Denmark and Norway could not be more different.

When Denmark entered a room, it was as if, up until that moment, they had been sitting in darkness. The curtains were opened, the music started playing, and the room came to life in a pleasant buzz. Denmark carried with him a sense of spirit and optimism that immediately infected whomever he approached. Spending an hour in his company left one feeling giddy, even slightly faint, as if they'd just downed a pint of beer or finished a long race.

By contrast, Norway went largely unnoticed in social situations. Slipping into the back of the room, he bathed in the shadows, sipping an expensive drink and wishing he were anywhere else. He used his words sparingly, typically saving them for insults and sharp bites of sarcasm. He was very definition of introversion, the perfect embodiment of apathy, and the unequivocal antithesis of the vociferous Dane who called himself his 'best friend'.

Of course, the Norwegian would vehemently deny harbouring any feelings towards Denmark other than irritation and indignation. It was better for him to remain detached, aloof - hiding behind a guarded facade to protect himself from vulnerability.

… in that sense, Denmark and Norway could not be more alike.

Few would ever see the other side of Denmark - the one he kept so close, so hidden, that, from time to time, he fooled even himself into forgetting its existence. The side that haunted him with thoughts of his own mortality - or, rather, the despairing truth of his immortality. The side that sent Denmark stumbling barefoot through the snow, staggered by a crippling sense of loneliness and wandering aimlessly as if, on the other side of the forest, he would discover his place in the universe. The side of Denmark that would have him turn up at Norway's door in the heart of the night, hair limp and fingers blue, begging the Norwegian to never leave again.

It was only Norway who could bring the Dane back to himself during these episodes.

He would huff in disapproval and tug him in by the sleeve, mumbling under his breath about the Dane's exceptional idiocy, that he was trying to sleep, and where, in the name of Odin, were his shoes?

Despite his castigation, Norway would brew him a mug of hot cocoa, change him into the perfectly Denmark-sized lego pyjamas he always "just happened" to have on hand, and wrap him in a cocoon of blankets. They would lie together, mollified by the crooning of the wind, as Norway combed his fingers through the Dane's spiky blonde hair, whispering lullabies of eras past, of a time when their eyes were bright with youthful curiosity and their steps coloured with a spirit of adventure.

The next morning, Norway would wake to the smell of wienerbrød baking and a cheerful Denmark, wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron and chattering on as if he hadn't a care in the world. Neither would mention the night before.

Likewise, Denmark was one of the few people who could draw out the more esoteric elements of Norway's personality: the affection that softened his features when he watched his little brother sleeping; the way that, when Denmark flirted, his ears would turn pink, and he'd hide his face in his lover's sweater; how, as they lay together at night, Norway would trace patterns on the skin of Denmark's back, spelling the sorts of endearments that he'd never voice out loud. Their soft breathing and the synchronized beating of their hearts expressed more than words ever could, anyway.

Most would never catch a glimpse of Norway's smile. Oh, Denmark would never forget the first time he saw it. It had been in their viking days - the time when their coats brushed their ankles and their scrawny frames struggled to support the weight of their weapons. On a musical winter's night, the two young nations climbed to the peak of ágæti bjarg with the mission of touching the stars. Of course, they weren't successful, but being so high up, so far from the world they knew, they could almost pretend they were stars themselves. It was then that Norway flung his small arms in the air, as if trying to brush his fingertips against the aurora, and threw his head back in laughter. To this day, Denmark will swear that the brightest stars in the northern sky are the ones he saw in Norway's eyes.

To the understanding of any onlooker, Denmark's affection was entirely one-sided. Norway expressed nought but annoyance towards the jubilant Dane, relishing in his absence and making absolutely no attempt to conceal his animosity. No-one could fathom why someone as amiable as Denmark would devote so much of his time in the pursuit of a nation who so clearly loathed him.

Truth was, they would never understand. They would never witness the stolen kisses in empty rooms, the twined fingers under the table, or the barely discernible tugging at corner of the Norwegian's lips when Denmark doted on him.

When asked why he bothered at all with the frosty Norwegian, Denmark's response was always the same:

"I want to put the stars back in his eyes."

Oops i wrote a fanfic in starbucks again... Third day in a row, crap, I have legit work I should be doing...

Anyway, please review! Or come pester me on tumblr, i'm denmark-is-my-dork.