[Pinch hit -- Fanfic] Moonshine
Title: Moonshine
Author: absynthess
Recipient: morningpay
Rating: R
Warnings: sex // alcohol
Summary: Written for the prompt: “Sweden/Norway - A lonely cold nigh, they bond while watching the snow fall, and end up on something like a one-night stand. No real feelings, just loneliness taking over them.” A drink can’t help you fall asleep, but maybe it can help you forget.
Notes: Set in 1814, during the treaty of Kiel when Norway falls under Sweden’s jurisdiction.
Moonshine
Stockholm is not Copenhagen.
It seems obvious enough; though both cities are far north and bitingly cold, inhabited by pale haired, bright eyed men and women who share a kinship, no one could mistake them for one another. Stockholm is a city of perfectly timed clocks and gray stone castles; Copenhagen holds rounds of ale and lazy schedules. Stockholm is starkly silent; Denmark is awash with boisterous noise and laughter.
It is so simple; they could never be the same place. So why had he thought it would be the same?
His face is a cold, blank mask as he wanders aimlessly through the hallways, arms crossed over his chest. He is used to cold, so that is nothing new, and silence has always been a forte of his, as well. What comes as a shock-as bitter and biting as being thrown into the Arctic Sea-is the loneliness.
“I don’t miss him,” Norway hisses under his breath. There is no one else in the halls to hear him, except the portraits of Swedish kings on the walls. Is it his imagination, or are their placid expressions and half-raised eyebrows silently mocking him?
“I don’t,” he says again, more loudly this time. His voice seems to reverberate against the walls and amplify, until a million copies of his words fill the air, thundering back into his ears in different pitches.
“Norge?” The last syllable of Norway’s name is lost in the man’s guttural speech as Sweden enters the hallway, tall and upright as a lamp post. The moonlight, entering through some unseen window, gleams off his glances as he tilts his head down, trying to read Norway’s expression. “What’re y’ doin’?”
Since arriving in the castle sometime last week, Norway has elected not to speak to his new housemate. Keeping with the habit, he bites his tongue and says nothing, just stares blandly up at Sweden through opaque eyes.
“Almost midnigh’,” Sweden comments, one eyebrow raised in question. Norway makes no response. Sweden shrugs, then sighs. “Ca’n sleep?”
Norway doesn’t remembering answering that last question, but the next thing he knows he’s being led back to Sweden’s private sitting room for a drink. As Sweden busies himself pouring suspicious-looking concoctions into glasses, Norway takes a seat and observes the room that not even Sweden’s bosses enter without permission.
Like those in the hallway, the walls in this room are covered with portraits, of men and women with pale faces and long, sculpted noses. Some of them look remarkably like Sweden himself, but closer inspection reveals a different eye color, or a more aged face that sets these men apart from their nation.
Aside from the portraits, there is an old, worn desk in one corner, and a bookshelf along one wall. A fire burns in the corner, and across from the wooden bench Norway’s seated on there is a low table. And lying on that table is a small, knitted tablecloth of the Swedish victory banner.
“You knit?” Norway asks shortly.
Sweden, still busy with the drinks, turns around in surprise. Though not much emotion reads on his face, his eyes show his surprise when he blinks twice in quick succession. Finally, though, he looks to the table and spots the knit cloth.
“No, Finlan’ gave it t’ me.” Sweden begins to chuckle ruefully, but then his voice breaks off and he looks away, saddened. “…’ere, drink this. It’ll ’help y’ sleep.”
Norway takes the glass a bit reluctantly and sniffs its contents. Whatever is in the glass, it won’t just put him to sleep-it’ll knock him out for weeks, by the smell of it. His disgust must show on his face, because Sweden shakes his head and chortles.
“It’s Hembränt,” he explains, “y’ know…moonsh’n?”
“This won’t make sleep come easier,” Norway says. It isn’t a question; he knows enough about liquor to not trust the sight of the stuff.
“No,” Sweden admits, “it w’nt. But it mi’ ’elp y’ forget.”
Forgetting sounds very good to Norway, at this moment. Because had this been just two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have been sitting in Sweden’s den, discussing drinks; he would have been in Copenhagen, undressed and under smooth sheets, waiting for-
Norway forces himself off of that train of thought and glances up at Sweden only once; then he tilts his head back and drains the glass in one gulp. Sweden raises both eyebrows in surprise, but then he follows suit.
The liquor tastes like fire going down Norway’s throat, but once it hits the pit of his stomach it turns to ice coursing through his veins. The world suddenly goes misty; his vision blurs and his sense dull. He is only vaguely aware when Sweden half-sits, half-collapses onto the seat next to him.
But it’s not working quite as well as it should, because Norway hasn’t quite forgotten yet what he doesn’t want to remember. Memories swim before his eyes, and suddenly he’s horrified that if this continues, all that he’s been trying to suppress for the past few days will come steaming to the surface.
“Sverige,” he gasps out, though his tongue feels fat and useless in his mouth. “I don’t want to remember.”
Sweden, sitting beside him and clutching his throbbing temples, glances up. He takes one look at Norway’s face and nods curtly. When Norway leans forward and opens his mouth, Sweden accepts the invitation, and their lips meet for the first time.
Perhaps it is the effect of the alcohol, but to Norway that first kiss feels like fire and ice. Sweden has always seemed like a gentle giant to him, but even so he is disappointed by the lack of passion in the elder nation’s kiss. That is, until Sweden’s tongue forces its way between Norway’s lips, and suddenly he doesn’t have room for thought at all, can only focus on the strange buzz working its way down from his lips to his heart to-
Suddenly Sweden is stripping off his shirt and tugging at the buttons of Norway’s. It takes the younger nation’s mind a second to catch up, but once he does he fairly slithers out of the loose cotton, so that when Sweden rounds on him again, and leans against him, Norway can feel the beat of the other man’s heart against his chest.
They continue with slow, lazy kisses for a minute or two, but then the desperation returns and Norway arches back until he is flat against the wooden bench, with Sweden braced over him, one hand on either side of Norway’s face. Sweden is gentle, but controlling; every move Norway makes, every kiss, every sigh, every groan, seems to be orchestrated perfectly. Even when he begins to tug down Sweden’s pants, revealing soft, snow white skin, the other man doesn’t seem surprised, just thrusts his hips forward to make the fabric slip off easier.
Another moment, and both of them are completely naked, squirming against one another as they try in vain to find a comfortable position on the stiff wooden bench. Norway squirms too much, however, and rolls over onto the floor with a thud. For a second, the pain in his head jolts him back to his senses; but before he can realize what’s happening, Sweden has joined him on the carpeted floor and they pick up where they left off.
The moment before it happens, Norway looks up at Sweden’s face and catches a glimmer of another’s-of slicked back blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes. But then his senses and his body and his thoughts are inundated with Sweden’s presence, and the vision seems like a far off memory.
Just when Norway thinks he’s being driven out of his senses, suddenly everything stops. Sweden groans and rolls over, lying on his back, so that the two nations are side-by-side. They lay there, panting for a moment, the cold air almost freezing the sweat on their chests and between their legs.
His chest heaves with his frantic breathing as the alcohol drifts deeper into Norway’s system; he tries to fight it off but suddenly his limbs have gone dull and heavy. He is unable to make any protest when Sweden rises to his feet and slings Norway over his shoulder like a ragdoll, leaving the chamber without so much as a second thought for their abandoned clothing scattered over the floor.
As Sweden walks through the cold, abandoned hallways, Norway loses the battle with himself and finally slips into unconsciousness.
He wakes up the next morning in his own bed-or the bed that is his in Sweden’s house. He gets up, dresses, and leaves the room, trying desperately to ignore the fierce pounding in his head and the soreness of his limbs.
Wrapped in a warm winter coat, he steps out onto the grounds of the castle and turns his head to the sky. Sure enough, snow is falling, and Norway reaches his hands out to catch the scattering snowflakes. As they melt against his palms, Sweden appears beside him.
The two nations look one another in the eye, and for a moment Norway’s face burns with shame. But then Sweden offers him a half-smile and says, “G’mornin’.”
Norway doesn’t return the smile, but his tone isn’t quite as cold as it normally is as he murmurs, “And to you.” They stand like that for some time, in companionable silence, watching the snow fall over Stockholm. Everything seems normal, and right, and it is as though the previous night never happened.
But Norway cannot help but wonder whether there is snow falling over Copenhagen, too.
---
footnotes;;
→ In the 1814 treaty of Kiel, the king of Denmark-Norway was forced to cede mainland Norway to the king of Sweden, Charles XIII. Norway, led by the viceroy, prince Christian Frederik, objected to the terms of the treaty. A constitutional assembly declared Norwegian independence, adopted a liberal constitution, and elected Christian Frederik king. After a brief war with Sweden, however, the peace terms of the Convention of Moss recognized Norwegian independence, but forced Norway to accept a personal union with Sweden.
→ “Norge” = Norway ; “Sverige” = Sweden.
→ The drink Sweden gives Norway is Hembränt, known in English as Moonshine. Moonshine is a common name for home-distilled alcohol, especially in places where this practice is illegal. The term is commonly believed to derive from producers and smugglers of moonshine working at night under the light of the moon.
I hope you enjoy it, morningpay, even though it deviates a bit from the prompt! &hearts
Author: absynthess
Recipient: morningpay
Rating: R
Warnings: sex // alcohol
Summary: Written for the prompt: “Sweden/Norway - A lonely cold nigh, they bond while watching the snow fall, and end up on something like a one-night stand. No real feelings, just loneliness taking over them.” A drink can’t help you fall asleep, but maybe it can help you forget.
Notes: Set in 1814, during the treaty of Kiel when Norway falls under Sweden’s jurisdiction.
Moonshine
Stockholm is not Copenhagen.
It seems obvious enough; though both cities are far north and bitingly cold, inhabited by pale haired, bright eyed men and women who share a kinship, no one could mistake them for one another. Stockholm is a city of perfectly timed clocks and gray stone castles; Copenhagen holds rounds of ale and lazy schedules. Stockholm is starkly silent; Denmark is awash with boisterous noise and laughter.
It is so simple; they could never be the same place. So why had he thought it would be the same?
His face is a cold, blank mask as he wanders aimlessly through the hallways, arms crossed over his chest. He is used to cold, so that is nothing new, and silence has always been a forte of his, as well. What comes as a shock-as bitter and biting as being thrown into the Arctic Sea-is the loneliness.
“I don’t miss him,” Norway hisses under his breath. There is no one else in the halls to hear him, except the portraits of Swedish kings on the walls. Is it his imagination, or are their placid expressions and half-raised eyebrows silently mocking him?
“I don’t,” he says again, more loudly this time. His voice seems to reverberate against the walls and amplify, until a million copies of his words fill the air, thundering back into his ears in different pitches.
“Norge?” The last syllable of Norway’s name is lost in the man’s guttural speech as Sweden enters the hallway, tall and upright as a lamp post. The moonlight, entering through some unseen window, gleams off his glances as he tilts his head down, trying to read Norway’s expression. “What’re y’ doin’?”
Since arriving in the castle sometime last week, Norway has elected not to speak to his new housemate. Keeping with the habit, he bites his tongue and says nothing, just stares blandly up at Sweden through opaque eyes.
“Almost midnigh’,” Sweden comments, one eyebrow raised in question. Norway makes no response. Sweden shrugs, then sighs. “Ca’n sleep?”
Norway doesn’t remembering answering that last question, but the next thing he knows he’s being led back to Sweden’s private sitting room for a drink. As Sweden busies himself pouring suspicious-looking concoctions into glasses, Norway takes a seat and observes the room that not even Sweden’s bosses enter without permission.
Like those in the hallway, the walls in this room are covered with portraits, of men and women with pale faces and long, sculpted noses. Some of them look remarkably like Sweden himself, but closer inspection reveals a different eye color, or a more aged face that sets these men apart from their nation.
Aside from the portraits, there is an old, worn desk in one corner, and a bookshelf along one wall. A fire burns in the corner, and across from the wooden bench Norway’s seated on there is a low table. And lying on that table is a small, knitted tablecloth of the Swedish victory banner.
“You knit?” Norway asks shortly.
Sweden, still busy with the drinks, turns around in surprise. Though not much emotion reads on his face, his eyes show his surprise when he blinks twice in quick succession. Finally, though, he looks to the table and spots the knit cloth.
“No, Finlan’ gave it t’ me.” Sweden begins to chuckle ruefully, but then his voice breaks off and he looks away, saddened. “…’ere, drink this. It’ll ’help y’ sleep.”
Norway takes the glass a bit reluctantly and sniffs its contents. Whatever is in the glass, it won’t just put him to sleep-it’ll knock him out for weeks, by the smell of it. His disgust must show on his face, because Sweden shakes his head and chortles.
“It’s Hembränt,” he explains, “y’ know…moonsh’n?”
“This won’t make sleep come easier,” Norway says. It isn’t a question; he knows enough about liquor to not trust the sight of the stuff.
“No,” Sweden admits, “it w’nt. But it mi’ ’elp y’ forget.”
Forgetting sounds very good to Norway, at this moment. Because had this been just two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have been sitting in Sweden’s den, discussing drinks; he would have been in Copenhagen, undressed and under smooth sheets, waiting for-
Norway forces himself off of that train of thought and glances up at Sweden only once; then he tilts his head back and drains the glass in one gulp. Sweden raises both eyebrows in surprise, but then he follows suit.
The liquor tastes like fire going down Norway’s throat, but once it hits the pit of his stomach it turns to ice coursing through his veins. The world suddenly goes misty; his vision blurs and his sense dull. He is only vaguely aware when Sweden half-sits, half-collapses onto the seat next to him.
But it’s not working quite as well as it should, because Norway hasn’t quite forgotten yet what he doesn’t want to remember. Memories swim before his eyes, and suddenly he’s horrified that if this continues, all that he’s been trying to suppress for the past few days will come steaming to the surface.
“Sverige,” he gasps out, though his tongue feels fat and useless in his mouth. “I don’t want to remember.”
Sweden, sitting beside him and clutching his throbbing temples, glances up. He takes one look at Norway’s face and nods curtly. When Norway leans forward and opens his mouth, Sweden accepts the invitation, and their lips meet for the first time.
Perhaps it is the effect of the alcohol, but to Norway that first kiss feels like fire and ice. Sweden has always seemed like a gentle giant to him, but even so he is disappointed by the lack of passion in the elder nation’s kiss. That is, until Sweden’s tongue forces its way between Norway’s lips, and suddenly he doesn’t have room for thought at all, can only focus on the strange buzz working its way down from his lips to his heart to-
Suddenly Sweden is stripping off his shirt and tugging at the buttons of Norway’s. It takes the younger nation’s mind a second to catch up, but once he does he fairly slithers out of the loose cotton, so that when Sweden rounds on him again, and leans against him, Norway can feel the beat of the other man’s heart against his chest.
They continue with slow, lazy kisses for a minute or two, but then the desperation returns and Norway arches back until he is flat against the wooden bench, with Sweden braced over him, one hand on either side of Norway’s face. Sweden is gentle, but controlling; every move Norway makes, every kiss, every sigh, every groan, seems to be orchestrated perfectly. Even when he begins to tug down Sweden’s pants, revealing soft, snow white skin, the other man doesn’t seem surprised, just thrusts his hips forward to make the fabric slip off easier.
Another moment, and both of them are completely naked, squirming against one another as they try in vain to find a comfortable position on the stiff wooden bench. Norway squirms too much, however, and rolls over onto the floor with a thud. For a second, the pain in his head jolts him back to his senses; but before he can realize what’s happening, Sweden has joined him on the carpeted floor and they pick up where they left off.
The moment before it happens, Norway looks up at Sweden’s face and catches a glimmer of another’s-of slicked back blonde hair and mischievous blue eyes. But then his senses and his body and his thoughts are inundated with Sweden’s presence, and the vision seems like a far off memory.
Just when Norway thinks he’s being driven out of his senses, suddenly everything stops. Sweden groans and rolls over, lying on his back, so that the two nations are side-by-side. They lay there, panting for a moment, the cold air almost freezing the sweat on their chests and between their legs.
His chest heaves with his frantic breathing as the alcohol drifts deeper into Norway’s system; he tries to fight it off but suddenly his limbs have gone dull and heavy. He is unable to make any protest when Sweden rises to his feet and slings Norway over his shoulder like a ragdoll, leaving the chamber without so much as a second thought for their abandoned clothing scattered over the floor.
As Sweden walks through the cold, abandoned hallways, Norway loses the battle with himself and finally slips into unconsciousness.
He wakes up the next morning in his own bed-or the bed that is his in Sweden’s house. He gets up, dresses, and leaves the room, trying desperately to ignore the fierce pounding in his head and the soreness of his limbs.
Wrapped in a warm winter coat, he steps out onto the grounds of the castle and turns his head to the sky. Sure enough, snow is falling, and Norway reaches his hands out to catch the scattering snowflakes. As they melt against his palms, Sweden appears beside him.
The two nations look one another in the eye, and for a moment Norway’s face burns with shame. But then Sweden offers him a half-smile and says, “G’mornin’.”
Norway doesn’t return the smile, but his tone isn’t quite as cold as it normally is as he murmurs, “And to you.” They stand like that for some time, in companionable silence, watching the snow fall over Stockholm. Everything seems normal, and right, and it is as though the previous night never happened.
But Norway cannot help but wonder whether there is snow falling over Copenhagen, too.
---
footnotes;;
→ In the 1814 treaty of Kiel, the king of Denmark-Norway was forced to cede mainland Norway to the king of Sweden, Charles XIII. Norway, led by the viceroy, prince Christian Frederik, objected to the terms of the treaty. A constitutional assembly declared Norwegian independence, adopted a liberal constitution, and elected Christian Frederik king. After a brief war with Sweden, however, the peace terms of the Convention of Moss recognized Norwegian independence, but forced Norway to accept a personal union with Sweden.
→ “Norge” = Norway ; “Sverige” = Sweden.
→ The drink Sweden gives Norway is Hembränt, known in English as Moonshine. Moonshine is a common name for home-distilled alcohol, especially in places where this practice is illegal. The term is commonly believed to derive from producers and smugglers of moonshine working at night under the light of the moon.
I hope you enjoy it, morningpay, even though it deviates a bit from the prompt! &hearts