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Norway didn't know what had happened, and frankly, he didn't care. Didn't Denmark know he wasn't allowed to be in a bad mood? It put Norway in a bad mood, and it wasn't like he'd had the best day at work either. It was unacceptable is what it was.
Leaving his place hovering by the entrance to the sitting room, he approached the chair where Denmark had flung himself to brood as soon as he'd stormed through the door with no greeting but a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He put both hands on the back of Denmark's neck, digging his thumbs into his neck and pushing. "Up."
"Wha--? I'm really not--" Denmark twisted in his seat but didn't stand. There were stormclouds in his eyes and an edge to his voice; Norway did not appreciate it one bit.
"Up," he repeated, stronger that time, and Denmark did as he was told, although his body language made it clear he wasn't happy. Good, neither was Norway. He'd let go of Denmark's shoulder as the other had stood, and he rounded the chair and grabbed Denmark's hands in his own, letting them rest low and to either side of their torsos; he'd always hated the butterfly and had been thankful for more sensible dances that didn't require holding your elbows out like a deranged tree. "Right foot," he ordered, stepping with his left and expecting Denmark to follow.
Denmark seemed to be just confused enough to do as he was told for three or four steps, Norway barking them out in time, before he apparently decided he wasn't going to cooperate. He held firmly in place, timing it perfectly to coincide when Norway would be most off-balance, and pulled, lifting an arm up so Norway ended up to the side with his arms crossed over his stomach. "What are we doin'?" His voice was still a little rough, but it was better.
"What d'ya think?" Norway replied, making it clear what he thought of stupid questions from stupid, troublesome people. He couldn't lead from that position, so he let go and slid into a closed position, pulling Denmark's inside arm out and up and meeting less resistance than he'd thought. He let the other hand stay on his waist; it didn't much matter for leverage and that was all he particularly cared about. He didn't bother with words this time, using his hips and arms to tell Denmark how to move. It was harder to tell what Denmark was thinking, though, as he was forced to keep his gaze firmly over his shoulder.
After a few more beats, a little bit of the twinkle came back into Denmark's voice as he murmured, "But there's no music."
Norway let out an audible breath through his nose. Did he have to do everything? He began to hum a simple tune, putting a little more emphasis than was necessary on the downbeats in protest of Denmark's selfishness. He knew Denmark liked it when he sang, but that went both ways, and it would be the least Denmark could do to oblige him with a song if he was going to be such a pain in the neck.
They waltzed around the sitting room, Norway forcing himself to take care not to bump them into anything no matter how satisfying it might have been, and at the first chorus it seemed all his effort was paying off: Denmark joined in with the words. The reason Norway liked it when he sung wasn't because Denmark had a fantastic voice or great skill; he was passable, the level anyone who liked to sing as a hobby would attain. No, the reason was that when he sung, he conveyed the emotion of the music as though he was singing just to you even if there was a crowd. This time he was singing just for Norway, and he was breaking position to croon directly into Norway's ear. As a result there was a hitch in their steps when he started, though they recovered quickly.
A pinch to his side made it clear Denmark wasn't going to let him stop humming, so Norway kept going but took the harmony as best he could. He wasn't a musical genius, but he enjoyed playing when he could (and singing when he was forced), so he knew a little about it anyway. They actually sounded good together, strange for how the entire endeavor started. He let himself lose himself a little in their impromptu duet, and was surprised to find himself a little (really very slightly) sad as the tune came to an end.
They stopped, frozen in a position that belonged much more to the grand ballrooms of their past than the tiny, cozy sitting room of their present. After a long pause, the last reverberations of their voices long gone from the air, Norway took a step back and broke the connection of the dance. Denmark's eyes had lost all trace of their earlier displeasure, being replaced by the weariness of the evening and not a small amount of warmth. He brought the hand that had been held out in front of them to one of Denmark's cheeks and stretched up to kiss the other. Properly. "Welcome home."
Denmark had the decency to look a little contrite, but if he was out of his mood then Norway was prepared to forgive him. Turning, he let the fingers that had been on Denmark's shoulder slip down his arm and catch in his hand, leading them into the kitchen.