[Hetalia] Swan-Seeking
Jul. 21st, 2009 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valmoraThis was originally intended to end in a kink meme fill. It didn't. I thought about trying to extend it to fill the prompt, but realized that was incredibly not the point of the story at all.
Title: Swan-Seeking
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Sweden and adult Åland, references to Sweden/Finland, Russia/Finland, and Åland/fem!Gibraltar
Disclaimer: not mine, yo.
Notes: Jean Sibelius was a 19th and 20th century Finnish composer whose best-known works are based on the Finnish epic ‘Kalevala’. The ones featured in this piece are the Karelia Suite, Finlandia, and the Lemminkäinen Suite. I recommend that readers acquaint themselves with the “Death of Lemminkäinen” portion of the Kalevala, though knowledge is not necessary.
If there is any real-world interaction between Åland and Gibraltar, I am not aware of it.
Taiyaki is a Japanese sweet.
‘Helsingforsare’ is the Swedish demonym for Helsinki, according to Wikipedia.
Being neither Finnish nor Swedish, I have likely gotten details wrong. I welcome suggestions.
I may edit this at some future point to be consistent with the Nordic epicface that I'm writing. It's already halfway there.
Instead of packing his bags after Finland left for the linguistics conference in Barcelona, Sweden decided to stay at the apartment in Helsinki. There was nothing pressing at home, or at least nothing he couldn’t do by telecommute, so there was no reason to waste time traveling when Finland would only be gone a few days.
Besides, there was a half-assembled sofa frame in the workshop here… he had the plans set up already, and the wood half-cut. It would be a shame to abandon it.
The first night Finland called to say his flight had landed, and they spent an hour talking – or rather, Finland enthused about the airports, the sky, his dinner, and Sweden listened to the cadence of his voice and said nothing. He closed his eyes and imagined that Finland was sitting at the kitchen table five meters away, instead of at the other end of Europe.
I miss you, he didn’t say. Come home.
They finished the call with Finland reminding him to remind Sealand to feed the dog, even though those two were staying with Norway for a bit while Sealand learned about the oil market. Sweden agreed that yes, he would remember. They hung up.
He tried to work on the sofa frame but his heart wasn’t in it, no matter how many times he looked at the design sketch and marveled at its beauteous simplicity, so he went to bed.
The following morning, after checking his email and slogging through some UN reports, made a phone call.
“Office of the personification of the Åland Islands.”
A woman’s voice. Sweden hadn’t been expecting a secretary, and it threw him. “’m. ‘s.”
“I’ll patch you right through, then, Kingdom of Sweden, sir,” she said. The phone clicked onto soothing classical music for a moment, then clicked again as Åland picked up the phone.
“Dad,” he said. “What’s this about?”
Sweden thought for a moment. “Y’ free t’night f’r dinner?”
“Ah,” there was the sound of frantic clicking as Åland pulled up his calendar program. “No, but I don’t really need to be there, so yes. Your place or mine?”
“Hels’nki?”
“Dad,” he sighed. “Sometimes I think you only call me because you need someone Finnish around you at all times. Come out here. I’ll cook.”
Sweden stared down at the surface of his desk. It was true that he tended to reach out to Åland more when Finland was away, but it wasn’t out of loneliness, precisely. Åland and Finland were still a little tense, just because Åland wouldn’t speak Finnish and Finland felt miffed by it, since it reminded him of the custody battle. Sweden didn’t like being caught in the middle.
“m’ treat,” Sweden said finally, a little desperately.
Åland hummed in thought. “Only if you promise to go with me to the Sibelius concert tomorrow night.”
Oh, if only. Finland loved Sibelius, went to as many performances of his music as he could, and would always come home happy and humming to himself. He had been upset at having to miss it to go to the conference.
“Don’t h’ve a ticket.”
“I was supposed to go with Sealand but he welched on me to go be with Uncle Norway. And then I was thinking of inviting Gibraltar, but you called first.”
Gibraltar. Small, militaristic, cursed with the British eyebrows. Sweden hoped his son wouldn’t end up browbeaten like Austria, but then, Åland had been seeing Gibraltar for almost twenty years and there hadn’t been any formal announcement of alliance.
“Y’ should call 'r.”
“I’m dating her, not chained to her. It won’t kill me to spend time with my dad.”
“Y’sure?”
“I’ll be at the Helsinki apartment at seven tonight.”
Sweden let himself get steamrollered through the rest of the conversation, hung up, and returned to his hundred-odd pages of reports. He felt better, for some reason.
He spent most of his lunch trying to write an email to Finland, trying and failing to get across what he wanted to say. Communication was so hard when he had to say everything, when Finland wasn’t there to read him instead of having to rely on words, which changed and twisted his meaning.
He finally gave up and sent,
Finland,
Is the conference interesting? Tell Estonia and Hungary hi for me.
Åland is coming to dinner tonight and to the Sibelius concert tomorrow. He said Sealand was supposed to go with him.
Sweden
Not what he’d wanted. Nothing there, nothing right. There was no word for waking up to the bed feeling wrong because the emptiness on the other side changed the tilt of the mattress.
He sent Norway an email asking him to remind Sealand to feed the dog.
The moment Sweden opened the door Åland rolled his eyes, ducked under his arm, and barged into the apartment.
“Dad,” he said, “I love you, but you can’t wear a suit to dinner with me. Put on something that doesn’t require a tie.”
But that was all he had that was really presentable. Everything else was very casual – jeans, and a track suit for exercising. He kept clothes in the closet here, but it was mostly either for diplomatic meetings or lounging around with Finland.
Åland rolled his eyes again. “Sometimes I wonder how you managed to take over half the Baltic. Take the tie and suit jacket off and put on a sweater.” He gave Sweden a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom. Sweden went inside and started changing.
Åland, from the hallway, asked, “Where are we going?”
Sweden named a casual Japanese restaurant that wasn’t too far from the apartment. Åland made a noise that sounded like the pleased little cry he used to make when he saw his parents cooking his favorite foods for dinner. Sweden hadn’t heard it since – since before Finland’s stint as a Grand Duchy. He hadn’t realized he missed it.
The unexpected nostalgia made him smile into the knit wool of his sweater as he pulled it on. “’m I present’ble?”
Åland eyed him. “Yes. Let’s go; I’m hungry and raw arm doesn’t taste as good as raw fish.”
Sweden smiled, relieved, at the door as he locked it and followed Åland down the stairs to the street. The restaurant was close enough to walk to, so they did.
Åland had Finland’s tendency to ramble, though usually he stayed, if not on topic, then on topics logically connected to one another. It made the walk to the restaurant companionable, and Sweden didn’t mind. He didn’t usually pay much attention to semi-autonomous states other than his son, Greenland, and the Faroe Islands, but they were all three part of the Nordic Council. It was nice to hear about Åland’s friends.
At the restaurant Åland ordered sake for both of them, then launched into a story from the previous spring when he, Gibraltar, and Falkland Islands visited Okinawa and attempted to learn about Japanese culture. Sweden’s imagination gave up at the description of Falkland Islands, whom he’d only ever seen wearing surplus British Army camouflage, in traditional Japanese clothing.
Åland managed to carry the conversation by himself until dessert, whereupon he glanced up from eating his taiyaki and declared, “I’ve been dominating the conversation.”
Sweden grunted. Not really untrue, but it wasn’t like he minded.
“Talk for a bit while I eat this,” Åland said, and bit off the dessert’s head.
Sweden watched him chew a bit. “Finl’nd’s at a linguist’cs conf’rence. D’nmark ‘n I ’re talking furn’ture ‘gain. His music’s still bad. There’re s’me good nom’nations for th’ Nobel Prize this year.”
“Any advance hints you can give me?”
Sweden shook his head. “’m not ‘n th’ c’mmittee.”
Åland swallowed the remains of his dessert and moved to look at the check. Sweden intercepted him and took it. The ensuing argument lasted well after the waitress took Sweden’s money and all the way back to the apartment, whereupon Åland headed back home.
There was a message from Finland on the answering machine.
“Hi Sweden! I’m happy to hear that Ahvenanmaa is keeping you company. What did you have for dinner? Was it fun? Tell him I said hi and make him pass on a hug from me to Gibraltar. I thought about visiting her while I was here but the schedule doesn’t leave time, and I don’t think she’d want me dropping by anyway.
“The food at the conference isn’t very good, so I went out to dinner at a Spanish restaurant with Hungary, Austria, and Czech Republic. We ended up meeting Algeria and Morocco while we were there, so we had a little party. I think we got Austria drunk, though. All the better for Hungary! We should invite them for Christmas.
“I think we should make a coffee sauce for Christmas dinner. I’ll ask Norway if he knows a good recipe when he drops Sealand off. And Sealand should go spend some time with Ahvenanmaa to make up for leaving him alone for the Sibelius concert. I’m jealous that you’re going! You’ll tell me how it goes, won’t you? Maybe we should invite Gibraltar for Christmas dinner too, even if she will be with England. A life-sized straw doll of her? We’ll have to think about it.
“I’m probably using up all the answering machine time. E-mail or call me!” Click.
Sweden booted up his computer and opened his email. There was a message from Norway that was short, pithy, and simple:
Am not your wife. In future, send messages intended for Sealand to Sealand.
Dog and micronation fed, walked, bathed, and put to bed.
Norway must have been in a good mood. Sweden sent Finland an email about what happened at dinner, then went to sleep.
He woke at six in the morning to an overenthusiastically still-drunk man pounding on the front door and yelling in slurred Finnish for “Marjatta you bitch” to come to the door. Sweden waited half an hour, gave up, and opened the door a few centimeters. It was enough for the man to catch sight of him and flee in terror.
At that point it hardly seemed worth it to try to go back to sleep, so he worked on the sofa until he got hungry, then ate breakfast and started doing his real work.
He stopped writing proposition evaluations at five o’clock because he had a headache and needed a break. After that, it was back to the sofa frame, the quiet meditation of working with wood to make functional objects. He kept imagining where it might go – the country house? The house near Turku? He could still make it into a sofa-bed and replace the one here in case they ever needed to keep guests.
The knocking on the door surprised him, and he went to answer it, glad that it wasn’t an inebriated helsingforsare.
It was Åland. Sweden stepped aside in the doorway to let him in.
“’m sorry. D’dn’t notice th’ time.”
Åland shrugged. “’s okay. I’m early anyway.” He held up a paper bag, and only then did Sweden notice the scent of food emanating from it. “I brought dinner. Fish stew, and potatoes and pork. And blueberry pie.” Comfort food.
Sweden set the table and poured milk for both of them while Åland served dinner. It was delicious, flavor and heat and texture well-mixed. There were leftovers, but not much. Sweden ate more than he probably should have.
After the meal Åland turned on the television and watched a talk show while Sweden changed into a suit. He spent five minutes debating over what tie to wear. The suit was blue, and he was, as always, tempted to wear a tie that would match the gold buttons – gold and blue looked so impressive at international meetings, and mimicked his flag besides. But not tonight. It would be in poor taste. Sweden had noticed when Åland had taken off his jacket that Åland’s cufflinks were his own coat of arms.
Sweden ended up borrowing one of Finland’s ties, blue with star-speckles of white. It didn’t feel right to hide, but it would have felt more wrong to wear one of his own. They were all uncomfortably patriotic, except for the Viking longboat gag-gift tie Estonia had given him for a recent birthday.
Åland glanced up from the television as Sweden left the bedroom. They looked at each other for a moment – father and son, yes, but at the moment nearly the same physical age, and physically similar besides. Åland had Sweden’s height and facial structure, and Finland’s eyes, sunset-violet.
Sweden tried to smile but the expression died on its way to his mouth. He thought about saying something about how proud he was of Åland, or how much he loved him – without limit, without end, come water or winter or war.
“’s time t’ go,” Sweden said, and used his shoulder to gesture to the clock.
They had good seats, close enough that the performers were more than mere blobs of wood-brown and black, but far enough that the stadium seating gave them a view from above of the whole orchestra.
The concert began with the Karelia Suite. Sweden spent much of the piece drifting, letting the music stay in the background of his attention. Finland had always loved Karelia more than Sweden had, no matter how hard Sweden had worked, once, to win him from Russia. No matter how long he'd been in the house that Sweden and Finland shared.
That didn’t mean that Sweden didn’t notice that sometimes, when the name was mentioned, Finland would touch his left elbow, hold his own shoulder, as though a reflex. Someone lost and yet not lost. Karelia lived with Russia now.
The piece ended, the audience applauded, the musicians moved sheet music around. Sweden leaned over his program, squinting to try to read it in the low lighting, and finally made out Finlandia. Musical poetry. Finland would appreciate that. He liked music that told a story, liked it even better when it tried to express the essence of a thing or a person.
Sweden had never asked if Finland had met Sibelius. He assumed not. Russia liked to keep his playthings close.
The chords that opened the piece startled him, drew his memory back to bitter winters and made him crave Finland’s presence so badly he felt that if he reached out Finland would be there, warm to his touch.
He wanted to leave but couldn’t. Wanting didn’t go away, just hid, and with those images echoing through him there would be no escaping it.
The music shifted, turning bright as fire, as snow-sleigh or a winter apple. Comfort and quiet chatter, and Finland there, there, warm. Sleeping beside Sweden in their bed, pale and red-cheeked in late-spring sunlight, stirring but not waking as Sweden watched him. He didn’t realize the piece was over until Åland touched his arm and said, “Dad? Dad, are you okay?”
“’m fine,” he mumbled into his hands.
“Are you sure?”
No. Yes. Never better. Occasionally worse. “Music ’s good at bringin’ back mem’ries.”
Åland crossed his arms over his chest. Sweden couldn’t see if he rolled his eyes, but Åland didn’t say anything, so maybe not.
“I must hear different things than you,” Åland said finally. “I hear the winter, outside. Lonely. Russia liked to come suddenly and take us to Moscow or St. Petersburg, give me weapons in the guise of toys to play with around the house while he spent hours alone with Finland. And then being able to go home again.” He swallowed. “I’m going to the bathroom. Be back in a sec.”
Sweden rubbed at his eyes – he hadn’t been crying, just feeling like he might – and sat back to wait for the second half.
Sweden had heard the stories in the Kalevala while he kept house with Finland, and had read the Swedish translation of the Lönnrot compilation. He’d never really liked Lemminkäinen. Balder hadn’t deserved to be murdered, but Lemminkäinen had hardly been innocent himself, though the one who killed him had been worse.
The swan was not lonely, but it swam in the river of death and had no blood-trail from a comb on his wall – no, that was Lemminkäinen’s mother, grieving. Searching hopeless frantic with a copper rake, copper as blood in the river of death, singing swan mocking her, only pieces of her son to find. Here a limb, a piece of flesh, nothing solid, hacked by an unskilled anger. She would not have known her son was dead before the killer took him to pieces.
How steady her hands were, as she sewed her son together. Sweden could feel slickened raw-cut flesh beneath his fingers. He had enjoyed war, once, but no longer.
He waited for the bumblebee and his load of honey to come.
At the end of the concert, he stayed seated until the crowd dissipated, folded up the program and put it in a pocket of his coat.
Åland fiddled with his tie. “That was nice,” he said. “Not my favorite, but.”
You are not a father, Sweden did not say, but then, some would say he had not really been one either. Two sons, and absent for both of them. “Y’ shouldn’t worry if ‘t doesn’t speak t’ you.”
Åland grunted and looked at the door. “I think we can leave now,” he said, and gave Sweden a hand up.
The lobby of the hall still had a few stragglers in it, couples chatting with their friends, dressed in fine clothing. There was one woman with a necklace of lapis and moonstone beads, flashy and eye-catching, and beautiful.
Outside, Sweden buttoned up his coat against the wind while Åland waited in the lee of the building.
“That was fun,” Åland said finally, pulling a cap over his head. “I’m glad we could meet up. Next time we should party in Stockholm.”
Sweden nodded, hunched his shoulders a little against the wind as they started walking. “’n y’ should bring Gibralt’r. Stay a few days.”
“Maybe. She’d have a hard time, though.”
Probably it was more like Åland was too embarrassed by his parents and adopted younger brother to want her to meet them.
“Well,” Åland said, “this is where we part ways. I’ll…” he paused, then held out one arm. “Gimme a hug.”
Sweden obliged. Åland was almost of a height with him, and while Sweden had known that by sight, he’d expected Åland to feel smaller in his arms than he did. His body didn’t remember Åland being so big. It hadn’t been so long ago that he had been easy to pick up, give piggyback rides to, lean over and tickle.
Åland smelled of open sea and wind, and the musty seats in the orchestra hall.
Sweden said, into Åland’s hair, “’m proud ‘f y’. Always have been.” He felt Åland’s grin against his shoulder, through the coat.
“Dad,” Åland sighed, but he hugged back tighter anyway.
Title: Swan-Seeking
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Sweden and adult Åland, references to Sweden/Finland, Russia/Finland, and Åland/fem!Gibraltar
Disclaimer: not mine, yo.
Notes: Jean Sibelius was a 19th and 20th century Finnish composer whose best-known works are based on the Finnish epic ‘Kalevala’. The ones featured in this piece are the Karelia Suite, Finlandia, and the Lemminkäinen Suite. I recommend that readers acquaint themselves with the “Death of Lemminkäinen” portion of the Kalevala, though knowledge is not necessary.
If there is any real-world interaction between Åland and Gibraltar, I am not aware of it.
Taiyaki is a Japanese sweet.
‘Helsingforsare’ is the Swedish demonym for Helsinki, according to Wikipedia.
Being neither Finnish nor Swedish, I have likely gotten details wrong. I welcome suggestions.
I may edit this at some future point to be consistent with the Nordic epicface that I'm writing. It's already halfway there.
Instead of packing his bags after Finland left for the linguistics conference in Barcelona, Sweden decided to stay at the apartment in Helsinki. There was nothing pressing at home, or at least nothing he couldn’t do by telecommute, so there was no reason to waste time traveling when Finland would only be gone a few days.
Besides, there was a half-assembled sofa frame in the workshop here… he had the plans set up already, and the wood half-cut. It would be a shame to abandon it.
The first night Finland called to say his flight had landed, and they spent an hour talking – or rather, Finland enthused about the airports, the sky, his dinner, and Sweden listened to the cadence of his voice and said nothing. He closed his eyes and imagined that Finland was sitting at the kitchen table five meters away, instead of at the other end of Europe.
I miss you, he didn’t say. Come home.
They finished the call with Finland reminding him to remind Sealand to feed the dog, even though those two were staying with Norway for a bit while Sealand learned about the oil market. Sweden agreed that yes, he would remember. They hung up.
He tried to work on the sofa frame but his heart wasn’t in it, no matter how many times he looked at the design sketch and marveled at its beauteous simplicity, so he went to bed.
The following morning, after checking his email and slogging through some UN reports, made a phone call.
“Office of the personification of the Åland Islands.”
A woman’s voice. Sweden hadn’t been expecting a secretary, and it threw him. “’m. ‘s.”
“I’ll patch you right through, then, Kingdom of Sweden, sir,” she said. The phone clicked onto soothing classical music for a moment, then clicked again as Åland picked up the phone.
“Dad,” he said. “What’s this about?”
Sweden thought for a moment. “Y’ free t’night f’r dinner?”
“Ah,” there was the sound of frantic clicking as Åland pulled up his calendar program. “No, but I don’t really need to be there, so yes. Your place or mine?”
“Hels’nki?”
“Dad,” he sighed. “Sometimes I think you only call me because you need someone Finnish around you at all times. Come out here. I’ll cook.”
Sweden stared down at the surface of his desk. It was true that he tended to reach out to Åland more when Finland was away, but it wasn’t out of loneliness, precisely. Åland and Finland were still a little tense, just because Åland wouldn’t speak Finnish and Finland felt miffed by it, since it reminded him of the custody battle. Sweden didn’t like being caught in the middle.
“m’ treat,” Sweden said finally, a little desperately.
Åland hummed in thought. “Only if you promise to go with me to the Sibelius concert tomorrow night.”
Oh, if only. Finland loved Sibelius, went to as many performances of his music as he could, and would always come home happy and humming to himself. He had been upset at having to miss it to go to the conference.
“Don’t h’ve a ticket.”
“I was supposed to go with Sealand but he welched on me to go be with Uncle Norway. And then I was thinking of inviting Gibraltar, but you called first.”
Gibraltar. Small, militaristic, cursed with the British eyebrows. Sweden hoped his son wouldn’t end up browbeaten like Austria, but then, Åland had been seeing Gibraltar for almost twenty years and there hadn’t been any formal announcement of alliance.
“Y’ should call 'r.”
“I’m dating her, not chained to her. It won’t kill me to spend time with my dad.”
“Y’sure?”
“I’ll be at the Helsinki apartment at seven tonight.”
Sweden let himself get steamrollered through the rest of the conversation, hung up, and returned to his hundred-odd pages of reports. He felt better, for some reason.
He spent most of his lunch trying to write an email to Finland, trying and failing to get across what he wanted to say. Communication was so hard when he had to say everything, when Finland wasn’t there to read him instead of having to rely on words, which changed and twisted his meaning.
He finally gave up and sent,
Finland,
Is the conference interesting? Tell Estonia and Hungary hi for me.
Åland is coming to dinner tonight and to the Sibelius concert tomorrow. He said Sealand was supposed to go with him.
Sweden
Not what he’d wanted. Nothing there, nothing right. There was no word for waking up to the bed feeling wrong because the emptiness on the other side changed the tilt of the mattress.
He sent Norway an email asking him to remind Sealand to feed the dog.
The moment Sweden opened the door Åland rolled his eyes, ducked under his arm, and barged into the apartment.
“Dad,” he said, “I love you, but you can’t wear a suit to dinner with me. Put on something that doesn’t require a tie.”
But that was all he had that was really presentable. Everything else was very casual – jeans, and a track suit for exercising. He kept clothes in the closet here, but it was mostly either for diplomatic meetings or lounging around with Finland.
Åland rolled his eyes again. “Sometimes I wonder how you managed to take over half the Baltic. Take the tie and suit jacket off and put on a sweater.” He gave Sweden a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom. Sweden went inside and started changing.
Åland, from the hallway, asked, “Where are we going?”
Sweden named a casual Japanese restaurant that wasn’t too far from the apartment. Åland made a noise that sounded like the pleased little cry he used to make when he saw his parents cooking his favorite foods for dinner. Sweden hadn’t heard it since – since before Finland’s stint as a Grand Duchy. He hadn’t realized he missed it.
The unexpected nostalgia made him smile into the knit wool of his sweater as he pulled it on. “’m I present’ble?”
Åland eyed him. “Yes. Let’s go; I’m hungry and raw arm doesn’t taste as good as raw fish.”
Sweden smiled, relieved, at the door as he locked it and followed Åland down the stairs to the street. The restaurant was close enough to walk to, so they did.
Åland had Finland’s tendency to ramble, though usually he stayed, if not on topic, then on topics logically connected to one another. It made the walk to the restaurant companionable, and Sweden didn’t mind. He didn’t usually pay much attention to semi-autonomous states other than his son, Greenland, and the Faroe Islands, but they were all three part of the Nordic Council. It was nice to hear about Åland’s friends.
At the restaurant Åland ordered sake for both of them, then launched into a story from the previous spring when he, Gibraltar, and Falkland Islands visited Okinawa and attempted to learn about Japanese culture. Sweden’s imagination gave up at the description of Falkland Islands, whom he’d only ever seen wearing surplus British Army camouflage, in traditional Japanese clothing.
Åland managed to carry the conversation by himself until dessert, whereupon he glanced up from eating his taiyaki and declared, “I’ve been dominating the conversation.”
Sweden grunted. Not really untrue, but it wasn’t like he minded.
“Talk for a bit while I eat this,” Åland said, and bit off the dessert’s head.
Sweden watched him chew a bit. “Finl’nd’s at a linguist’cs conf’rence. D’nmark ‘n I ’re talking furn’ture ‘gain. His music’s still bad. There’re s’me good nom’nations for th’ Nobel Prize this year.”
“Any advance hints you can give me?”
Sweden shook his head. “’m not ‘n th’ c’mmittee.”
Åland swallowed the remains of his dessert and moved to look at the check. Sweden intercepted him and took it. The ensuing argument lasted well after the waitress took Sweden’s money and all the way back to the apartment, whereupon Åland headed back home.
There was a message from Finland on the answering machine.
“Hi Sweden! I’m happy to hear that Ahvenanmaa is keeping you company. What did you have for dinner? Was it fun? Tell him I said hi and make him pass on a hug from me to Gibraltar. I thought about visiting her while I was here but the schedule doesn’t leave time, and I don’t think she’d want me dropping by anyway.
“The food at the conference isn’t very good, so I went out to dinner at a Spanish restaurant with Hungary, Austria, and Czech Republic. We ended up meeting Algeria and Morocco while we were there, so we had a little party. I think we got Austria drunk, though. All the better for Hungary! We should invite them for Christmas.
“I think we should make a coffee sauce for Christmas dinner. I’ll ask Norway if he knows a good recipe when he drops Sealand off. And Sealand should go spend some time with Ahvenanmaa to make up for leaving him alone for the Sibelius concert. I’m jealous that you’re going! You’ll tell me how it goes, won’t you? Maybe we should invite Gibraltar for Christmas dinner too, even if she will be with England. A life-sized straw doll of her? We’ll have to think about it.
“I’m probably using up all the answering machine time. E-mail or call me!” Click.
Sweden booted up his computer and opened his email. There was a message from Norway that was short, pithy, and simple:
Am not your wife. In future, send messages intended for Sealand to Sealand.
Dog and micronation fed, walked, bathed, and put to bed.
Norway must have been in a good mood. Sweden sent Finland an email about what happened at dinner, then went to sleep.
He woke at six in the morning to an overenthusiastically still-drunk man pounding on the front door and yelling in slurred Finnish for “Marjatta you bitch” to come to the door. Sweden waited half an hour, gave up, and opened the door a few centimeters. It was enough for the man to catch sight of him and flee in terror.
At that point it hardly seemed worth it to try to go back to sleep, so he worked on the sofa until he got hungry, then ate breakfast and started doing his real work.
He stopped writing proposition evaluations at five o’clock because he had a headache and needed a break. After that, it was back to the sofa frame, the quiet meditation of working with wood to make functional objects. He kept imagining where it might go – the country house? The house near Turku? He could still make it into a sofa-bed and replace the one here in case they ever needed to keep guests.
The knocking on the door surprised him, and he went to answer it, glad that it wasn’t an inebriated helsingforsare.
It was Åland. Sweden stepped aside in the doorway to let him in.
“’m sorry. D’dn’t notice th’ time.”
Åland shrugged. “’s okay. I’m early anyway.” He held up a paper bag, and only then did Sweden notice the scent of food emanating from it. “I brought dinner. Fish stew, and potatoes and pork. And blueberry pie.” Comfort food.
Sweden set the table and poured milk for both of them while Åland served dinner. It was delicious, flavor and heat and texture well-mixed. There were leftovers, but not much. Sweden ate more than he probably should have.
After the meal Åland turned on the television and watched a talk show while Sweden changed into a suit. He spent five minutes debating over what tie to wear. The suit was blue, and he was, as always, tempted to wear a tie that would match the gold buttons – gold and blue looked so impressive at international meetings, and mimicked his flag besides. But not tonight. It would be in poor taste. Sweden had noticed when Åland had taken off his jacket that Åland’s cufflinks were his own coat of arms.
Sweden ended up borrowing one of Finland’s ties, blue with star-speckles of white. It didn’t feel right to hide, but it would have felt more wrong to wear one of his own. They were all uncomfortably patriotic, except for the Viking longboat gag-gift tie Estonia had given him for a recent birthday.
Åland glanced up from the television as Sweden left the bedroom. They looked at each other for a moment – father and son, yes, but at the moment nearly the same physical age, and physically similar besides. Åland had Sweden’s height and facial structure, and Finland’s eyes, sunset-violet.
Sweden tried to smile but the expression died on its way to his mouth. He thought about saying something about how proud he was of Åland, or how much he loved him – without limit, without end, come water or winter or war.
“’s time t’ go,” Sweden said, and used his shoulder to gesture to the clock.
They had good seats, close enough that the performers were more than mere blobs of wood-brown and black, but far enough that the stadium seating gave them a view from above of the whole orchestra.
The concert began with the Karelia Suite. Sweden spent much of the piece drifting, letting the music stay in the background of his attention. Finland had always loved Karelia more than Sweden had, no matter how hard Sweden had worked, once, to win him from Russia. No matter how long he'd been in the house that Sweden and Finland shared.
That didn’t mean that Sweden didn’t notice that sometimes, when the name was mentioned, Finland would touch his left elbow, hold his own shoulder, as though a reflex. Someone lost and yet not lost. Karelia lived with Russia now.
The piece ended, the audience applauded, the musicians moved sheet music around. Sweden leaned over his program, squinting to try to read it in the low lighting, and finally made out Finlandia. Musical poetry. Finland would appreciate that. He liked music that told a story, liked it even better when it tried to express the essence of a thing or a person.
Sweden had never asked if Finland had met Sibelius. He assumed not. Russia liked to keep his playthings close.
The chords that opened the piece startled him, drew his memory back to bitter winters and made him crave Finland’s presence so badly he felt that if he reached out Finland would be there, warm to his touch.
He wanted to leave but couldn’t. Wanting didn’t go away, just hid, and with those images echoing through him there would be no escaping it.
The music shifted, turning bright as fire, as snow-sleigh or a winter apple. Comfort and quiet chatter, and Finland there, there, warm. Sleeping beside Sweden in their bed, pale and red-cheeked in late-spring sunlight, stirring but not waking as Sweden watched him. He didn’t realize the piece was over until Åland touched his arm and said, “Dad? Dad, are you okay?”
“’m fine,” he mumbled into his hands.
“Are you sure?”
No. Yes. Never better. Occasionally worse. “Music ’s good at bringin’ back mem’ries.”
Åland crossed his arms over his chest. Sweden couldn’t see if he rolled his eyes, but Åland didn’t say anything, so maybe not.
“I must hear different things than you,” Åland said finally. “I hear the winter, outside. Lonely. Russia liked to come suddenly and take us to Moscow or St. Petersburg, give me weapons in the guise of toys to play with around the house while he spent hours alone with Finland. And then being able to go home again.” He swallowed. “I’m going to the bathroom. Be back in a sec.”
Sweden rubbed at his eyes – he hadn’t been crying, just feeling like he might – and sat back to wait for the second half.
Sweden had heard the stories in the Kalevala while he kept house with Finland, and had read the Swedish translation of the Lönnrot compilation. He’d never really liked Lemminkäinen. Balder hadn’t deserved to be murdered, but Lemminkäinen had hardly been innocent himself, though the one who killed him had been worse.
The swan was not lonely, but it swam in the river of death and had no blood-trail from a comb on his wall – no, that was Lemminkäinen’s mother, grieving. Searching hopeless frantic with a copper rake, copper as blood in the river of death, singing swan mocking her, only pieces of her son to find. Here a limb, a piece of flesh, nothing solid, hacked by an unskilled anger. She would not have known her son was dead before the killer took him to pieces.
How steady her hands were, as she sewed her son together. Sweden could feel slickened raw-cut flesh beneath his fingers. He had enjoyed war, once, but no longer.
He waited for the bumblebee and his load of honey to come.
At the end of the concert, he stayed seated until the crowd dissipated, folded up the program and put it in a pocket of his coat.
Åland fiddled with his tie. “That was nice,” he said. “Not my favorite, but.”
You are not a father, Sweden did not say, but then, some would say he had not really been one either. Two sons, and absent for both of them. “Y’ shouldn’t worry if ‘t doesn’t speak t’ you.”
Åland grunted and looked at the door. “I think we can leave now,” he said, and gave Sweden a hand up.
The lobby of the hall still had a few stragglers in it, couples chatting with their friends, dressed in fine clothing. There was one woman with a necklace of lapis and moonstone beads, flashy and eye-catching, and beautiful.
Outside, Sweden buttoned up his coat against the wind while Åland waited in the lee of the building.
“That was fun,” Åland said finally, pulling a cap over his head. “I’m glad we could meet up. Next time we should party in Stockholm.”
Sweden nodded, hunched his shoulders a little against the wind as they started walking. “’n y’ should bring Gibralt’r. Stay a few days.”
“Maybe. She’d have a hard time, though.”
Probably it was more like Åland was too embarrassed by his parents and adopted younger brother to want her to meet them.
“Well,” Åland said, “this is where we part ways. I’ll…” he paused, then held out one arm. “Gimme a hug.”
Sweden obliged. Åland was almost of a height with him, and while Sweden had known that by sight, he’d expected Åland to feel smaller in his arms than he did. His body didn’t remember Åland being so big. It hadn’t been so long ago that he had been easy to pick up, give piggyback rides to, lean over and tickle.
Åland smelled of open sea and wind, and the musty seats in the orchestra hall.
Sweden said, into Åland’s hair, “’m proud ‘f y’. Always have been.” He felt Åland’s grin against his shoulder, through the coat.
“Dad,” Åland sighed, but he hugged back tighter anyway.
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Date: 2009-07-22 12:59 pm (UTC)I'm relieved to hear that. Thank you.
I think I need to look up this Gibraltar/Åland thing
Ack! I just made that up because they're both semiautonomous and would historically have been through bad custody fights! There's no reality in that whatsoever (besides the existence of Gibraltar at all).
I'm sorry to have misled you and I'll go note that in the fic header.