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He probably shouldn't have tried to take three boxes at once, at least, that's what Denmark thought as he tried to crane his neck to see the next step so he didn't fall down the narrow staircase from Norway's attic and break his neck. They weren't particularly heavy, which is as far as he'd thought it through. He hadn't taken into account he wouldn't be able to see a damn thing from behind the stack. It occurred to him maybe he should go back, but blindly navigating backwards was even more intimidating: he had no choice but to press on.
Of course, as with most of his poor decisions, everything fell apart with the finish line in sight. Expecting one more stair, he put too much force behind his step, stumbling and ending up losing one of the boxes just at the foot of the stair. He set the other two down carefully and surveyed the mess spilled all over the landing with a grimace. If anything was broken, Norway was going to kill him; he only kept things that were extremely important to him, and his capacity for sentimental attachment was almost disconcertingly high. Well, Denmark had until Norway returned with lunch to ascertain the extent of the damage and prepare a plea for forgiveness.
He righted the cardboard box and started gathering the mementos, inspecting them for damage before replacing them in the box. It was a shame about the move, actually, Denmark thought idly as he carefully refolded a handkerchief that looked one sneeze away from disintegration. Norway had owned this house for quite some time, certainly at least since his independence, coming out here to escape politics or the hectic pace of modern life or whatever he'd decided he couldn't stand for even one second longer that time. Denmark personally enjoyed the exhilaration of progress, but that progress was now claiming Norway's refuge to make way for a new highway. Of course, Norway himself had an entire litany of why this would be good for him economically and the house was getting old anyway and it's a waste of gasoline to come all the way out here from Oslo, don't be so sentimental, it's not even your house, idiot.
Luckily, there didn't seem to have been anything fragile in the box Denmark had dropped, and most everything was as pristine as could be expected for items that were certainly several centuries old. A tarnished letter opener, several stacks of envelopes tied with rough twine, a few dusty tomes with faded gilt inlay that had once glittered with the promise of new stories or knowledge. He had read most of them before, taking the opportunity to flip through them and lose himself in Bohr's model that had been so revolutionary as to completely blow the scientific community away. There was one he didn't recognize, though, and it didn't take a nobel prize winning mind to guess why; he hadn't felt up to reading much during the time Norway would likely have acquired a collection of Swedish poems.
Opening to a random page, he began to read, curious as to what could be in this obscure author's work to cause Norway to keep it in his stringently chosen collection. They seemed to be the poet's account of his journeys abroad, but instead of the wonder or puzzlement Denmark associated with travel journals, there was a strong thread of loneliness running through them. The sense of disconnect between him and the people he met was almost palpable, and it was hard to keep from sympathizing, even if from Denmark's perspective the poet seemed so very immature.
Aware in the back of his mind that he didn't have all day to sit sprawled in the middle of the hallway reading an old book, he flipped ahead, wanting to see if the author would grow at all by the end, but he got distracted by a folded sheet of paper stuck about three quarters of the way through. It didn't occur to him until a few lines in that it might be something he wasn't meant to read.
The letter, if it could be called that, included neither salutation nor greetings. It was only the content, packed in Norway's tight handwriting, that gave away its purpose. The lack of even a date seemed to suggest it was never meant to be sent to whoever the "you" was he was addressing.
All that comes to mind are cliches, and you know how much I hate those, the letter began, almost in media res inasmuch as a letter could be. My thoughts are too at odds with one another to discern some single sentiment, anyway. You should know better than to expect eloquence from me.
Do you remember the time we ate so many berries, we thought we would burst as we lay on out backs holding our stomachs? The time we chased that ill-tempered swan all through the garden? I still deny any resemblance to that vicious bird. There was the time we snuck down to the water to go fishing and I didn't push you in only because I knew we'd get caught if we came back wet. The time you lost horribly to that songbird you challenged to a singing contest. The time I brought home that frog and you looked greener than the frog did even though you tried to hide it. The time you stayed up long past when the candles had burned down because I wanted to know how that story ended.
Even though our paths have diverged, I don't think we'll ever be truly rid of each other, if only in how at odd moments we'll remember little things, both good and bad. Just because I'm here and not there doesn't mean I don't know you're being ungrateful for all the good times we had together. Stop moping.
All the things listed were trivial details, nothing that would stand out in someone's memory, but their triviality somehow made them more compelling in their excessive humanity. It was probably only the fact that he remembered all of them personally that was keeping him from letting the ache in his chest out as tears. He hadn't thought of any of those moments in years, but there were others nearly every day. The time he'd gestured so wildly he nearly fell of the back of the streetcar they were riding and Norway had to catch him. The time Norway hadn't been paying close enough attention and nearly set Denmark's microwave on fire. The time they'd bickered endlessly while they cleaned this very house.
He forced himself to get moving again, replacing the paper in the book and finishing putting everything that he'd dropped back in the box. There were still four or five more to bring down, and he thought about what he was going to say when Norway got back as he emptied the attic and then carried it all to the ground floor. He'd clearly never been meant to read that, but now that he had, he didn't think he could go without mentioning it.
The door opened and shut quietly just as Denmark had started on the bedroom. He hefted the closest box hurried down the stairs, leaving it in the hall and heading into the kitchen. Most everything had been packed or sold already, which left Norway digging through the takeaway bag for the plastic forks that should have been included.
"Hey, Norge," Denmark said, hoping he didn't sound as strange as he felt.
Norway waved back absently, emerging victoriously with his disposable cutlery.
"When I was moving one of the boxes--"
"You broke something," Norway accused in a flat tone.
"No, nothing's broken," Denmark protested. Norway seemed momentarily confused, but went back to dealing with lunch, probably hungry from lifting all the furniture they'd moved out that morning. "But..." he began.
"What?" Norway demanded shortly, pushing Denmark's plate over to him and wasting no time digging in.
"One of the things I dropped was a book of poems..."
Apparently Norway didn't remember the letter he'd left inside, because he just looked over with his brow furrowed in confusion.
"I think I read something I shouldn't have. I'm sorry." He could see the moment when Norway recalled exactly what book Denmark was talking about.
"Oh. That." He turned back to his food and said lightly, "Who cares?" Denmark knew he was trying to mask embarrassment, though.
"I really am sorry, you know how I don't think things through very well."
"It's not a big deal," Norway told his lunch.
"Do you remember the time we fell asleep in that field because we were so tired from chasing that butterfly?"
"After you somehow managed to scrape an elbow and both knees?"
"And then after we gave up and sat down, it landed right in front of us?"
A smile flitted around Norway's features not unlike the butterfly in question. He was so lost in the memory, he seemed to have forgotten to be embarrassed.
It wasn't often they got to eat together, leaning against the counter because the table and chairs were already gone, the afternoon quiet around them. Denmark wondered idly if this would pop into his head one day, apropos of nothing, added to the catalog of mundane memories he'd built up in his long life. It was somehow heartening to imagine.
"You've always been an idiot who tries too hard," Norway said fondly, and Denmark couldn't help but lean over and kiss him on the temple.
Norway reached over and squeezed his hand, before turning the conversation back to the boring details of moving house.