( axis powers hetalia ) the five stages
Title: The Five Stages
Series: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Denmark. Norway, Iceland, OC Faeroes, Greenland, and Virgin Islands/Danish West Indies also. Sweden mentioned.
Rating: PG ish.
Summary: Prior to the Schleswig-Holstein War, Denmark asked Sweden-Norway for help. They agreed, and then later took back the offer, leaving Denmark to suffer a horrible defeat alone. Five loosely connected scenes concerning Denmark in the 1860s.
Notes: Written on prompts from a friend, referencing a lot without explaining a lot. Uses a lot of gratuitous colony OCs, including hipster Virgin Islands who is my new fave. That said, this isn't one of my best stories IMO, crit would be appreciated.
He writes and sends the letter on his best, heaviest paper, his hand shaking the ink pooling where he lets the pen rest. Denmark is not good at penmanship, diplomatic niceties, or begging.
When the letter is sent he waits. Always impatient, he works it down to days. Four to reach Stockholm. Three on the outside to talk about it. Four more for the reply to arrive. If Nor is in the capital, it will go faster, he thinks. He hopes Nor is in the capital, although it has a sour taste. Be in Stockholm, but don't be there willingly, my Nor, he thinks, and his stomach twists because he would rather Norway be miserable than happy.
He is making good progress on wearing a hole through the carpet of his study, pacing straight lines across the room, twelve steps, right turn, nine steps, three-quarter turn, back to point a, a perfect right triangle. Counts each step and falls into a half sleep pacing.
Denmark has always liked order. He's clumsy and untidy but every object is aligned in its place, ever colony in their room, every servant precisely on time. He knows where everyone will be a 11 AM, and at 8 PM, and at all times in between. His larder is a mess but he knows exactly what it contains. His house could use some repairs-when there's money, when there's time-but he knows how many paces across every room. And it settles him, because if you know these things, you can control them. At 8 o'clock in the evening, Faeroes and West Indies will be in bed, Greenland and Iceland will be studying the bible, the kitchen will be cleaned and the horses put to bed, and Denmark will be in his study. Pacing.
And at 8 o'clock in the evening, Norway should be reading in the parlor, but he is in Stockholm, maybe replying to a letter.
The reply arrives after twelve days. It is one line and in Sweden's heavy handwriting: We agree to lend the Kingdom aid.
Twelve months later, Denmark is dying.
The first time he tries to get out of bed, he falls, twisting, slamming onto his shoulder and snapping it. And it is broken and painful and doesn't stitch itself up and stop hurting even though he lies there, face pressed against the wood and pulsing with hurt, willing it to fix itself, heal itself, straighten itself, come on. What is usually the work of five minutes has yet to even start an hour later, and Denmark comes out of his haze to realize that, pain aside, he's still lying on the floor.
He tries to lift himself. His left leg slides about, finds purchase, bends, and he rolls a bit onto his left side which sends a new sharp wave of pain through his arm and collar bone. Halfway up, he thinks, and then realizes he can't move his right leg, and that his right leg was Schleswig.
While he struggles to understand this, the pain, the fact that he is on the floor, the fact that he can't sit up, the bell tower in town rings, and he realizes something else: he has been lying on the floor for at least two hours, and no one has noticed.
He is alone.
It is like the floor drops out under him. He cannot feel anything. He is cold. Everything is cold. His fingers are cold but he feels them as though they are objects, touching him but not attached. His heartbeat causes his entire body to pound. "Bein'… dumb," he whispers to himself. His is starting to tremble, holding himself up on one hand and one knee. In a burst of effort that sends fire and metal and spikes burning through his body, grinding and stabbing pain , he pushes himself so he rolls and falls onto his back. The pain brings tears, itchy and stinging, into his eyes. He is panting and his heart is practically humming.
No one is coming.
No one will come.
He is broken and unable to move and alone. His breath is quickening and then catches because it hurts, it hurts to breath, it hurts to move his chest, it hurts to live, it hurts to die, it hurts to be hurt, and he is alone. Something has moved or shifted, and every breath is a knife twisting into bone. He wants to pass out, and tries breathing shallow and exhaling little, hyperventilating for a lighter head. His breathing takes on a sound in his head: ah-lone, ah-lone, and he tries to argue with it, wild and disjointed. I ain't! Nor will-
-Oh, right he thinks, along with several more things less coherent: swords and fire, thundering footsteps, metal shaking, collarbones and Nor's, exposed and pale and cool, and he thinks of snow and sees an image of Sweden with his glasses ground into his face and a million things that aren't memories, just fragments of thoughts: right, he thinks before passing out; Nor is happy…
Eventually the servants find Denmark, lift him into bed, and call him a doctor.
It takes three months for his arm to heal, and when his cast comes off, he is still in a wheelchair. His leg is not broken, it responds to poking and prodding as a leg should, but it will not hold his weight, will not move when he wants it to. One doctor suggests he just needs to practice, but Denmark does not. He sits in his wicker chair and lets himself get pushed around the rest of winter, looking at his colonies quietly and thinking.
West Indies never bothered visiting him when he was ill, even though Faeroes brought flowers and Greenland made himself useless pushing the chair. Iceland only visited once, and avoided him after that. Denmark contacts America about West Indies's sale. I have no need of this land, he says, and adds a pitch about the colony's useful location and resources. He writes a similar letter to Prussia: Iceland, for a leg.
Think of the strategic use, he urges, writing with a book as a desk, hunched in front of the fire. Think of the advantages to taking Iceland from me. Think of me walking, think of all who do not care gone. Think, and his hand trembles, and he writes about Icelandic natural resources, painting a picture of a place more hale, open, friendly: not sullen and uncaring, Norwegian and gone, someone who doesn't care and won't visit, someone who doesn't write and doesn't help. There is no point in having an unhappy house, and his heart pounds heavy in an excitement that leaves him dizzy and churning and hot. If the house cannot be happy, I will make it happy. Not by punching. I'll just send them away. Who needs Sweden. Who needs Norway. Who needs West Indies. Who needs Iceland. A happy family-only the happy ones can stay. He writes so frantically, talking to Prussia about glaciers and steam, that he upturns the ink bottle over the paper, book, and his knee.
Black ink drips and run down his hand and leg into the carpet. For all his frantic movement he is slow to react, watching it and gasping: then he realizes what has happened. A moment later he realizes he can't stand up to clean it (and why does that make him feel sick? It usually is just frustrating), and he shouts out for a servant.
It is Iceland who appears at the door.
It has gotten quite late: no more light comes in the windows; the only light is the fire. Now that Denmark notices, he finds it kind of amazing he was even able to see to write. "I spilled the ink," he says, gesturing at himself. "Light a lamp and go get a maid."
In the flickering light, Iceland looks like Norway. It's something about his mouth and eyes, but Denmark isn't sure what- but his stomach twists and drops. He's still clutching his letter to Prussia, and folds it quick, guiltily, as Iceland lights the lamps. "Indies says you're negotiating his sale," he says. "He's pretty mad."
"He'll like it better with America," Denmark says. Iceland seems to frown-might be just flickering light-and leaves to summon a maid. Denmark flips a corner of his letter back and forth. He doesn't know if Iceland will be happier with Prussia, but, Iceland shouldn't have- shouldn't have not cared about him. Why should he care when they don't? Maybe someone will attack Sweden, and Denmark will- well, he'll just sit here, and not care. He looks at the fire with a cold expression, half practicing for his fantasy. But suddenly he can almost picture the letter arriving, short, too the point, begging. I wouldn't have asked you if there was any other way. But our people are talking about how the three of us are brothers, and you know I've always thought that, Sve-
No. Not his letter. Nor's. Not Nor's letter. Just Nor. Nor small and thin and reaching out to him, silently asking, and Denmark would- he'd push those arms away-
No. No, he'd take hold of Nor and never let go, feel him fight tight against him, fingers trailing over his back and arms and everywhere, promising-I forgive ya, it's okay, you're back now and that's all I-
Iceland clears his throat and Denmark starts, having been so deep in the fantasy that he'd forgotten where he was. "I got a cloth," Iceland says, holding it up.
"I told ya to get a maid," Denmark says a little crossly, tucking the paper closer to himself. Iceland bites his lip and then kneels on the floor to try and mop up some of the ink. Denmark's chest is tight. He's getting used to that. He leans forward a bit, to watch Iceland better.
He fidgets with the letter, running his fingers over it, almost petting the paper. After a silent minute or two, he leans back again. It's not like Iceland will care. He hates it here, so why not let him hate someone who has it coming? Why not let Denmark walk again? Nor will care, but Nor- Nor only cares about Iceland. What does it matter if Nor hates him, too? Faeroes still cares, and Green does. He doesn't… need anyone else.
"You've been acting weird," Iceland says presently.
"Have not," Denmark says automatically, without even thinking about it.
"You're usually loud and annoying." Iceland sits back and examines the much darker rag, and the still stained carpet. He seems to decide he's done enough, as he doesn't resume trying to clean. He stares down at the rag. "Lately you've been… weird."
"I'm not," he says. Iceland looks up at him, and his eyes really are just like Nor's. Without thinking about it, he crumples up the paper.
"I just meant sitting in that cha… inside all day," Iceland says, looking nervously at Denmark's fist and standing. "I guess. Um, I'll get a maid now."
"Wait," Denmark says. He's frowning but not out of anger. He's not sure what Iceland is saying, but even as he tells himself that he crumples the paper between his fingers more. You're back now and that's all I- "Uh," he then says, not having thought past wait. "Help me to my room."
One of the rooms downstairs has been remade into a bedroom for Denmark, since he can't walk. It's smaller and much less grand, but he's started to like it. There are less memories. Iceland pushes him in and helps him drag himself onto the bed. Ice jostles him and he hits his healed but sore shoulder against the bed and is overcome in a wave of anger. Knew it, knew fucking Iceland doesn't give a shi- but this time, instead of the angry misery overtaking him, he seems to notice it, observe it from higher up, the twist in his gut, the heat, the tension… and Iceland's startled face. He swallows and waves it off, sinking back into the bed and pillows and taking a deep breath of the musty smell.
"Are you okay?" Iceland asks, hovering over the bed.
Denmark raises his hand and frowns and thinks about it. "Are you worried?"
"Maybe," Iceland says, looking away.
"Huh," says Denmark. "Well, I'm going to sleep."
Iceland says goodnight and leaves.
Denmark does not go to sleep. Nor does he think much. He stares at the ceiling and drifts, wondering about love and rubbing his leg. He wonders, presently, if he's angry. He doesn't feel angry, right now, like this. He never feels particularly angry. Until he does, and by then… He wonders if he's angry at Sweden and Norway, but somehow that's a difficult, sharp question; twisted and private. It shouldn't be, but it hurts anyway. He decides he hates them both and the pillow against his shoulder, he imagines it's-
Maybe he is angry.
The next day, he pays more attention to West Indies, and the sales negotiations fall through soon after.
A few weeks later, he goes on a walk.
He's still in his chair, so Iceland pushes him, but he's out of doors. For the occasion Faeroes has decided to come along, although the other two remain home. The day is bright and Faeroes wears her hair loose, the sun making it look more gold than brown. Iceland doesn't complain as he wheels Denmark through town. By all appearances they're a happy family, but they're too quiet.
Denmark doesn't know what to say. He has tried not to think about being angry and difficult questions like that, but not thinking about it seems to have made it impossible to not think about it.
All his life, he has known he was loved. When Germania left him young, his villages and people loved him, and showered him with all the affection he needed. He found a brother and had his love; then Nor's after. He has had enemies, sure, but the people he wants to love him, do. And he's basked in it. The affection of his people, the warmth of being close-it's more important than eating or breathing. Denmark must alway be loved.
His colonies must love him too. They are pretty much his children. He's raised them since they were tiny, even if they were Nor's first. He looks at Faeroes, small and long-haired. She skips as she walks, looking like the young girl she isn't really, but he thinks: well, that's nice and Danish; skipping. Because it is not Norwegian. And he is still moving, since Iceland is still pushing the chair, and he thinks Iceland's not running from hard work is also inherited from him. And children love their parents, so long as their parents aren't like Germania and leave.
Or Sweden.
Or Norway. But Nor will come back, he reminds himself. And he touches his leg as he does. If Nor loved me, then…
"Can we stop?" Ice whines, breathing heavily. They've been walking for a while, and Denmark, even thin from illness, is still pretty heavy.
"There's a little park up ahead, it's dear, let's rest there!" Faeroes chirps, pointing. It is not much of a park: a fountain for horses to drink out of and a few benches surrounding. Faeroes just likes the sound of running water. Iceland pushes Denmark next to a bench and flops down on it, stretching out like a cat.
"Ice," Denmark says, "do you love me?"
Iceland freezes and then tries to roll away. He nearly falls off the bench, and settles for covering his face with his hands. "What kind of a question is that?"
"I love you," Faeroes says, returning from the fountain with wet fingers. "Because you gave me a kitten for my birthday."
Iceland mumbles something, blushing.
Denmark leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. Lately he feels like he's learning quite a lot. "I love both of you," he says, testing it.
For a while he wasn't sure. Because Iceland didn't seem to care, he thought he didn't care either. But Iceland did, and so… so Denmark loves him? Or has he all along? Putting quantities on tinges like this isn't something he's ever done, but now that he's started to wonder, he can't stop. It's out of order, something to measure and pace and find control in, like the schedule of his house, or the contents of his larder. If love is a quantity, not just a thing that exists- and yes, it has to be a quantity, because Nor no longer has it, because Sweden is a liar- then he will count it and pace it and give it only to those who deserve it. Nor, happy in Stockholm- Sweden, the lying traitor- they will not get his love. Because they left him. Because Nor…
…His colonies can have his, because they are still his. And Denmark loves that which is his most of all. The conclusion leaves him feeling a little less hollow, but that nagging discomfort remains. Like when Germania left, he thinks-but it's hard to be sure, it was so long ago. He feels better having decided not to love Nor-Norway-and Sweden anymore, though, and decides it's high time he starts learning to walk again, feeling productive in his epiphany.
But that can wait until tomorrow at least. For now, he watches Faeroes flick water at an increasingly annoyed Iceland, and feels satisfied to have found some order in all this.
Norway shows up three days before Christmas. He does not write or send a message ahead of time; Denmark simply limps over to the door at the knock and there he is. There is no carriage or horse Denmark can see; for all he can tell, Norway walked here from Stockholm.
He stares with his mouth open. Norway raises his eyebrows. "You look like a frog," are the first words he says to Denmark in fifty-four years.
Denmark means to say hello, or what are you doing here, or are not, or one of a million other things. Instead he is almost overcome with the urge to embrace Nor, hold him and not let go for an hour or two, examine every inch and bone and scar for changes, and it's so strong he trembles. Nor is so unexpected and so close that it seems like this must be a fantasy or dream, somehow, despite the cold air blasting through the door: he stares and then swallows and reminds himself no, he figured it out two years ago, he does not love those who do not love him, and Nor's hair falls into his face the same way as always, and his hands are red and bony- "I don't love you," Denmark says fast, a reminder to himself more than a greeting.
"I see," Norway says quietly, and then lets himself in.
The colonies are thrilled to see him-not West Indies, but he's never happy-and Denmark keeps watching him while they talk. He barely listens, but he does gather that Norway announced he was visiting them and left and walked most of the way, Sweden's permission be damned. It makes him happy, in a fuzzy, nervous way. But he tells himself not to be. Norway doesn't deserve…
What Norway does and doesn't deserve is quickly no longer a priority. Denmark watches him, taking in every change. On second glance, his hair is a bit shorter. His clothes are rougher-Denmark always made sure he was dressed in the best, of course Sweden would be less thoughtful-and he seems to carry himself differently, somehow. Straighter, taller, although Denmark is pretty sure he's alway had good posture. The longer the day goes, the more differences he finds, tiny details even he has to second-guess. And by the time it's night, bedtime, Denmark is trembling again from the effort to not go back on his earlier word.
As soon as they are alone, Norway turns to him and says, "Ice wrote to me. Sorry 'bout your leg."
While Denmark had for decades been a faithful writer to Norway, it had never occurred to him Iceland might also write. His surprise must show on his face, for Norway looks almost amused for a moment. "He did, huh…" Denmark says, trying to recover. He touches his leg without realizing it, then draws his hand away when he does.
"Argued with Sweden 'bout it," Norway says, looking at the limb. He slowly stands from his chair. "And then you got all quiet and I knew you were bein' an idiot."
But that isn't true, he thinks, except it's all muddled. Norway never wrote or came or helped. But suddenly Norway is right in front of him, and now he really can't keep from reaching out, brushing his fingers into Nor's hair and over his ear, framing the side of his head- this is very close, and there's a part of him protesting what Nor does and doesn't deserve, and what he does and doesn't deserve also, and what he does deserve is not what Nor does, except that-
"Listen," Nor says. "Just 'cause someone is gone don't mean they left, and don't give you the right to scare Ice. If you need to get laid now an' then to keep from takin' it out on Ice-"
"Just don't leave me alone," Denmark says in a rush, telling the confusing part of his brain, the cold, narrow part, to fuck off.
"Haven't yet, idiot," Norway scoffs. "It's your own imagination and Sweden that's to blame."
That's good enough for Denmark. He doesn't want to ponder it over anymore either; not when Norway is so close and real and looking at him. He draws him closer to kiss him, for a second light and gentle and then he yanks him closer, wanting to touch and verify his existence as much as deepen the kiss. Norway lurches half onto his lap and pinches him, annoyed to be yanked, but doesn't otherwise protest. Denmark quickly takes stock and inventory of ribs and spine, hips and legs, dipping a thumb up his hem and over his belly, running his other hand over arm, hand, elbow, fingers, each thin and narrow. Norway grasps his neck almost hard enough to choke, and Denmark's eventual attempts to take stock of Norway's ears, brow, and nose get in the way enough that they part, panting, his heart humming and hot. "Still not love me?" Norway says in a low tease, batting Denmark's fingers away from his jawbone.
In theory there will be time to finish inventory later. Just in case, Denmark strokes his neck in the way that always makes Norway shiver. "Came back 'cause I do," he decides with triumph. Norway leans against him, his own fingers investigating the healed lump on his shoulder.
"If that's what ya wanna say," he says, which isn't no.
Series: Axis Powers: Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Denmark. Norway, Iceland, OC Faeroes, Greenland, and Virgin Islands/Danish West Indies also. Sweden mentioned.
Rating: PG ish.
Summary: Prior to the Schleswig-Holstein War, Denmark asked Sweden-Norway for help. They agreed, and then later took back the offer, leaving Denmark to suffer a horrible defeat alone. Five loosely connected scenes concerning Denmark in the 1860s.
Notes: Written on prompts from a friend, referencing a lot without explaining a lot. Uses a lot of gratuitous colony OCs, including hipster Virgin Islands who is my new fave. That said, this isn't one of my best stories IMO, crit would be appreciated.
He writes and sends the letter on his best, heaviest paper, his hand shaking the ink pooling where he lets the pen rest. Denmark is not good at penmanship, diplomatic niceties, or begging.
When the letter is sent he waits. Always impatient, he works it down to days. Four to reach Stockholm. Three on the outside to talk about it. Four more for the reply to arrive. If Nor is in the capital, it will go faster, he thinks. He hopes Nor is in the capital, although it has a sour taste. Be in Stockholm, but don't be there willingly, my Nor, he thinks, and his stomach twists because he would rather Norway be miserable than happy.
He is making good progress on wearing a hole through the carpet of his study, pacing straight lines across the room, twelve steps, right turn, nine steps, three-quarter turn, back to point a, a perfect right triangle. Counts each step and falls into a half sleep pacing.
Denmark has always liked order. He's clumsy and untidy but every object is aligned in its place, ever colony in their room, every servant precisely on time. He knows where everyone will be a 11 AM, and at 8 PM, and at all times in between. His larder is a mess but he knows exactly what it contains. His house could use some repairs-when there's money, when there's time-but he knows how many paces across every room. And it settles him, because if you know these things, you can control them. At 8 o'clock in the evening, Faeroes and West Indies will be in bed, Greenland and Iceland will be studying the bible, the kitchen will be cleaned and the horses put to bed, and Denmark will be in his study. Pacing.
And at 8 o'clock in the evening, Norway should be reading in the parlor, but he is in Stockholm, maybe replying to a letter.
The reply arrives after twelve days. It is one line and in Sweden's heavy handwriting: We agree to lend the Kingdom aid.
Twelve months later, Denmark is dying.
The first time he tries to get out of bed, he falls, twisting, slamming onto his shoulder and snapping it. And it is broken and painful and doesn't stitch itself up and stop hurting even though he lies there, face pressed against the wood and pulsing with hurt, willing it to fix itself, heal itself, straighten itself, come on. What is usually the work of five minutes has yet to even start an hour later, and Denmark comes out of his haze to realize that, pain aside, he's still lying on the floor.
He tries to lift himself. His left leg slides about, finds purchase, bends, and he rolls a bit onto his left side which sends a new sharp wave of pain through his arm and collar bone. Halfway up, he thinks, and then realizes he can't move his right leg, and that his right leg was Schleswig.
While he struggles to understand this, the pain, the fact that he is on the floor, the fact that he can't sit up, the bell tower in town rings, and he realizes something else: he has been lying on the floor for at least two hours, and no one has noticed.
He is alone.
It is like the floor drops out under him. He cannot feel anything. He is cold. Everything is cold. His fingers are cold but he feels them as though they are objects, touching him but not attached. His heartbeat causes his entire body to pound. "Bein'… dumb," he whispers to himself. His is starting to tremble, holding himself up on one hand and one knee. In a burst of effort that sends fire and metal and spikes burning through his body, grinding and stabbing pain , he pushes himself so he rolls and falls onto his back. The pain brings tears, itchy and stinging, into his eyes. He is panting and his heart is practically humming.
No one is coming.
No one will come.
He is broken and unable to move and alone. His breath is quickening and then catches because it hurts, it hurts to breath, it hurts to move his chest, it hurts to live, it hurts to die, it hurts to be hurt, and he is alone. Something has moved or shifted, and every breath is a knife twisting into bone. He wants to pass out, and tries breathing shallow and exhaling little, hyperventilating for a lighter head. His breathing takes on a sound in his head: ah-lone, ah-lone, and he tries to argue with it, wild and disjointed. I ain't! Nor will-
-Oh, right he thinks, along with several more things less coherent: swords and fire, thundering footsteps, metal shaking, collarbones and Nor's, exposed and pale and cool, and he thinks of snow and sees an image of Sweden with his glasses ground into his face and a million things that aren't memories, just fragments of thoughts: right, he thinks before passing out; Nor is happy…
Eventually the servants find Denmark, lift him into bed, and call him a doctor.
It takes three months for his arm to heal, and when his cast comes off, he is still in a wheelchair. His leg is not broken, it responds to poking and prodding as a leg should, but it will not hold his weight, will not move when he wants it to. One doctor suggests he just needs to practice, but Denmark does not. He sits in his wicker chair and lets himself get pushed around the rest of winter, looking at his colonies quietly and thinking.
West Indies never bothered visiting him when he was ill, even though Faeroes brought flowers and Greenland made himself useless pushing the chair. Iceland only visited once, and avoided him after that. Denmark contacts America about West Indies's sale. I have no need of this land, he says, and adds a pitch about the colony's useful location and resources. He writes a similar letter to Prussia: Iceland, for a leg.
Think of the strategic use, he urges, writing with a book as a desk, hunched in front of the fire. Think of the advantages to taking Iceland from me. Think of me walking, think of all who do not care gone. Think, and his hand trembles, and he writes about Icelandic natural resources, painting a picture of a place more hale, open, friendly: not sullen and uncaring, Norwegian and gone, someone who doesn't care and won't visit, someone who doesn't write and doesn't help. There is no point in having an unhappy house, and his heart pounds heavy in an excitement that leaves him dizzy and churning and hot. If the house cannot be happy, I will make it happy. Not by punching. I'll just send them away. Who needs Sweden. Who needs Norway. Who needs West Indies. Who needs Iceland. A happy family-only the happy ones can stay. He writes so frantically, talking to Prussia about glaciers and steam, that he upturns the ink bottle over the paper, book, and his knee.
Black ink drips and run down his hand and leg into the carpet. For all his frantic movement he is slow to react, watching it and gasping: then he realizes what has happened. A moment later he realizes he can't stand up to clean it (and why does that make him feel sick? It usually is just frustrating), and he shouts out for a servant.
It is Iceland who appears at the door.
It has gotten quite late: no more light comes in the windows; the only light is the fire. Now that Denmark notices, he finds it kind of amazing he was even able to see to write. "I spilled the ink," he says, gesturing at himself. "Light a lamp and go get a maid."
In the flickering light, Iceland looks like Norway. It's something about his mouth and eyes, but Denmark isn't sure what- but his stomach twists and drops. He's still clutching his letter to Prussia, and folds it quick, guiltily, as Iceland lights the lamps. "Indies says you're negotiating his sale," he says. "He's pretty mad."
"He'll like it better with America," Denmark says. Iceland seems to frown-might be just flickering light-and leaves to summon a maid. Denmark flips a corner of his letter back and forth. He doesn't know if Iceland will be happier with Prussia, but, Iceland shouldn't have- shouldn't have not cared about him. Why should he care when they don't? Maybe someone will attack Sweden, and Denmark will- well, he'll just sit here, and not care. He looks at the fire with a cold expression, half practicing for his fantasy. But suddenly he can almost picture the letter arriving, short, too the point, begging. I wouldn't have asked you if there was any other way. But our people are talking about how the three of us are brothers, and you know I've always thought that, Sve-
No. Not his letter. Nor's. Not Nor's letter. Just Nor. Nor small and thin and reaching out to him, silently asking, and Denmark would- he'd push those arms away-
No. No, he'd take hold of Nor and never let go, feel him fight tight against him, fingers trailing over his back and arms and everywhere, promising-I forgive ya, it's okay, you're back now and that's all I-
Iceland clears his throat and Denmark starts, having been so deep in the fantasy that he'd forgotten where he was. "I got a cloth," Iceland says, holding it up.
"I told ya to get a maid," Denmark says a little crossly, tucking the paper closer to himself. Iceland bites his lip and then kneels on the floor to try and mop up some of the ink. Denmark's chest is tight. He's getting used to that. He leans forward a bit, to watch Iceland better.
He fidgets with the letter, running his fingers over it, almost petting the paper. After a silent minute or two, he leans back again. It's not like Iceland will care. He hates it here, so why not let him hate someone who has it coming? Why not let Denmark walk again? Nor will care, but Nor- Nor only cares about Iceland. What does it matter if Nor hates him, too? Faeroes still cares, and Green does. He doesn't… need anyone else.
"You've been acting weird," Iceland says presently.
"Have not," Denmark says automatically, without even thinking about it.
"You're usually loud and annoying." Iceland sits back and examines the much darker rag, and the still stained carpet. He seems to decide he's done enough, as he doesn't resume trying to clean. He stares down at the rag. "Lately you've been… weird."
"I'm not," he says. Iceland looks up at him, and his eyes really are just like Nor's. Without thinking about it, he crumples up the paper.
"I just meant sitting in that cha… inside all day," Iceland says, looking nervously at Denmark's fist and standing. "I guess. Um, I'll get a maid now."
"Wait," Denmark says. He's frowning but not out of anger. He's not sure what Iceland is saying, but even as he tells himself that he crumples the paper between his fingers more. You're back now and that's all I- "Uh," he then says, not having thought past wait. "Help me to my room."
One of the rooms downstairs has been remade into a bedroom for Denmark, since he can't walk. It's smaller and much less grand, but he's started to like it. There are less memories. Iceland pushes him in and helps him drag himself onto the bed. Ice jostles him and he hits his healed but sore shoulder against the bed and is overcome in a wave of anger. Knew it, knew fucking Iceland doesn't give a shi- but this time, instead of the angry misery overtaking him, he seems to notice it, observe it from higher up, the twist in his gut, the heat, the tension… and Iceland's startled face. He swallows and waves it off, sinking back into the bed and pillows and taking a deep breath of the musty smell.
"Are you okay?" Iceland asks, hovering over the bed.
Denmark raises his hand and frowns and thinks about it. "Are you worried?"
"Maybe," Iceland says, looking away.
"Huh," says Denmark. "Well, I'm going to sleep."
Iceland says goodnight and leaves.
Denmark does not go to sleep. Nor does he think much. He stares at the ceiling and drifts, wondering about love and rubbing his leg. He wonders, presently, if he's angry. He doesn't feel angry, right now, like this. He never feels particularly angry. Until he does, and by then… He wonders if he's angry at Sweden and Norway, but somehow that's a difficult, sharp question; twisted and private. It shouldn't be, but it hurts anyway. He decides he hates them both and the pillow against his shoulder, he imagines it's-
Maybe he is angry.
The next day, he pays more attention to West Indies, and the sales negotiations fall through soon after.
A few weeks later, he goes on a walk.
He's still in his chair, so Iceland pushes him, but he's out of doors. For the occasion Faeroes has decided to come along, although the other two remain home. The day is bright and Faeroes wears her hair loose, the sun making it look more gold than brown. Iceland doesn't complain as he wheels Denmark through town. By all appearances they're a happy family, but they're too quiet.
Denmark doesn't know what to say. He has tried not to think about being angry and difficult questions like that, but not thinking about it seems to have made it impossible to not think about it.
All his life, he has known he was loved. When Germania left him young, his villages and people loved him, and showered him with all the affection he needed. He found a brother and had his love; then Nor's after. He has had enemies, sure, but the people he wants to love him, do. And he's basked in it. The affection of his people, the warmth of being close-it's more important than eating or breathing. Denmark must alway be loved.
His colonies must love him too. They are pretty much his children. He's raised them since they were tiny, even if they were Nor's first. He looks at Faeroes, small and long-haired. She skips as she walks, looking like the young girl she isn't really, but he thinks: well, that's nice and Danish; skipping. Because it is not Norwegian. And he is still moving, since Iceland is still pushing the chair, and he thinks Iceland's not running from hard work is also inherited from him. And children love their parents, so long as their parents aren't like Germania and leave.
Or Sweden.
Or Norway. But Nor will come back, he reminds himself. And he touches his leg as he does. If Nor loved me, then…
"Can we stop?" Ice whines, breathing heavily. They've been walking for a while, and Denmark, even thin from illness, is still pretty heavy.
"There's a little park up ahead, it's dear, let's rest there!" Faeroes chirps, pointing. It is not much of a park: a fountain for horses to drink out of and a few benches surrounding. Faeroes just likes the sound of running water. Iceland pushes Denmark next to a bench and flops down on it, stretching out like a cat.
"Ice," Denmark says, "do you love me?"
Iceland freezes and then tries to roll away. He nearly falls off the bench, and settles for covering his face with his hands. "What kind of a question is that?"
"I love you," Faeroes says, returning from the fountain with wet fingers. "Because you gave me a kitten for my birthday."
Iceland mumbles something, blushing.
Denmark leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. Lately he feels like he's learning quite a lot. "I love both of you," he says, testing it.
For a while he wasn't sure. Because Iceland didn't seem to care, he thought he didn't care either. But Iceland did, and so… so Denmark loves him? Or has he all along? Putting quantities on tinges like this isn't something he's ever done, but now that he's started to wonder, he can't stop. It's out of order, something to measure and pace and find control in, like the schedule of his house, or the contents of his larder. If love is a quantity, not just a thing that exists- and yes, it has to be a quantity, because Nor no longer has it, because Sweden is a liar- then he will count it and pace it and give it only to those who deserve it. Nor, happy in Stockholm- Sweden, the lying traitor- they will not get his love. Because they left him. Because Nor…
…His colonies can have his, because they are still his. And Denmark loves that which is his most of all. The conclusion leaves him feeling a little less hollow, but that nagging discomfort remains. Like when Germania left, he thinks-but it's hard to be sure, it was so long ago. He feels better having decided not to love Nor-Norway-and Sweden anymore, though, and decides it's high time he starts learning to walk again, feeling productive in his epiphany.
But that can wait until tomorrow at least. For now, he watches Faeroes flick water at an increasingly annoyed Iceland, and feels satisfied to have found some order in all this.
Norway shows up three days before Christmas. He does not write or send a message ahead of time; Denmark simply limps over to the door at the knock and there he is. There is no carriage or horse Denmark can see; for all he can tell, Norway walked here from Stockholm.
He stares with his mouth open. Norway raises his eyebrows. "You look like a frog," are the first words he says to Denmark in fifty-four years.
Denmark means to say hello, or what are you doing here, or are not, or one of a million other things. Instead he is almost overcome with the urge to embrace Nor, hold him and not let go for an hour or two, examine every inch and bone and scar for changes, and it's so strong he trembles. Nor is so unexpected and so close that it seems like this must be a fantasy or dream, somehow, despite the cold air blasting through the door: he stares and then swallows and reminds himself no, he figured it out two years ago, he does not love those who do not love him, and Nor's hair falls into his face the same way as always, and his hands are red and bony- "I don't love you," Denmark says fast, a reminder to himself more than a greeting.
"I see," Norway says quietly, and then lets himself in.
The colonies are thrilled to see him-not West Indies, but he's never happy-and Denmark keeps watching him while they talk. He barely listens, but he does gather that Norway announced he was visiting them and left and walked most of the way, Sweden's permission be damned. It makes him happy, in a fuzzy, nervous way. But he tells himself not to be. Norway doesn't deserve…
What Norway does and doesn't deserve is quickly no longer a priority. Denmark watches him, taking in every change. On second glance, his hair is a bit shorter. His clothes are rougher-Denmark always made sure he was dressed in the best, of course Sweden would be less thoughtful-and he seems to carry himself differently, somehow. Straighter, taller, although Denmark is pretty sure he's alway had good posture. The longer the day goes, the more differences he finds, tiny details even he has to second-guess. And by the time it's night, bedtime, Denmark is trembling again from the effort to not go back on his earlier word.
As soon as they are alone, Norway turns to him and says, "Ice wrote to me. Sorry 'bout your leg."
While Denmark had for decades been a faithful writer to Norway, it had never occurred to him Iceland might also write. His surprise must show on his face, for Norway looks almost amused for a moment. "He did, huh…" Denmark says, trying to recover. He touches his leg without realizing it, then draws his hand away when he does.
"Argued with Sweden 'bout it," Norway says, looking at the limb. He slowly stands from his chair. "And then you got all quiet and I knew you were bein' an idiot."
But that isn't true, he thinks, except it's all muddled. Norway never wrote or came or helped. But suddenly Norway is right in front of him, and now he really can't keep from reaching out, brushing his fingers into Nor's hair and over his ear, framing the side of his head- this is very close, and there's a part of him protesting what Nor does and doesn't deserve, and what he does and doesn't deserve also, and what he does deserve is not what Nor does, except that-
"Listen," Nor says. "Just 'cause someone is gone don't mean they left, and don't give you the right to scare Ice. If you need to get laid now an' then to keep from takin' it out on Ice-"
"Just don't leave me alone," Denmark says in a rush, telling the confusing part of his brain, the cold, narrow part, to fuck off.
"Haven't yet, idiot," Norway scoffs. "It's your own imagination and Sweden that's to blame."
That's good enough for Denmark. He doesn't want to ponder it over anymore either; not when Norway is so close and real and looking at him. He draws him closer to kiss him, for a second light and gentle and then he yanks him closer, wanting to touch and verify his existence as much as deepen the kiss. Norway lurches half onto his lap and pinches him, annoyed to be yanked, but doesn't otherwise protest. Denmark quickly takes stock and inventory of ribs and spine, hips and legs, dipping a thumb up his hem and over his belly, running his other hand over arm, hand, elbow, fingers, each thin and narrow. Norway grasps his neck almost hard enough to choke, and Denmark's eventual attempts to take stock of Norway's ears, brow, and nose get in the way enough that they part, panting, his heart humming and hot. "Still not love me?" Norway says in a low tease, batting Denmark's fingers away from his jawbone.
In theory there will be time to finish inventory later. Just in case, Denmark strokes his neck in the way that always makes Norway shiver. "Came back 'cause I do," he decides with triumph. Norway leans against him, his own fingers investigating the healed lump on his shoulder.
"If that's what ya wanna say," he says, which isn't no.