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valmoraTitle: America Fever
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Sweden, Norway, America
Pairings: Sweden/America, Sweden/Norway, implied: Sweden/Finland, Denmark/Norway, Russia/Finland
Rating: R
Warning and Summary: "When two Nations love each other very much, sometimes they decide to have a State or Province together. Sometimes, that's not so much a decision as an accident."
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here.
I wrote this after reading the Kalevala. You can tell.
Sweden woke from dreams of steel and smoke, more war than engines run on air, and went from a cold bed to a colder kitchen. Before the oven, Norway – not the wife he’d wished or wanted, no replacement for the one he’d lost and dreamed of still – drank vodka as though to drown himself in a kitchen bright with summer-light sky.
Sweden took himself no breakfast and did not sit, walking to the window, looking out. Saw the fields wasted, barren, empty houses, hungry people.
He wondered how his own son fared as part of Russia’s house, if Finland saw that Åland ate, if the fish were many, gold sun on the waters, silver scales under waves. Or if he was too besotted, beloved with his language and his freedoms and his lover to remember the child he and Sweden had.
The door was sun-warmed to his fingerpads as he stepped outside, turned his face into the sky and closed his eyes to feel it shine. Let cold Norway sulk, in the kitchen with his bitterness.
Sweden walked past his fields and gardens to the back of the house where the shed stood small. Opened the door and let himself in, the door ajar behind him, to gaze at the tools and wood.
He wished to build, but not for the shrewish thing inside the house to regard and critique – if only he had left that one with Denmark, for he knew how to take his pleasure from it. No, for some other. Denmark perhaps, but they were not on sweet terms again quite yet, and such a thing would be an unwelcome gift for his cousin.
He looked out at the sky, looked across at the sea where a ship sailed, and felt its path, its trail as it came and went from ports all round the world, carried now his people to America.
America, tall and strong and handsome, quick with a gun and quicker-smiling, and Sweden watched the ship recede, wishing to be on it.
In time he made some excuse, visiting his traveled children or diplomatic mission, and came to visit. America received him warmly, gave him a bed and a seat at the table, far from the children and young men and women in the other wing who grew, America’s siblings and children, to become his states. Sweden spoke little, watched America more, and as they talked – or rather, America spoke and Sweden listened, holding silence – he realized his own desire, and that he, too, was desired.
There was nothing, really, to keep them from each other, and so when the meal finished they cleaned the table together. It was only then they went to bed and fell upon each other, kissing lips and hands and bellies, clothing shed from eager bodies. America laid himself down upon the sheets and welcomed Sweden to him, naked pale skin and summer-burned together as they strove. America, bountiful and handsome, opened his borders and his smile, and stayed boastless through the night. And Sweden –
Sweden thought of wheat and iron, fresh flat soil and a cold-warm home, his own and no one else’s, on the open plain of America’s belly.
The dawn came slow, the two of them sated, sleeping, and Sweden dressed himself. Stayed silent to the door, where America made him pause, kissed him farewell, let him leave.
Sent him a letter, some time later, Your son, with a sketch in pencil, expensive to send but carefully done. America’s youngest state, for the moment, Minnesota.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Sweden, Norway, America
Pairings: Sweden/America, Sweden/Norway, implied: Sweden/Finland, Denmark/Norway, Russia/Finland
Rating: R
Warning and Summary: "When two Nations love each other very much, sometimes they decide to have a State or Province together. Sometimes, that's not so much a decision as an accident."
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here.
I wrote this after reading the Kalevala. You can tell.
Sweden woke from dreams of steel and smoke, more war than engines run on air, and went from a cold bed to a colder kitchen. Before the oven, Norway – not the wife he’d wished or wanted, no replacement for the one he’d lost and dreamed of still – drank vodka as though to drown himself in a kitchen bright with summer-light sky.
Sweden took himself no breakfast and did not sit, walking to the window, looking out. Saw the fields wasted, barren, empty houses, hungry people.
He wondered how his own son fared as part of Russia’s house, if Finland saw that Åland ate, if the fish were many, gold sun on the waters, silver scales under waves. Or if he was too besotted, beloved with his language and his freedoms and his lover to remember the child he and Sweden had.
The door was sun-warmed to his fingerpads as he stepped outside, turned his face into the sky and closed his eyes to feel it shine. Let cold Norway sulk, in the kitchen with his bitterness.
Sweden walked past his fields and gardens to the back of the house where the shed stood small. Opened the door and let himself in, the door ajar behind him, to gaze at the tools and wood.
He wished to build, but not for the shrewish thing inside the house to regard and critique – if only he had left that one with Denmark, for he knew how to take his pleasure from it. No, for some other. Denmark perhaps, but they were not on sweet terms again quite yet, and such a thing would be an unwelcome gift for his cousin.
He looked out at the sky, looked across at the sea where a ship sailed, and felt its path, its trail as it came and went from ports all round the world, carried now his people to America.
America, tall and strong and handsome, quick with a gun and quicker-smiling, and Sweden watched the ship recede, wishing to be on it.
In time he made some excuse, visiting his traveled children or diplomatic mission, and came to visit. America received him warmly, gave him a bed and a seat at the table, far from the children and young men and women in the other wing who grew, America’s siblings and children, to become his states. Sweden spoke little, watched America more, and as they talked – or rather, America spoke and Sweden listened, holding silence – he realized his own desire, and that he, too, was desired.
There was nothing, really, to keep them from each other, and so when the meal finished they cleaned the table together. It was only then they went to bed and fell upon each other, kissing lips and hands and bellies, clothing shed from eager bodies. America laid himself down upon the sheets and welcomed Sweden to him, naked pale skin and summer-burned together as they strove. America, bountiful and handsome, opened his borders and his smile, and stayed boastless through the night. And Sweden –
Sweden thought of wheat and iron, fresh flat soil and a cold-warm home, his own and no one else’s, on the open plain of America’s belly.
The dawn came slow, the two of them sated, sleeping, and Sweden dressed himself. Stayed silent to the door, where America made him pause, kissed him farewell, let him leave.
Sent him a letter, some time later, Your son, with a sketch in pencil, expensive to send but carefully done. America’s youngest state, for the moment, Minnesota.
