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Most nations have picked up at least one musical instrument over the course of their existence. Such a long lifespan requires a hobby, and learning a craft offers years of entertainment. What pastime could be better than learning how to spin intricate melodies by plucking a few strings or sliding a bow across nylon? What offers a better distraction than memorizing eighty or so different keys, or regulating your breathing so notes can be held for longer? What better way to liberate the anger simmering from the injustices of nationhood than the beat of a drum or the growl of an electric guitar?
With boredom often knocking at Norway's door, the Nordic nation has learnt to play so many instruments, he struggles to name them all. If asked which he prefers, he would reply stringed instruments without a trace of hesitation, be them plucked or bowed. From harp to cello to guitar, each has brought him great pleasure, though he no longer possesses them all. History has stolen them from him, sold them off to collectors and museums, to be put on display and admired by his people. Their absence doesn’t bother him anymore; he ensures they're well taken care of, requests someone play them every now and again so they don't forget their purpose.
Of those that remain in his possession, the one he cherishes the most would have to be one of his people's inventions. Small in size, the Hardanger fiddle sings higher than a modern violin, eager to bring life to festivals and celebrations that fell out of fashion centuries ago. Four strings vibrate beneath those his bow dances across, warm and vibrant, a stark contrast to the nation the instrument is partnered with. Norway himself designed the ornate purfling inlaying his treasured fiddle; he has taken care to replicate it countless times in the past, when a tragedy occurred and forced him to craft a new one.
Yet the instrument people ask him to play most often will always be his three-hundred-year-old violin. Norway places its fame on the numerous composers who saw potential in its voice. Entranced by its ability to sound joyous or sorrowful, to transmit a vast array of emotions, many placed it at the heart of their compositions. Sociable, it begs him to mingle with his people's orchestras, to perform in concert halls across his country. He never lingers long, however, never gives the conductor an opportunity to convince him to stay. Orchestras are too noisy, too cramped. Their expectations stifle his creativity. Play what's written down without question, obey the conductor's gestures without thinking too hard about it. There's no room for variation in the music's rhythm, no time for slight changes in its tempo. Norway feels trapped in such a strict world.
Norway may be a perfectionist, but he improves on his own terms, in his own time. He decides for himself what flows and what rings clear, asks for advice only once he's fully satisfied with the sound. He doesn't need someone to tell him exactly how something should be played. His pride won't allow it.
Norway finds a regular audience in Romania. His boyfriend often listens to him play, claps loudly when the music comes to an end.
He, too, plays a few instruments, though Norway has never heard him play. Wind instruments. Simple melodies to soothe him when nightmares tear him away from sleep. Norway wonders about them, but knows not to pry. His boyfriend will talk to him when he feels like it. He can only hope he doesn't wait until the problem worsens.
Apparently, Romania also plays the viola.
Norway makes the discovery one summer afternoon. As is his custom, he catches the next flight to Bucharest and makes his way to Romania's house unannounced. He's taken extra steps today, after the unnecessary drama his last visit caused. A note awaits discovery, explaining where he's gone, who he's meeting, when he expects to be back. Hopefully his superiors will think twice before telling his secret services to track him down and drag him back.
If only humans trusted their nations more... Norway is wise enough to know when his presence is needed and when his country can cope without him. Besides, no matter how his relationships develop, his lands and people will always come first. After all, he is a nation before he is human.
Romania looks forward to his partner's unexpected visits. He opens the door with a grin, wraps his arms around him before ushering him inside so they can enjoy each other's company. A procrastinator by nature, he easily ignores the piles of paperwork that lie abandoned on his desk. He'll get back to them later, when Norway is forced to return to his own country.
Today, however, Norway's hand hovers inches away from the doorbell. Music drifts from the living-room window into the street, the powerful chords of a viola echoing a song Norway has never heard before. His heart races from its intensity. Its despair transforms into rage that makes his blood boil. How could he ever think to interrupt such a magnificent performance?
Norway swallows down a protest, scolds himself for eavesdropping. He can hear a shuffling sound from inside the house as Romania hastens towards the door and lets him in. To the Nordic’s bewilderment, an embarrassed grin dampens his enthusiasm, as though he feels ashamed he was caught playing in such a manner.
It doesn't take long for understanding to dawn on him.
Romania isn't one with his viola like he is with his flutes. Unlike Norway, who has been playing for so long his violins have become nothing less than extensions of his body, the Eastern European frequently fumbles with his bow, his viola occasionally screeching instead of singing. His fingers trip over themselves on the fingerboard, so his melodies are fragmented, his timing all wrong. He struggles to both read the sheets before his eyes and place his hand and bow in the correct position, ignoring rests, shortening his semibreves by one beat.
The beginner's mistakes he makes saps his confidence, hinders his ability to play around others. Yet Norway finds the music he produces beautiful anyway, because it reflects the man he loves perfectly well.
While the Nordic nation prefers to play classical music and folk songs, Romania enjoys video game soundtracks and covers popular tracks he hears on the radio. Elitist snobs may turn their noses up at such blasphemy, but Romania has never cared for their unspoken rules. He plays what he wants to play because he feels like it, not because others expect him to.
"Fancy playing together sometime?" Norway suggests.
Weeks pass until Romania accepts his proposition. The opportunity to work on something they both enjoy finally wins him over one sunny morning, and Norway almost leaves another message for his superiors to find. Unfortunately, they have need of him for things of little importance, and another week passes before he can a catch a flight to Bucharest again.
They go over music scores together, searching for something they both enjoy, something that compliments their respective instruments. They have no intention of putting on a performance like some nations Norway could mention, but that is no excuse not to give it their all.
At first, the piece is battered with imperfections. Hesitant, the music falters as Romania struggles to keep up with the notes on his sheet of paper. The viola drowns on the fiddle, but when the latter tries to compensate for this difference in volume, its partner suddenly goes quiet. One moment their tempo is too fast, the next it's too slow. Nerves cause Romania's fingers to tremble, disrupting the clear sound that flutters into the air. Impatience and a desire for perfection persuades Norway to rush, to lose focus, his vibrato ringing out harsher than intended.
"Imagine I'm not here," Norway says.
Useless advice. How could Romania hope to forget his presence when a crowd gathers outside their open window just to listen to him play? How could Romania imagine he's practicing by himself when his boyfriend's enchanting melodies weave around his own stuttering notes?
"I just need practice," Romania replies.
Indeed, no solution could be more simple. They practice whenever they find the time to do so until, finally, they perform the song without error. With every flawless performance, Romania's confidence grows. His fingers cease their shaking as his nerves settle. His gaze flickers away from the music sheets to Norway, so they can silently queue each other on entrances and warn the other when they feel the tempo slipping away from them.
Soon, they are ready for the next step: composing their own songs. Stunning melodies that reflect their respective cultures and tastes. Every time they meet - be it for business or pleasure, in their own countries or someone else's - they bring their instruments with them.
Nothing is more thrilling than joining forces in such a manner, Norway can't help but think one summer evening. Their styles and tastes blend together to create a series of melodies that has accidental listeners looking around for its source, enchanted by the beautiful music they produce.
Lost in the peace such an activity brings them, they only notice that night had fallen when shadows hide the notes they've written down, now blots of ink that become one with the lines. Even then, nothing prevents them from venturing into improvisation, where Romania shines even brighter than Norway. Glances with a hundred meanings are exchanged as they take turns playing the main melody and harmonies, as they laugh and roll their eyes at silly mistakes they no longer care about.
Norway surprises himself when he begins to sing along to the music. A mournful poem in a language he once spoke fluently, but now must concentrate to remember correctly. Not quite trusting his own voice to sound as soft and ethereal as his partner's - besides, he doesn't understand the words sung - Romania hums along to the melody, adds an element of joy to the sorrowful tune.
Only when their voices grow hoarse do they lay their instruments to rest in their velvet cases. Their fingers have long since turned numb, their necks and shoulders ache as they stretch their limbs, still they promise to play again tomorrow.
"You played brilliantly," Norway whispers to Romania, fatigue tugging at his eyelids.
His boyfriend beams at the compliment. His grin is so bright Norway's heart almost bursts from the sudden warmth that engulfs it and brings a tender smile to his face.
There isn't an instrument in the world that could echo the love he feels for Romania. No amount of practice could turn its song into a work of art so powerful it causes the rest of the world to disappear, so intense it makes Norway's heart flutter, so incredible it fills his entire being with bliss.
For no matter how often music tries to replicate that emotion known as love, it never quite succeeds.