Work Text:
Four Times Norway Fell Asleep On Denmark (and one time it was the other way round)
1.
Iceland, coming from the kitchen, brought a waft of fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee with him. Sweden was baking, it was a Sunday afternoon, and they were hanging out together, Sunday morning after a Saturday meeting and post-meeting dinner, familial and comfortable as they always were.
"Where's my asshole brother? Fin wants me to tell him-"
Iceland stops, because he spots his asshole brother immediately, very noticeable despite him being almost entirely covered in a fluffy grey blanket (one of the many Finland keeps scattered around his home). He's noticeable partly because of the tuft of blond curls sticking out of the blanket; mostly no one else produces snores as resonant and thundering as Norway. Also, because there's only one person who would be curled into a lump, plastered to Denmark's side, at 2pm in the afternoon.
Denmark puts his finger to his lips, unnecessarily, Iceland thinks; Norway isn't going to be woken up by them talking if he's not woken up by his own deafening snoring.
Iceland rolls his eyes. "Fin says there's coffee," he says, pointedly at his normal volume (which still isn't that loud but it's the principle of the thing).
"Grab me a cup, wouldja Ice?"
"Why don't you wake up the human tractor?"
"Because! He's tired, bro! Go on, help an old man out?"
Iceland is pretty sure Denmark's real reason is something disgusting like that he thinks it's cute when Norway falls asleep on his shoulder and dribbles on him. He leaves the room and returns to the kitchen, only to see Sweden leaning over to kiss Finland on the cheek, complimenting him on his cinnamon rolls.
However much he wants to be counted among the adults, he's quite happy to retreat to Sealand and Ladonia's den and play Minecraft with them for a while.
2.
The train is always a little louder and busier than Sweden would like; Finland offers him the window seat so there's a barrier between him and everyone else, but then his legs are cramped, so there's really no way to get comfortable. It's a long journey from Malmo to France, with few opportunities to get some rest.
Sweden envies Norway, who, with his sailor's legs, can fall asleep in the most uncomfortable positions. In fact, it seems to only be when lying in bed that Norway has a problem sleeping: right now he's leaning back against Denmark's shoulder, head back, mouth open. Denmark, his face half-mashed into the side of his seat, is also asleep and snoring lightly.
"Not too much longer," Finland says, touching Sweden's knee reassuringly; he too, though, is yawning, and Sweden doesn't want him to stay awake on his account. He turns to offer his shoulder to Finland, who blinks a few times, weary, then smiles and leans in.
Across the table Iceland, seated at a table with three strangers, has his eyes shut, headphones on. Sweden thinks of reaching his foot across to nudge him, decides not to - it's no one else's fault that he can't sleep - and tucks his hands into his lap. He shuts his eyes as well, behind his glasses; even if he can't sleep, he can rest.
3.
Finland's lost track of what they're watching - it's one of those shows with an arbitrary deadline and a lot of talking heads, which Denmark eats up, and he has very little interest in. He's been occupying himself with his crochet, quite happy just to be present in a room with other people, without the pressure of making conversation.
He finishes a row and looks at the time, stretching his arms up.
"More coffee?"
Norway has been unusually quiet about the dross they're watching, Finland thinks, and realises as soon as he doesn't respond to the offer of coffee that Norway is, predictably, asleep.
Norway doesn't sleep well at the best of times, so it's not unusual for him to take random naps here and there: dozing off in front of the television, snoring his way through long journeys. This time, though, Finland has noticed the signs of sickness creeping into Norway's face, the red rimmed eyes and cracked lips indicating something impending. His head rests against Denmark's thigh, a deep cross etched between his eyebrows. This might not be a power nap; more like a period of enforced shutdown.
"He okay?" he says, pausing as he picks up Denmark's mug.
"He'll be fine," Denmark says, his fingers threading through the damp hair at Norway's neck. He's concerned as well, Finland can see it in the tense edges of his smile, and the way he keeps his eyes fixed on the television.
"Swe's making a ham for dinner, if you want to stay."
He means this: the spare room is available; there's clean towels in the cupboard; I'll stay up if you need. I'll help.
Denmark understands, and replies with a nod. "Sounds good."
4.
These days Norway has all his own rules and conditions for the things that happen between them. Denmark plays by these rules, almost all of the time; still, though, there are rare moments where Norway isn't watching himself, Denmark, both of them. By virtue of their rarity, these moments are even more precious when they happen nowadays.
After eating a little soup, and fending off both Denmark and his own exhaustion, Norway falls asleep again, his head nestled in the crook of Denmark's arm. It isn't comfortable for Denmark, but it's worth it.
Norway's face opposite him is pale and hollow, the skin under his eyes blue-black, white and red sores at the corners of his mouth; he smells dank and sour, of an unwashed body and ketosis breath from lack of food. Even so, he looks beautiful to Denmark. He reaches out and, using his thumb, tries to smooth away the cross-shaped divot on Norway's brow. Norway murmurs something in his sleep. The wrinkle stays there.
He does like it when Norway falls asleep on his shoulder in front of the TV, or during a long car journey; the snoring is like a familiar white noise to him, the weight of Norway against him a comforting blanket. Of course it's endearing (whisper it: sweet, even) when stoic Norway, self-controlled Norway, unconsciously curls up to him, rubs his nose against Denmark's shirt, sometimes reaches to hold him in return, displaying an unrepressed need for comfort, for him.
But he also likes the near-painful burn of nostalgia, when Norway is tucked up next to him, silent, vulnerable.
Norway doesn't need him any more, even Denmark has finally accepted that. He doesn't need him to protect him, or care for him - except that every so often he does, and Denmark gets to do what he loves the most: be the one Norway depends on, whether that's for a body to sleep on, heat to warm him, or a guard to defend his slumber.
5.
A month after his recent illness has retreated, Norway takes a train to Copenhagen. He's recovered, and arranged to treat Denmark to dinner as a way of saying thank you. Of course Denmark argued he didn't need to say thank you, that he was happy to do it, he always is, but Norway doesn't like to leave any debts unpaid these days.
He arrives at their chosen spot - a steakhouse on Vesterbrogade they've been frequenting for nearly thirty years - and orders beer and starters for them both. The street traffic is minimal this evening, probably due to the pissing rain; it's hard to make out anything beyond the window except the heavy sluice of water heaving down at an almost forty-five degree angle. Norway thinks of the sea, how it must be churning around the port not too far from here, the sailors hauling on flapping sailcloth, wet ropes burning around their wrists - but no, they don't use sails anymore; the ships here are monsters running on engines as big as a house.
This happens sometimes, memories of the past bleeding into the present. There are too many memories hiding in the shadows of this city.
Denmark enters, shaking the rain from his hair like a wet dog, spots Norway immediately, and makes for their table.
"Hej! You didn't have to come, bro, are you sure you feel - "
"I'm well," Norway says, cutting him off. Denmark fusses like this for at least a month or so after he gets sick, and the solicitousness of it bothers him; as if he couldn't tell for himself if he felt well enough to travel.
Denmark does him the favour of not asking again. Instead he talks expansively about a recent trade deal with Germany, his country's recent football losses, and a new ship Maersk is building. Norway listens in near-silence, enjoying his meal, offering occasional affirmative murmurs where it seems appropriate. This is part of Denmark's reward: he relaxes the rules and lets him do things Norway would usually object to, like talking all the way through dinner, drinking slightly too much, and touching Norway's thighs beneath the table.
He lets him do some other things he would usually object to once they get back to Denmark's place, some of which require a fair amount of exertion. Afterwards they lie in a satisfied, slightly drunk heap until Norway shoves Denmark off him so he can go wash up and take a piss.
When he returns, Denmark is lying face down, arms around a pillow, which Norway knows he will attempt to replace with him, as soon as he gets back in bed. And he's proved correct: Denmark's stubbled chin scrapes across his shoulder, and he presses sloppy kisses against the damp crook between Norway's neck and shoulder, his arm coiling around Norway's waist, pulling him in closer than is really comfortable. He allows it though - not as a reward, this time, but because sometimes it's worth being a little bit uncomfortable for someone you love.
Denmark falls asleep almost immediately, his hot breath spilling out over Norway's chest, smelling of beer and meat. It occurs to Norway once again that much of history is simply the same scene playing over and over, in different sets, to another accompaniment.