you can, please?" Denmark replied, flashing him one of his brilliant smiles. He wasn't sure how brilliant that particular smile was, but it was apparently enough to tempt a small smile from the other.
"I'll try," Norway promised before he stepped out. Norway had a way of walking that made him seem like he was floating. He always held himself with an easy grace, and every action of his seemed so effortless. Denmark was rather envious of that.
When he was certain he had left, Denmark closed his eyes and sighed, and—for the millionth time in his long, long life, wished he was someone else, far, far away.