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They’ve been apart longer than this, much longer than these two years between a night in Stockholm and a bright summer afternoon in Trondheim, but Denmark feels as though his bones have aged a lifetime in the days that separated occupation and liberation. His heart is quick and his steps are sure as he follows the old, worn path that leads to Norway’s always and forever home, the place to which he returns no matter what capital is marked on his map because this was the city of kinds. Denmark wonders at the sweat that slicks his palms and the anxious happiness that thickens his thoughts. Its strange to feel so nervous when the war is over, with the darkness has passing, and he can finally start to trust that they can be free again—whether apart or together or somewhere in between, Denmark believes there’s a new dawn worth watching on the horizon.
Yet as the familiar steps of Norway’s sweet little house in the forest come into view and Denmark isn’t sure of much. He isn’t sure what to say or how to keep from immediately pressing Norway to the ground just to feel him breathing and to touch his lips to the pulse that he wants to beat forever in time with his own. He’s even less certain of the reception he’ll get from Norway’s still waters and glacial mystery that leave so much unsaid. But Denmark remembers the quiet fervency of stolen hours on a hotel room floor with Norway draped over his body and beneath a coat that he’s hoped kept Norge warm on dark nights, and knows only this for certain: Denmark wants to see Norway, wants to feel the touch of his hand and believe that in this moment, in this new future they are together.
His face is painted in the brightest smile he’s got in his repertoire of grins and his heart’s doing double time as he knocks on the rough wood of the door and waits just as he did not so long ago. But this time when the door opens, Norway’s wearing his coat even though it’s June and Denmark thinks he’s never been so damned happy in his too long life. The smile softens while he just stares and breathes and lets his heart and mind believe that this isn’t just some dream brought on by too much bootleg liquor and yearning.
Norway says nothing and Denmark’s not surprised by his silence, but he doesn’t really understand why the thousand things he’d thought to say have been forgotten somewhere in the space between his palm and the splay of fingers Norge offers with a silent nod of his head. Norway’s hand is warm and dry, knuckles little mountains beneath the slow brush of his thumb that rubs back and forth and back and forth as Denmark’s led down the stillness of a long hallway bathed in afternoon sun. Norway’s shoulders are thin and Denmark can still see the silver scar that traces the skin of his throat, but there’s a softness and a patience in the sway of his hips that makes Denmark think everything might just turn out alright.
And when they reach the threshold of a bedroom he’s known so well on so many nights, Denmark’s breath catches because Norway’s holding his hand and looking at him and smiling. Its a little ridiculous and he’s damned sure Norge’s will mock him for such weakness, but that impossible smile, the one he’s chased after for longer than he cares to admit, makes his eyes water and his chest hurt because he’s too tired and too relieved to pretend he isn’t really happy.
Norway drags a finger beneath his eyes and calls him an idiot, still smiling as his hand curls around the Denmark’s neck and tightens. Denmark laughs and says I love you and kisses Norway before Norway can frown and think better of his decision to open his front door.
He kisses the sweetness of a secret smile and asks Norway what the hell he did to his poor coat, now all tattered and worn. Norway smirks shamelessly and hides the history of painful days with a shove to Denmark’s chest that has his back meeting mattress. Denmark fingers a hole in the cuff of his once favorite jacket and kisses Norge ten times more for being so sentimental. He welcomes the weight of Norway’s body over his chest and the slide of his tongue between his lips and promises that in this time of peace he’ll try harder to read between Norway’s lines and learn that subtlety Norway always insisted he lacked.
He wants in this present, in this moment of transition, to be what Norway wants and needs in their unwritten future.
Denmark can already feel the hard, thick, press of Norway’s cock against his hip, rocking into him as their embrace take a turn towards the hot and inevitable. He hears the greed and urgency in Norway’s hitching breath. He understands the sting of the teeth that score his jaw and the clutch of fingers in his hair. He knows all too well this desperate desire to be raw and close and unrestrained, and Denmark has no qualms about giving Norway what he wants on any given day, let alone on such a day as this.
He strips Norway bare, clothing rendered useless and abandoned by the same hands that have steered ships and pillaged lands. Norway smiles faintly and pulls at his hair when he’s on his knees pressing kisses to his knees and humming against his thigh, gesturing haughtily at the spread of faded black fabric on his bed. Denmark feels the same damned prickle of too much feeling behind his eyes at the thought of Norway, pale and beautiful and unbroken, splayed over his stolen coat.
Now, Denmark thinks as he kisses Norway’s sighing and smug mouth, there will be no hidden skin or muffled moans, only the rustle of the sheets and the echo of a cheerful laugh he’d forgotten for too long. Norway’s kisses are deep and demanding, wringing moans from his lips and urging him to come closer and closer, to press Norge to the bed and pin him down with the weight of his love.
There’s wetness on his hip from the drag of Norway’s cock and there are fingers raking down his back and a hot sucking mouth beneath his jaw, and Denmark counts himself lucky to be claimed so sweetly, so viciously. He knows that Norway won’t say I missed you or I love you, but he tries to trust as he always has in the cling of Norge’s arms, the clench of his thighs, and the gift of a smile on a summer afternoon.
Its hurried and messy, this tangle of limbs and the opening of Norway’s body to his fingers, but Norway’s hips are arching from the bed and Denmark’s watching the parting of his lips and listening to the quiet moans that escape despite Norge’s best efforts, and he promises that next time will be different. Next time, in a few hours or a few days or a few years, Denmark will take as long as Norway grants to appreciate the curl of his toes and the salt of his cock and the bruising grip of his fingers. He’ll touch every scar, new and old. He’ll bite the curve of Norge’s throat and tickle that secret spot beneath his ribs to hear him laugh when he’s got all the time in the world to be nowhere else but between the spread of Norway’s thighs.
But now, Denmark wants nothing more than the feeling of Norway hot and tight around him, needs nothing more than the burn in his thighs as he pushes into Norway’s body and leans down to kiss the broken letters of his name from quiet lips. He’s gone without for far longer, but Denmark’s never needed Norway more than in this rushed moment of grasping hands and the rise and fall of their bodies making the bed creak and their hearts race. Its startling and wonderful to find that Norge is holding on to him like he’s holding on to Norge. Its a brave new world to discover that they are both shaking and clinging in way unbecoming of two old Vikings better suited for too much beer and hard fucks against a wall. Its an exhilarating thing to uncover this obvious Norway who says greets him with eager touches and kisses that taste a little bit like contentment. He wouldn’t have begrudged Norge anything, would have had more than enough to celebrate in the simplicity of breathing free air into his liberated lungs with Norway by his side, and the plunder of returned feelings leaves him breathless.
Denmark kisses Norway, cradles him close, and hopes for all of this and more in all their shared better days.
When he moans and spills kisses into Norway’s mouth, Denmark can’t think of an better ending to the years of separation and doubt than the sight of Norway writhing and reaching for him atop the torn black of his old coat. More than that, more than anything, he can’t think of a better beginning than the smile that Norway gives him once more when Norway opens up his eyes, bows into his arms and comes.