[Fanfiction] Between the Shores of Your Souls [Den/Nor]
Which wasn’t Norway’s doing, that much was certain. He spent the month of December minding his own business, just as he spent all the other months of the year, thank you very much. But over the years he’d grown to expect Denmark’s either appearance or, later as the years passed, his telephone call on the first day of December to “remind” him of Advent (which was ridiculous, he was perfectly aware of it), and to ask him, as he did every year, if they could spend Christmas together.
Norway always said no. After all, why would he want to spend Christmas with that idiot? Surely he’d already done it enough for one lifetime already.
And no matter what he said, Denmark would show up at his house before more than a week had passed, knocking on the door with a brilliant grin on his face, and when he opened the door he’d say something along the lines of, “It’s Christmastime, Norge! Let’s get a tree together.”
“Two trees,” Norway would insist, and Denmark would just grin. Eventually Norway would invite him inside while he changed for the cold, and they’d go out to the forest to look for suitable trees for each of them, with Denmark growing far too excited about wielding an axe, “like the old days.” He’d nearly cut off Norway’s head far too many times, in Norway’s opinion; he didn’t need any excuses to keep doing it. This year, of course, Denmark hadn’t worn anything remotely warm enough, and he’d ended up wrapping his arms around Norway’s waist, under his sweater, to warm them, even as Norway sighed and told him he was an idiot. Denmark had always been a useful second pair of arms when it came to getting the trees back home, though, and when they got back to the house Norway felt as if he should at least give him a mug of warm, mulled wine and gingerbread-after all, his teeth were chattering.
Denmark grinned over at him and toasted him with the mug before downing it in several swallows and banging it back down on the table. “So,” he said. “We’ll decorate them together, right?”
“No,” Norway said.
“Aww, c’mon,” Denmark said in a wheedling tone, his eyes huge and blue and fixed on Norway’s face.
Norway sighed and sipped his own wine. “Eat your gingerbread,” he said.
Denmark shoved a big piece of it in his mouth and grinned at him. “Thanks!” he said around it.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Norway told him.
He spent some time visiting with Iceland after that, just as he usually did, before returning home to his own people, as Christmas grew nearer.
He’d expected to see Denmark again before too long, and he wasn’t disappointed. Not that he was hoping for seeing the idiot, but then, it was the same every year; he’d probably have worried about the other nation if he hadn’t heard from him within a few days of his return home. He allowed Denmark to convince him to go to his house for a julefrokoster-Denmark could be the one providing the food for once; it was only fair, and he wasn’t a bad cook, really.
He was surprised when he got there-Denmark had decorated his house with small drawn cardboard cut-outs of nisse, the small house spirits Denmark had forgotten how to see long ago, his eyes fixed on the sea and sky above him-or so Norway had thought, when Norway still remembered them, spoke to them and saw them. He traced the hat one of them wore, where he was pasted on the side of the bookshelf.
Denmark beamed at him. “Do you like my kravlenisser?” he asked.
Kravlenisser. Climbing nisse. Norway blinked. His face felt oddly warm. It was . . . strange. Why would he blush over something like that? Denmark had always been a sentimental fool who liked fairy tales. “I suppose so,” he said.
Denmark’s smile in return was almost dazzling instead of . . . what it normally was, which was annoying. Almost. “I thought you’d like ‘em!” he said.
Norway frowned. But, as always, the food was good, and the drinking helped with the company, and afterward Denmark just sat there, grinning at him like the idiot he was from across the table.
“What?” Norway demanded.
To his surprise, Denmark tilted his head and looked away, though he didn’t stop grinning. “Well,” he said. “I dunno. It’s just that . . . I was just thinking . . . it’s kind of like a familiejulefrokost, with you here.”
Norway scowled. “I’m not related to you,” he said.
Denmark bit his lip. “But Norge,” he said in a softer voice than usual, and looked back toward Norway, his eyes very earnest, “if you’re not family, what’ve I got?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Norway said. “You’ve got all of us.”
Denmark’s cheeks shaded into a light pink flush, and Norway blinked, surprised. “I . . . I guess,” Denmark said gruffly. He sounded almost flustered. “I . . . I um. I . . . wow, Norge, I . . .” he laughed.
Norway took a bite of his herring. “You’re being an idiot,” he said. “Besides, Sweden and Finland invited us over for lunch a few days from now. I’m not letting you go alone. Knowing you, something unimaginably stupid will happen if I don’t.”
Denmark just laughed, reached out, and squeezed Norway’s hand. “I’m glad you’re coming,” he said. His hand was warm, dry and hard, rough with calluses, as always. Norway shook his head at him, and then Denmark pulled him to his feet. “Let’s do some baking!” he said. “I want to make cookies for Christmas while you’re still here.”
“I haven’t finished my lunch yet,” Norway protested, “and can’t you do that on your own?” But he grabbed the herring and rye bread off the table and followed Denmark into the kitchen. Together they made cookies upon more cookies, because Denmark apparently had no idea of how many he wanted, or which kind-ginger cookies, deep-fried crullers, vanilla biscuits, gingerbread shaped like hearts and decorated with ribbons. Norway rubbed his arm across his forehead and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest with satisfaction, after they’d put a tray of vanilla biscuits in the oven. “Not bad,” he allowed.
He looked up to find Denmark leaning against the counter, looking at him with a strange expression on his face, faraway and well, if Denmark hadn’t been the idiot he was, Norway would have called it pensive . . . wistful, or even . . . no, it couldn’t be longing, or anything like that, that was ridiculous.
“What?” he demanded.
Denmark just smiled and, after a moment, reached forward and brushed his thumb over Norway’s nose. “You got a little powdered sugar right there,” he said.
There was a moment of silence. “Oh,” Norway said finally.
“Mmhm,” Denmark said, and then licked the sugar off his thumb.
Norway told himself that his cheeks weren’t flushing bright red at that. But he knew he was lying to himself. “What are you going to do with all these, anyway?” he demanded.
“Well,” Denmark said brightly, “it’s Christmas-it’s a time for family, and giving, and . . . you know . . . .” He shrugged.
“Do I?” Norway asked. He looked away at the oven, the red glow of it, watched the cookies expanding in the heat through the window in the front.
“I’ll give ‘em to people,” Denmark said after a moment. “My people. Wherever I see them! It’s the spirit of Christmas. Family, and . . . and everything.”
“You don’t make any sense,” Norway said after a moment.
Denmark laughed a little, looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“You haven’t made sense for a long time,” Norway muttered, sighing as he stared at the cookies.
“Huh?” Denmark said, but he didn’t repeat himself. If Denmark wasn’t going to pay attention to what he said, he was just going to have to resign himself to missing it.
Denmark pressed a whole tin of cookies on Norway before he left, and Norway supposed he might as well take them-he had helped to make them, after all. When he got home, he opened the box, only to see a gingerbread heart lying on the very top.
He sighed and closed the box again, only to find himself eating the cookies over the next several days as he cooked for himself (and for Iceland), and made decorations for his Christmas tree and the rest of his house, as well as visiting amongst his people, hospitals, orphanages, and government offices, like he always did, basking in the presence of his people as they looked forward to Christmas. He frowned when he found himself doodling climbing nisse on cardboard.
The next time Norway saw Denmark was at Sweden and Finland’s, which proved to be an enjoyable enough dinner, even though Sealand was quite loud even for him, and Sweden and Denmark ended up having an arm-wrestling contest, which, fortunately enough, didn’t break anything. They were leaving, standing in the snow outside after the family had gone back into Finland’s house, and the snow sparkled, nearly glowing, around them with the lights of the Christmas tree inside the window, when Denmark turned to Norway. “Hey, Norge,” he said.
“Yes?” Norway asked impatiently.
Denmark smiled a little, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. His lips were cold, slightly chapped, gentle, the barest brush of sensation beneath Norway’s bangs. “Nothing,” he said.
Norway shook his head at him. “Come over on Christmas Eve, idiot, just like always,” he said, and watched as Denmark’s face lit up until it rivaled the lights of the Christmas tree inside.
Norway wasn’t dense, after all. That was Denmark’s department, as far as he was concerned. He knew how much Christmas meant to Denmark, knew how much it meant to him to spend it with someone else, in the spirit of fellowship, of coziness and tranquility and peace that was so important to him and his people on holidays like Christmas.
Christmas was one of Norway’s favorite holidays as well, though he never felt the need to proclaim it as loudly as Denmark did. He associated Christmas with light in the darkness, blazing out into the long, cold of the winter nights, with laughter and warmth and smiles, with the chill snap in the air and the crackle of snow beneath his boots contrasted with the radiant warmth and brilliant blaze of the candles and fires in the house.
Norway stood outside his house and studied the flicker of the lights, watching his breath form misty puffs in the air in front of him. He wondered if Christmas would be the same if for whatever reason Denmark didn’t come over the night before to share it with him. Sometimes he shared it with Iceland and Denmark, sometimes all five of them celebrated together-but Denmark had always been there, ever since Norway had known him. Even before Christmas, they had celebrated Yule together.
He sighed, blew his breath out again, impatiently, and stomped into his house. What a stupid thing to wonder about. He shook out his boots and shrugged out of his jacket before stripping his boots off and heading into the kitchen to do some more holiday cooking. He had to be ready for Christmas Eve, after all.
Denmark showed up bright and early the morning of Christmas Eve. Norway met him at the door and shoved a clove-studded clementine into his hand even as he cried, “Norge, glaedelig Jul!” and moved forward to try and hug him.
“Glaedelig Jul, Den,” Norway said. He nodded shortly at the interior of the house to beckon Denmark inside.
Denmark hugged him anyway, pulling him close to his chest, and Norway sighed and let him. He was warm, at least, his arms strong and his chest solid, and this time he was wearing a warm sweater and jacket for a change. He smelled like pine boughs and roast goose and beer, the chill air outside and the crisp bite of snow, and Norway smiled a bit into his shoulder where he couldn’t see it before he stepped back out of Denmark’s arms and closed the door behind him. “I need to finish decorating the tree,” he said. “Come on. I was waiting for you.”
“You were?” Denmark said. One of those idiotic grins spread over his face. “Really?”
“You took long enough,” Norway said. “And take off your boots.”
Denmark did, calling after Norway as he went into the living room, by the tree, and started a fire in the fireplace, “I’m really glad to be here, Norge!”
Norway looked into the fireplace and sighed. “Don’t be silly, Den,” he said softly. “Of course you are.”
Denmark came into the room a moment later, his footsteps as loud as ever, until he stilled in the doorway. Norway looked up to see him staring at the tree, his eyes wide. “Wow, Norge,” he said. His voice sounded a little rough. “It’s beautiful.”
Norway turned toward the tree and considered it carefully. It was festooned with candles and dripping with tinsel and white garlands to pick up the light, with a silver star shining on top. He shrugged and looked back toward the fire. “Yours is just as pretty,” he said, ignoring the fact that he’d decorated his rather a lot like Denmark’s this year. “I want you to help me make the heart decorations.”
“Sure!” Denmark said eagerly, and started peeling the clementine in his hand, shoving slices of it into his mouth as Norway rolled his eyes at him and got out the paper.
Making paper decorations wasn’t always Denmark’s strong suit. He was good with his hands, but he was impatient when it came to paper, and he tended to be far too enthusiastic-there was usually a lot of ripping and tearing when they worked together on paper folding and cutting. But for some reason, Norway didn’t feel quite right working on the paper heart decorations with anyone else. It just . . . seemed to fit, holding the paper between himself and Denmark, their fingers occasionally brushing as he had the other nation hold the paper still, or when they both reached for the same piece.
Finally, they finished enough to suit Norway and hung them on the tree together. That finished, Norway sat down on his sofa for a moment. Denmark sat beside him and put his arm around his shoulders. Norway didn’t bother to shrug it off. “Good Danish furniture,” Denmark said, grinning. “This is your most comfortable couch.”
It was. Norway didn’t say that, though. “It looks nice,” he said, instead.
“Yeah,” Denmark said, sighing happily as he gazed at the tree. “It does, huh?” Denmark lifted his hand from Norway’s shoulder and stroked his palm over the back of his neck, up into his hair, tousling the silky strands between his fingers, and Norway let him for a moment, before he turned leaned toward Denmark, whose eyes widened. Norway leaned their foreheads together for a moment, then tousled Denmark’s hair in return with one hand and kissed his forehead, firmly.
Denmark’s cheeks turned that soft, flushed pink, and Norway smiled.
“Oh, wow,” Denmark said. He brushed Norway’s cheek with his thumb. “You’re smiling.”
“It is Christmas,” Norway pointed out.
“Yeah, I guess it is, huh?” Denmark said with a laugh, and Norway just shook his head.
“You’re such an idiot,” he said, but even he knew his voice sounded fond.
“You love me that way,” Denmark said, grinning confidently.
“I’m used to you that way,” Norway corrected, but he smiled again and turned to rest his back against Denmark’s side. “It is a beautiful tree,” he said after a moment.
“Yeah,” Denmark said. “It is.” He leaned his head against Norway’s, and Norway didn’t say anything.
Norway spent most of the rest of the evening drinking, cooking, and singing as many Christmas songs as he could think of with Denmark, even the ancient Yule songs he could barely remember, from before the holiday had become that of the Christ, the holiday of lights. Denmark could remember them far better, and he laughed as Norway’s voice dipped into the gravelly, huskier tones of Old Norse and he stumbled over the words. Norway scowled at him for it, but that didn’t stop Denmark, of course. Finally Norway told Denmark to stay where he was and went into the kitchen to finish the rice pudding he’d been making for dessert, as well as the rest of the gløgg and the æbleskiver he’d made especially since Denmark was going to be there. He sighed as he picked up the bowl of porridge for the nisse. “I’ll be right back,” he called into the living room, where Denmark was still waiting, probably doing something stupid, but oh well, he’d stayed alive this long.
Norway took the porridge out to the barn, the snow crunching against his boots. The night was clear, gaspingly cold, the stars burning points of light far above him in the winter sky. Norway laid the porridge down and then sat beside it to wait.
The nisse didn’t keep him waiting, and he smiled at Norway when he saw him there. “Another year, old one of the north,” the house spirit said.
“Another year, good farmer,” Norway said seriously, respectfully. “I hope the porridge is to your liking.”
“It always is,” the nisse said. “Give my regards to your young man, the old one of the flat land, to whom my brothers owe their loyalty.”
Norway felt himself scowl out of reflex, just as he did every year, but he shook it off. “Of course, good farmer,” he said. “Thank you, for all you do for me. My land and my home, they are both strong in your care.”
The nisse bowed his head, cap bobbing merrily, with a smile.
“Is there anything you would like from me?” Norway asked.
The nisse shook his head. “I like the strawberry marmalade this year,” he said, dipping a finger in it and sucking the jam off it. “You remember the old ways, now, old one, but don’t forget to change.”
“Of course not,” Norway said softly, seriously. “Thank you, as always, for speaking with me.”
The nisse just laughed and shook his head, and Norway nodded deeply to him again before leaving the barn, crunching his way back across the snow.
Denmark met him at the door and pulled him inside with both hands on his waist. “Talking to the animals?” he asked with a laugh as he pulled off Norway’s scarf and hung it up, then his hat. He ran a hand through Norway’s hair and blew gently on each of Norway’s cold-stung cheeks.
Norway shook his head. “The nisse,” he said honestly.
Denmark grinned. “I leave the porridge out for them, too,” he said. “Even when I wonder sometimes.”
“I taught you well, then,” Norway murmured.
He let Denmark help him out of his coat and gloves before taking his hands, even though Denmark said, "Ha, who taught who again?"
“I need to take off my boots, Den,” Norway said.
Denmark smiled at him and leaned forward to blow soft, warm breaths over Norway’s eyelashes, until Norway could feel the frost that had formed on them melting. A droplet of it ran down over his cheek when he blinked. “Oh,” he said, then, “oh,” more softly, when Denmark leaned forward and pressed his mouth, warm and wet, over his cheek, brushing the heat of his tongue over that spot to lick away the melted frost.
Denmark grinned at him, pulling away.
“You have a dirty mind,” Norway muttered.
“Ahaha, look who’s talking,” Denmark laughed, and finally stepped back to let Norway step out of his boots. Norway slapped him on the back of the head and then bent to do so, following Denmark into the living room, then stepping into the kitchen to bring the gløgg and the rice pudding back into the room with Denmark.
He sat down in front of him and handed him an old fashioned drinking horn filled with the mulled wine. “Skål,” he said, and linked their arms together, raising his eyebrows at Denmark.
Denmark grinned back at him, his old, wide, devilish Viking grin. “Skål!” he cried back, and they drank at the same time, arms still linked. Norway downed all the wine in the horn, then sat beside Denmark on his Danish sofa and handed him his bowl of rice pudding. “Go on,” he said, sticking a spoon in it. He waited until Denmark had started in on it-and as usual Denmark needed very little prompting-to take a bite of his own.
Denmark was halfway through when he stopped, in surprise, then chewed thoughtfully for a moment, a grin spreading across his face again. “The almond!” he crowed, and grinned at Norway. “So I get a present,” he said. “Right? An extra one! So-where is it?” He looked around expectantly.
Norway took a deep breath and set his pudding aside. He had purposefully given Denmark that almond, after all, hadn't he? “Well,” he said. “You see.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, reached out and laid his hand against Denmark’s cheek, turning his head toward him. He looked into his eyes for a moment, studied the brightly handsome, chiseled planes of his face. “It’s right here,” he said, and leaned forward, tilting his head to set their lips softly together.
Denmark didn’t react for a moment, and the kiss stayed soft, chaste, and then he made an eager sound in the back of his throat and a shudder passed through his entire body, and he was leaning forward enthusiastically into the kiss. Norway brushed his thumb over Denmark’s jaw, held his face firmly in place as he deepened the kiss at his own speed. Denmark, as always, was a keen, fervent kisser, but this time he let Norway push his head back, frame his face in his hands. Breath softened and eased between them, Norway’s tongue slid slick and soft over Denmark’s, and Denmark made a small, quiet sound and pressed forward against Norway’s hands.
Norway pulled away and took a deep breath, staring into Denmark’s blue, blue eyes, and they seemed to shimmer with the depths of the starry winter night outside in the light of the candles on the tree. He curled his arm around Denmark’s neck and kissed him again, soft and slow and gentle, brushing their lips together, mouthing at his lips and tongue before he kissed him deeply again, curling his fingers in Denmark’s hair. Denmark’s arms closed around him, tugged him close, and Norway let him.
It was sometime later when they pulled away. Denmark held Norway close against his chest, gasping, and Norway didn’t move backward. There was a moment of silence, of heartbeats easing in both of their chests, and then Denmark blew his breath out and smiled, and his eyes slid closed, just for a moment before they opened again, and he was smiling.
Norway reached back and picked up his bowl of rice pudding. He lifted a spoonful of it and held it to Denmark’s lips. Denmark huffed out a laugh and opened his mouth, letting Norway feed it to him. “Love you, Norge,” he said fondly, after he swallowed.
Norway took a bite of his own pudding. “I made you æbleskiver,” he said, “with powdered sugar, and strawberry jam, like you said you wanted last year. And don't get me wrong, now-that wasn’t your only present.”
Denmark’s grin put the candles of the Christmas tree to shame. “Only one I needed,” he said, with a soft, wide smile.
He had a beautiful smile, when he bothered to smile like that. So, well, Norway kissed him again.
The end.
1. In Denmark, during the Christmas season, a variety of dinners and lunches are arranged--a julefrokost, a Yule lunch, or a familiejulefrokost, for the extended family. According to Wikipedia, a typical julefrokost will involve beer and snaps. It begins with a variety of fish courses, open face sandwiches with herring, and deep fried plaice filet with remoulade. Herring courses can include pickled or curried herrings on rugbrød (Danish flat whole grain rye bread). The fish course usually also include smoked eel and smoked salmon. Next will be a variety or warm and cold meats, such as sausages, fried meatballs, boiled ham, and liver paté, served with red or green braised cabbage dishes. Desserts are usually cheeses and rice pudding. From time to time, someone calls out "Skål" to make a toast, and everyone stops eating to take a drink.
2. Gløgg is Scandinavian mulled wine often drunk around Christmas.
3. The heart ornaments the two of them make are said to have been invented by Hans Christian Anderson. They are popular throughout Scandinavia, in Norway as well as Denmark.
4. A tomte (Swedish) or nisse (Norway and Denmark) or tonttu (in Finland) is a creature of Scandinavian folklore. Tomte or Nisse were believed to take care of a farmer's home and children and protect them from misfortune, in particular at night, when the housefolk were asleep. The Swedish name tomte is derived from a place of residence and area of influence: the house lot or tomt. Nisse is the common name in Norwegian, Danish and the Scanian dialect in southernmost Sweden; it is a nickname for Nils, and its usage in folklore comes from expressions such as Nisse god dräng (Nisse good lad). Other names are Tuftekall, Tomtegubbe or Haugebonde ("mound farmer"), all names connecting the being to the origins of the farm (the building ground).
5. The title is part of a quote from Khalil Gibran, which reads: "But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls."
6. There is a legend that the animals can speak on Christmas Eve, which is what Denmark is referencing. I tried to make their Christmas celebrations as traditional as I could, but I'm no expert by any means, so I just hope I got everything moderately correct.
7. Æbleskiver are traditional Danish puff pancakes served to accompany mulled wine in the days leading up to Christmas.
8. One of the fundamental aspects of Danish culture is "hygge", which, although translated as "coziness" is more akin to "tranquility". Hygge is a complete absence of anything annoying, irritating, or emotionally overwhelming, and the presence of and pleasure from comforting, gentle, and soothing things. Hygge is often associated with family and close friends. Christmastime when loved ones sit close together with candles lit on a cold rainy night is "hygge", as is grilling a pølse (Danish sausage) on a long summer evening. These examples, although they do not precisely define "hygge", can give an English speaker an idea of a deeply valued traditional concept of Danish culture. (From Wikipedia, via the VisitDenmark website.)