Warnings: Reference to violence and blood, minor swear words. Nothing too offensive.
A/N: This is a Secret Santa gift for kainoliero over at LiveJournal. Not my best writing, but so far I'm satisfied with this. The writing style is something I can work with well. :) Hope you'll like it as well!
Unbetaed.
Sonata of the Snow
To kainoliero. Merry Christmas!
I hope you'll like this, and please forgive me for my horrible take on your wonderful prompt.
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And love is a blizzard, cold and unforgiving. But then the air is the sweetest just after it.
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The sting of the bitter cold on his skin is nothing new. This is his home for the entirety of his life, and nothing can be ever more familiar than the sensation of cold, cold air hitting his skin. He doesn't remember a time when winter didn't mean snow, doesn't remember a time when Jul wasn't white. He doesn't remember a time where he has surrendered to the snow.
The intimate smell of the icy air floods Norway's senses, and he allows a small smile to form on his lips. The forest is quiet, a glistening winter wonderland in his eyes. He was born for this, born for the snow, for the winter. He can't imagine living somewhere else; home is here, where the icy wind sways his hair every time it blows, where the biting air is crisp against his clothes.
He remembers, somewhere at the back of his mind, a time when red filled his vision, the snow tainted with blood from his and Denmark's soldiers. He remembers a time when snow would mean a wretched battlefield, a war in the midst of the unforgiving northern winters. Red filled the clean white canvas of his lands, contrasting the blue of the heavens. He remembers rage, disappointment, betrayal.
And he silently wonders, does the snow remember it all as well?
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Denmark knows emotion all too well. Sometimes he forgets (because that's just how he is) but then it would all come back again and the memories never fail to give him a sick feeling in stomach. Red fills his mind—dirty, despicable red. Rage, disappointment, betrayal, blood—all of the things he associates with the color. It's quite ironic, really, because red and white are his flag colors. Whenever he imagines Norway in the middle of a snow-laden field, deep red floods his sight and there he is again, in the battlefield he sought to forget months and years and decades ago.
Emotions now lay in monochrome layers, and fate finds them emotionally mute. Norway's eyes used to have so much life and Denmark's voice used to have so much fire. But now exhaustion seeps out of every fiber of their being and life has never been duller.
Kind of like the snow falling just outside his window.
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Don't look back. Don't look back.
In a place where their memories come back to them rushing like a tidal wave, it isn't easy to look back without regret in their eyes. Regret for what they have lost, for what they have never gained. Regret for what they have become, and regret for what they have failed to become.
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There are here again. Time and time again something would drag their feet across the miles and lead them here. It always ends here—always back to the same old clearing they've known from years ago, where everything they had between them ended. Where Denmark had lain weak and Sweden stood tall and strong.
The story plays out before them once more, and words are left unspoken yet understood between them. Their eyes meet for what feels like the first time in years, and in truth, it is. Did Norway always have eyes that beautiful shade of blue? Denmark doesn't know. All those intimate memories, they've been thrown out of the window the moment their "marriage" was shaken. (Could it even be considered a marriage? He's treated Norway more like a possession back then, and oh, how he regrets his past actions!)
Gray fills the sky above, a dull shade that mystifies Denmark. Faintly, he remembers reading in the newspapers about a blizzard. He turns around to head back home to escape the storm, ready to leave his barely-there relationship with Norway in a catatonic state once more, but the other nation reads his actions, and calls for him.
"I know a place," Norway whispers. Even though the strengthening winds whip through their hair and send whooping sounds to their ears, Denmark still hears him. Norway's voice couldn't have been any louder. He idly wonders if it is a sin to feel so intense with just the words Norway said. It makes him shiver in a way the cold can't, because this is Norway—the only person who manages to break him each time without ever meaning to.
So he nods, and attempts to form a reply in his mouth but his throat feels lodged and words are stuck in his throat. It doesn't matter, Norway might understand. Things look a little less bleak for Denmark now; perhaps they still have that old understanding. Would Norway still be able to read his eyes like an open book? Does he still wear his heart on his sleeve?
And at this moment, where the two of them stand before the other with so many waiting questions and planned answers written so clearly in their eyes, Denmark realizes something. There are no more roads left, no more detours, and no more rough obstacles to use as excuses. They say that the truth sets you free, and he's willing to test the theory today.
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Unsurprisingly the blizzard churns as they walk through the snowy grounds. The painful sensation of the biting snow does not faze them, and they hardly struggle against the thunderous impact of the winds as they hit the trees. Step after step they near their destination, an old cottage Norway is so familiar with. The heavy sounds of the blizzard drown out the crunch of their winter boots.
Peeking from the wild tree branches, dusk looms on the threshold of the world, the oranges and yellows on the distant horizon washed out by the white that fills the air. Denmark tugs at his coat, tempted to look up to the skies. But he focuses on what is presented in front of him. He focuses on Norway guiding them through the winding paths (though they are barely seen through the snow), focuses on the strides that look elegant even when struggling. His eyes burn, not with brimming tears, but with the warmth and passion that he has not quite quenched all throughout the years.
He doesn't realize when they arrive at the porch of the cottage. The spell breaks when Norway turns the doorknob and the hinges make screeching sounds, and Denmark wills himself to extinguish his internal fire. It isn't needed, not now, and perhaps not ever. All he wants is forgiveness, nothing more. Beyond forgiveness is not a realm of possibility, but an abyss of broken promises and painful lies. No, he doesn't want to go there. Not when he is so close to mending his companionship with Norway.
There is only too much beauty a man can handle, Denmark thinks, as he steps inside. He's still beautiful, outside he's still the same old Norway he knows from the fading memories he keeps. Inside, he knows they're both only broken wrecks—weakened by obstacles, shattered by pain. History repeats itself, but they are too resigned to their fate that learning from the past becomes useless.
He doesn't realize, doesn't even give it thought, that maybe they're both just a little bit too scared.
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The warm light of the fire burning alive barely illuminates the cottage's quaint bedroom, but it's enough to be able to move around. They sit on the bed, backs turned to each other. Even their breathing is drowned by the violent bang of the wind and snow against the windows. Denmark figures they'll probably break. How long has this cottage been here? Norway doesn't answer him when he asks earlier. A secret of his, perhaps.
He's been rehearsing those lines for a while now. The ones he'll have to say eventually. He wants to tell Norway everything: all the guilt and frustration and hurt he's been feeling ever since they've been separated; the knowledge and acceptance that he himself was the one who caused all this and the pain that came with it. The love he has never really admitted. He has a speech ready, damn it. But ah, everything he's practiced to say (all those well-thought-of lines for nothing!) escapes the recesses of his mind.
"I'm sorry," he manages to choke out, and this is nothing like the scene he pictures whenever he thinks of asking for forgiveness. Their backs are still turned to each other and Denmark doesn't make a move to turn around, only because he's too nervous to see the other nation's reaction.
So it's Norway who first turns, getting an eyeful of Denmark's back. "What for?" His voice is surprisingly gentle, not a hint of hostility in it. The bed shuffles; Norway shifts closer to Denmark.
All the reasons jump out of Denmark's head. What was he sorry for? (The war? The bloodshed? The almost-love that slipped through their fingers?) He blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "Everything," he rasps, the word throaty and hoarse and barely intelligible as it leaves his mouth. He can only hope that Norway understands.
But Norway always understands. Whether it's that passionate flame in his eyes—only dimmed by the faint light of the fire starting to diminish—or the burning need to touch that is evident in every fidget Denmark makes, he understands. And maybe Denmark doesn't, because look at him, asking for forgiveness when he was already forgiven years ago.
Warm fingers on his chin, and Denmark looks up. Norway's eyes are gentle, a sea of frozen ice that burn through his skin and his whole being like cold, cold fire, and Denmark doesn't have the courage to look away. They stay that way and seconds suddenly turn into minutes, and what in truth is only a few seconds seem like hours when they shift their glance.
Lips on his lips. A burning sensation, making him feel more alive than he has ever been these past few decades. More alive than when he escaped free from Germany's grasp. Norway pulls away, and his lips tingle. His skin feels hypersensitive now, every lingering butterfly touch heightens and it pools in his groin. But he's too tired, too worn out to feel his aching need throbbing against his thighs.
He lets it all out. He doesn't cry; he's too big for that. But his soul is set free and Norway holds him all throughout, with his gentle arms wrapped around Denmark. He never lets go, and it makes Denmark content. Soon he is lulled into a peaceful sleep. Not once does he hear the shutters hitting the outside walls. The feel of Norway blocks out all sound, all sight, until everything is all touch. That's just how it is.
And outside, the settling blizzard silently watches.
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