#dencan

This for DenCan?

No clue how to write Dencan and I wrote fricking famine for some reason. Tw suicide mentions and just a lot of die. Also send me ships, poly or not and give me a prompt for it and I'll attempt it

It was cold, so so cold, the ground was frozen solid, and nothing could grow, not the smallest shrub in this abysmal climate. There was no food for the few animals that remained, most had died or ran away when they caught whiff of the winter to come. The people had stayed, well the ones that hadn't died yet, though many looked like walking corpses in their emaciated states, hollow cheeks and eyes, vertebrae growing visible and ribs sticking out.

This year had started off well, they had managed to sow a lot of grain though it went downhill from there, the summer was too hot and wet, killing people left and right who had to toil in the fields, then autumn came with it's storms and frigid nights, a lot of the grain rotted at this time, getting mouldy from the residual dampness from Autumn nights.

Winter was the worst, the biting wind, colder than all years previous, cut through the thin walls and slowly chipped away at everybody, bit by bit, time by time. More people died by their own hand, from the hopeless and the fear, than through the winter, and many died from that as it was.

Stop it, Stop It, STOP IT.

"MATHIAS, Mathias, Mathias, calm down, breathe, just breathe."

Disoriented, Mathias grabbed the first thing he could, and that was fortunately Matt's arm.

Matt was leaning over him fearfully, not knowing what was going in in the Danes head, but incredibly worried nonetheless.

It took some time for Mathias to return back to his senses, a very long time indeed.

During the time that Mathias was clearly in a bad position mentally, Matt did one of the only things he was good at, well at least what he told himself he was good at.

Comforting.

He stroked his head, slowly but evenly, calmly bringing Mathias to the present for he knew tactics that entailed violence would usually backfire horribly. He learnt that the hard way from Arthur and Alisdair, both more oftentimes than not, waking up violently and disoriented.

"Mathias, are you ok, Mathias."

He visibly felt Denmark relax under his soft touch and he weakly grasped Matt's hand.

He was murmuring something, too quiet to be fully audible, he was almost chanting it like a mantra.

Upon closer listening it seems he was saying "Thank you Matt. Thank you Matt."

Canada fully enveloped him now, hiding him softly.

This was nice.

DenCan👀👀👀

Same as last time, I will be using human names

Magnus Thorvaldsen = Denmark

4. Who is the meme lover?“

Obviously Magnus. He sends random memes at random times. He'll send a picture of John Cena to Matthew and go "you at a hockey game".

35. Can they name each other’s favourite food?

Magnus can definitely name Matthew's. Bacon pancakes with maple syrup.

Can Matt name Magnus's fave food? ................he can spell it. It's smørrebrød. Don't ask me how it's pronounced. I can't do it either.

84. What would they write on their partner’s social media for their anniversary?

Magnus would @ Matthew on everything. And I mean everything. That secret AO3 account? @ on the latest fanfic. Tumblr? Reblogged every year. Instagram would be bombarded with pictures of the two.

Matthew would send in a very sweet ask into Magnus's Tumblr ask box that Magnus would be too embarrassed to publish. Every year Matthew sends another one in. They pile up in his ask box unanswered.

Denmark: I am not hip. I am more like, shoulder.

The meeting, this time in Copenhagen, had been a success, somewhat, as the nations slowly trickled out of the busy downtown bar.

Said meeting, to be clear, had not taken place at a bar. No, no. That had finished hours ago in some government building, as per usual. The little after-party the nations had afterwards opted for in celebration of a job well done, on the other hand? That was the reason they were where they were: some sports bar at the corner of a busy intersection in one of the livelier areas of the Danish capital.

England, of course – how predictable – had been the one to suggest it. And although it had been said merely in passing, all that were present had agreed. Eagerly.

Because times were tough for everyone (though, when was that ever not the case?). And so, it was understandable, to want to release some of the near-crippling pressure that came with being a nation. Thus, tonight would be all in the name of good fun. No more fighting, only peace. No more misery, only drunken laughter. No more economic downfall, only prosperity. No more mass hunger. No more melting ice caps. No more. No more. The world’s problems could wait. For once, let us just come together.

No more division, only unity.

…

To repeat, the nations were now slowly, tipsily trickling out of the busy downtown bar.

Denmark, on his part, stood for once completely sober, a clear contrast to the currently drunk Canadian in his arms.

On the other side of room, leaning heavily against both Germany and Sweden (because Alfred had collapsed a mere hour prior, and the nations that had been still somewhat lucid had all agreed that it would not do to have the world’s superpower die on them anytime soon), an equally-as-smashed America was yelling, “Hells yeah, Mattie. You go get some of tha’ fine Danish ass!”

To which said Dane merely snorted as he waved goodbye, the Canadian all the while giggling.

It was once they were sufficiently away from everyone else, and comfortably seated in Mikkel’s car – the eco-friendly, non-gas-guzzling vehicle one would expect the personification of Denmark to have – that Canada drawled, tone of voice suggestive, “Mmm, sooooo…. we goin’ to your house to finish what we started?”

They were on the road now, the streets nearly deserted at this hour.

His blue eyes studying the stretch of road in front of him, the Dane answered firmly (because if anything, the offer was just too damn tempting and of course he wanted this! He wanted Matthew like he had never wanted before… but not like this), “No. I’m bringing you to your hotel room.”

All things considered, it was quite the difficult task to keep his memories of the last few hours at bay. Matthew had been sublime, alluring when he had pressed so closely to his chest whilst dancing – an achingly slow sway of hips accompanied by hockey-strong arms looped tight around Mikkel’s broad shoulders. The European had never understood why, but Matthew always actively sought him out whenever sufficiently inebriated. One moment Mikkel would be cracking a cold one with either Prussia or America, and the next he would find himself with a sudden armful of drunken Canada. Not that he minded. He would never mind in the slightest. Are you kidding? But it did irk him that these were the only times the Canadian approached him of his own volition. Otherwise, it was he that always made the first move. Maybe one of these days that would change…

Back to reality, Matthew seemed to be pleased by such a response, the coils of his mind attempting to decipher what the Scandinavian’s words might entail, “Oh… oh! Well that works too, of course!”

Denmark, eyes still glued to the long, winding sweep of pavement ahead, chose to keep mum. It remained that way for the rest of the drive to the hotel.

Once they were stepping off the elevator to the Canadian’s floor (the ride up had been awkward, to say the least, since on their way through the front lobby Matthew had quite loudly proclaimed to the staff behind the counter that he would be ‘tapping this fine Danish ass, so sorry in advance for the noise’), Canada made his next and final move:

“So, you’re stayin’ the night, right?"

Just as the roads had been, the corridor leading to the North American’s room was equally as empty.

The Dane waited until they were at Matthew’s door before replying, just as firmly as before, “No.”

Taken aback, all Matthew could do was gape, struggling past his alcohol-induced haze. He observed the other, analyzed furrowed blond brows and stiff lips that were drawn into a straight line, waiting for those aforementioned features to relax into something more along the lines of joking. When brows only furrowed further and lips began to curve downwards, he determined that Mikkel was most definitely being serious.

“Really? With all the letters you send me, I thought for sure that –”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Mikkel interrupted curtly, voice as cold as his iceberg-bottom eyes. By this point, they were both quiet, simply staring each other down, until the Dane’s cool, hard mask soon after fissured into that of pain, of silent anguish – an unnatural expression on his usually mirthful face. “In case you haven’t noticed, those letters mean something. I wouldn’t be trying so hard if all I wanted you for was a quick lay.”

If Canada had been on the verge of speaking, then such a revelation was definitely what prevented him from doing so.

Taking advantage of the other’s state of speechlessness, the Dane allowed himself to take a last, mental picture of the nation he wanted more than anything (just like he had done every single other time this had happened, because he wanted to capture every waking moment spent with Matthew and keep it close to his heart always), before making his way back from whence they had just come from. “Good night, Williams.”