Prompt: 'I always sleep better when you're here with me'
If there's one thing Denmark can't stand, it's spending the night alone. Ever since Kalmar, since the terrible nightmares that still come to haunt him every so often, the only way he can sleep is when there's someone with him. Some nights Denmark struggles through, some nights he can barely contain his own riotous thoughts- and tonight it appears to be the latter. Today he sat through the arduous length of a world meeting. Such a long conference, should, considering the circumstances, have him asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. And Denmark tries, he really does. For several hours he lies in his bed in the unfamiliar hotel room, watching the shadows play across its plain white walls and not daring to so much as close his eyes. Because the thoughts are there. They're always there. Old memories of past wrongs, forgiven after countless drunken exchanges, yet surfacing again at times like these. You are not good enough, they whisper. Look at what you did. You drove them all away. He sits up, carding tensed fingers through his hair. The minifridge in the corner holds at least three bottles of beer, perhaps some aquavit as well. But Denmark forces himself to stay put. If there's one thing worse than the nightmares, the crowded thoughts, it's drinking to forget them. Artificial numbness.
His eyes drift to his phone on the bedside table. Norway is just there, within reach behind the push of a few buttons. Of course, he is no doubt asleep- it is 3am- and would not take kindly to being woken by Denmark's petty need. Leave Norway alone, he tells himself. He's put up with enough of your shit over the centuries. Even after that, closing his eyes merely invites more shadows in. He flicks on all the lights and reaches for his prized fairytale book. It is perhaps the first compilation of those stories ever made, words barely changed from Hans Christian Andersen's original writings. Denmark skips the Little Mermaid, the Little Matchbox Girl, the Steadfast Tin Soldier. All of those never fail to make him cry. Instead, he flips over to the Ugly Duckling and begins to read. Sentimental, childish, Iceland would say if he was here now. But Denmark still remembers a time when these stories were the only thing that sent Iceland to sleep. Him as well, though he was no child in the dark days of the nineteenth century. The illustration on the last page is beautiful. A swan, milk-pale wings spread wide, soaring into the dusky gold of a summer sunset. Suddenly the image is blurred by tears. Perhaps I will never sleep again. Perhaps I don't deserve to. And Denmark begins to believe it. He begins to give up hope.
That is when a knock sounds at the door, so soft and tentative he might have imagined it.
'It's open,' he calls out, pulling on a jumper. The door swings open, admitting faded yellow strips of light. Norway stands in its frame. He is dressed strangely, in tight jeans and a knitted jumper, a coat thrown over his shoulders like a cape.
'Can I come in?' Denmark does not answer for a moment, admiring the tousled locks of pale hair that seem to absorb all the light around them.
'Of course.' Norway drops onto the bed, smiling drowsily. 'You're hosting this conference,' says Denmark, not unkindly. 'Why aren't you at home?'
'Couldn't sleep. And I guessed you probably couldn't either.' There is something tender in the words, something hazily beautiful about two souls finding each other on a velvet-black night, that Denmark has to swallow down a second well of tears. He sits down next to Norway, brushing the hair from his eyes with a gentle hand.
'Want to stay here tonight?' Norway pulls the blanket over them both and kicks off his shoes. Uninvited, but very welcome, he slides his arms around Denmark, who automatically pulls him closer.
'I always sleep better when you're here with me.' And at last, they drift off, together.