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valmoraTitle: As a River
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Finland/Sweden
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here. Originally intended to be a sequel to "i have found grace in thine eyes" but the writing style is so different that I've retconned that away.
As usual, I've edited Sweden's dialogue since the original version.
Summary (from the Kindex): The planet may have changed. International negotiations and dealings have not. Neither have their feelings for each other.
Sweden’s fingers hurt, blistering from having touched the rails in his confusion, his fear. The train route was meant to bridge the space across the desert that separates Finland’s chosen territory from his, and now there’s a break in that connection, physical instead of the psychological and political it’s been for years.
He looks out at the sky, and the sand, and longs deeply for the winters he used to know on Earth.
“D’we have satellite footage?”
The aide at his right hand unclips the monitor on his belt, resets the time, turns it on. Sweden watches figures, dressed in blue and white with masks, as they set the charges. One of the figures wears nothing to cover his face; he is tanned and snub-nosed and red-cheeked, lovely and familiar, and breaking Sweden’s heart.
“We can run an identity check on him, if you’d like, sir.” The aide’s hands flutter, nervously, close to his wireless.
“No.” Sweden looks away, at the sun’s halo. “He’s m’counterpart. We can’t touch him.” Because Finland can sit in a conference room and smile and smile, and say a great number of words and tell Sweden nothing. It is not wise to put a Nation in prison.
The aide audibly swallows, probably eating an instinctive outraged What?. Sweden licks at the blisters on his fingertips, tasting salt and pus.
“Show th’ prime minister this. Th’ ambass’dor too. ‘n then I want t’ talk t’ him.” He shrugs his shoulder in the satellite monitor’s direction. Words will have to be enough, because his actions clearly aren’t measuring up.
Less than twenty-four hours later he and Finland are seated across from one another in a conference room, a press release from Finland’s people blaring on the public news broadcast. Finland’s face has been pixeled out.
Finland is wearing a navy blue suit – though now they call that color ‘space-horizon,’ this being a dry civilization – and white shirt, and his tie is light blue, desert-sky. He’s not smiling, but his posture when he sat down, leaning forward slightly with his hands at ease on the table, means maybe things aren’t hopeless.
“Y’know why I wanted this meeting,” Sweden says finally.
“You’re upset that the rail line was blown up.”
“Y’were there. Th’ satellite caught you.”
Finland doesn’t look away and doesn’t blink. “I know.”
“Why?”
“Protest.”
Sweden clenches his hands under the table, and his blisters flare pain. “’nstead of talking or peaceful demonstration.”
“Instead of any violence that would actually kill people,” Finland corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Sweden refills his water glass, and Finland’s while he’s at it, to give himself time to think. “’n y’want?”
Finland leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and stares at the ceiling.
“Well,” he says finally, “the water rights as they stand now are decidedly in your favor, and that’s making things difficult for me and mine. Trade tariffs, too.
“The tech industry is less than competitive, despite what you’ve been saying, and the fact that you’re trying to claim the colony ship is offensive because it’s mine just as much.” He pauses, swallows, takes a sip of water. “I’m also incredibly horny, so I think the first order of business ought to be fucking each other until neither of us can move, and then starting negotiations after that. Tomorrow, or the day after; however long your stamina lasts.” And Finland, eyes lovely-purple, watches Sweden with all the confidence of hundreds of years of knowing each other.
Sweden has no idea what to say. It’s everything he wants, Finland in his bed, a lively discussion that’s meant to bring them together, but it’s all wrong. He doesn’t want it to be about clearing his head. He wants Finland pleased and gentle, or ungentle if that’s what he needs, but for – for more than just two days, more than just bodies that know each other.
“No,” he says. “Th’ negotiations can start in three hours, ‘f you’ll be ready.”
Finland watches him with what might be a smile half-curved in his lips. “I’ll be ready. Until then.” He nods, stands, walks out of the conference room.
Sweden leaves to gather some reports, grab his computer, eat lunch. Ends up spending more than a few minutes in the men’s room leaning against the stall door, trying to imagine that Finland is the one touching him instead of it just being his own hand. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t even bother to finish; it’s just physical reflex.
The meeting goes – better than Sweden expected. Finland argues well.
The water allocation policy is unfair, Sweden will give him that. It was supposed to give an advantage to farmers on marginal land, but the wording is bad – Sweden suspects that Lindqvist, who wrote the bill and pushed it through the Riksdag, intended it to hurt Finland’s people. For that, Sweden is ashamed. He takes a few notes, thinks up some strategies for improving it, and maintains a growing list of Riksdag members he needs to talk to. Mostly he listens.
The trade barriers, though…
“’f we don’t keep ‘em, it’ll become a monopoly.”
“It’s about economy of scale,” Finland insists. “Protectionism is not economic efficiency.”
“…in th’ short run.”
Finland makes an abbreviated gesture that amounts to throwing up his hands in despair. “Fine, let’s come back to this later. Transportation and rail usage quotas.”
And on, and on. He spends three days in that room with Finland, only stopping for meals and for sleep, and on the third day, after they’ve settled what they can, they eat dinner together.
Finland is kind and gracious all through the meal, and Sweden’s heart burns wanting to hold him.
Over a dessert of blackberry pie Finland leans forward, secret-close, the fork’s tine-points pressing against his lower lip. Old, old gesture – You see my lips? I smile to have this steel touch me, and would dearly love to have you follow its example. Sweden’s blood warms, unhappily, at the memory, an irretrievable past.
“The offer of the days in bed is still open, you know,” Finland says. “Now that we’ve finished with business…”
Sweden knows he’s gone bright red. “N’t n’w,” he manages, which is about two minutes of Finland being persuasive short of a yes, but at least is the truth.
Finland nods, drags his finger through the smears of pie filling left on his plate, licks his fingertip. “In that case, I’d like a goodnight kiss.”
…that being, of course, the two minutes of persuasion. Sweden wants to accept, but there’s something to be said for restraint.
Or, alternatively, he can give in and hope that what they do will affect how things fall out with their people.
“If y’want,” he says, and Finland smiles, and reaches to him. His hands are sand-dry against Sweden’s skin.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Finland/Sweden
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here. Originally intended to be a sequel to "i have found grace in thine eyes" but the writing style is so different that I've retconned that away.
As usual, I've edited Sweden's dialogue since the original version.
Summary (from the Kindex): The planet may have changed. International negotiations and dealings have not. Neither have their feelings for each other.
Sweden’s fingers hurt, blistering from having touched the rails in his confusion, his fear. The train route was meant to bridge the space across the desert that separates Finland’s chosen territory from his, and now there’s a break in that connection, physical instead of the psychological and political it’s been for years.
He looks out at the sky, and the sand, and longs deeply for the winters he used to know on Earth.
“D’we have satellite footage?”
The aide at his right hand unclips the monitor on his belt, resets the time, turns it on. Sweden watches figures, dressed in blue and white with masks, as they set the charges. One of the figures wears nothing to cover his face; he is tanned and snub-nosed and red-cheeked, lovely and familiar, and breaking Sweden’s heart.
“We can run an identity check on him, if you’d like, sir.” The aide’s hands flutter, nervously, close to his wireless.
“No.” Sweden looks away, at the sun’s halo. “He’s m’counterpart. We can’t touch him.” Because Finland can sit in a conference room and smile and smile, and say a great number of words and tell Sweden nothing. It is not wise to put a Nation in prison.
The aide audibly swallows, probably eating an instinctive outraged What?. Sweden licks at the blisters on his fingertips, tasting salt and pus.
“Show th’ prime minister this. Th’ ambass’dor too. ‘n then I want t’ talk t’ him.” He shrugs his shoulder in the satellite monitor’s direction. Words will have to be enough, because his actions clearly aren’t measuring up.
Less than twenty-four hours later he and Finland are seated across from one another in a conference room, a press release from Finland’s people blaring on the public news broadcast. Finland’s face has been pixeled out.
Finland is wearing a navy blue suit – though now they call that color ‘space-horizon,’ this being a dry civilization – and white shirt, and his tie is light blue, desert-sky. He’s not smiling, but his posture when he sat down, leaning forward slightly with his hands at ease on the table, means maybe things aren’t hopeless.
“Y’know why I wanted this meeting,” Sweden says finally.
“You’re upset that the rail line was blown up.”
“Y’were there. Th’ satellite caught you.”
Finland doesn’t look away and doesn’t blink. “I know.”
“Why?”
“Protest.”
Sweden clenches his hands under the table, and his blisters flare pain. “’nstead of talking or peaceful demonstration.”
“Instead of any violence that would actually kill people,” Finland corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Sweden refills his water glass, and Finland’s while he’s at it, to give himself time to think. “’n y’want?”
Finland leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and stares at the ceiling.
“Well,” he says finally, “the water rights as they stand now are decidedly in your favor, and that’s making things difficult for me and mine. Trade tariffs, too.
“The tech industry is less than competitive, despite what you’ve been saying, and the fact that you’re trying to claim the colony ship is offensive because it’s mine just as much.” He pauses, swallows, takes a sip of water. “I’m also incredibly horny, so I think the first order of business ought to be fucking each other until neither of us can move, and then starting negotiations after that. Tomorrow, or the day after; however long your stamina lasts.” And Finland, eyes lovely-purple, watches Sweden with all the confidence of hundreds of years of knowing each other.
Sweden has no idea what to say. It’s everything he wants, Finland in his bed, a lively discussion that’s meant to bring them together, but it’s all wrong. He doesn’t want it to be about clearing his head. He wants Finland pleased and gentle, or ungentle if that’s what he needs, but for – for more than just two days, more than just bodies that know each other.
“No,” he says. “Th’ negotiations can start in three hours, ‘f you’ll be ready.”
Finland watches him with what might be a smile half-curved in his lips. “I’ll be ready. Until then.” He nods, stands, walks out of the conference room.
Sweden leaves to gather some reports, grab his computer, eat lunch. Ends up spending more than a few minutes in the men’s room leaning against the stall door, trying to imagine that Finland is the one touching him instead of it just being his own hand. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t even bother to finish; it’s just physical reflex.
The meeting goes – better than Sweden expected. Finland argues well.
The water allocation policy is unfair, Sweden will give him that. It was supposed to give an advantage to farmers on marginal land, but the wording is bad – Sweden suspects that Lindqvist, who wrote the bill and pushed it through the Riksdag, intended it to hurt Finland’s people. For that, Sweden is ashamed. He takes a few notes, thinks up some strategies for improving it, and maintains a growing list of Riksdag members he needs to talk to. Mostly he listens.
The trade barriers, though…
“’f we don’t keep ‘em, it’ll become a monopoly.”
“It’s about economy of scale,” Finland insists. “Protectionism is not economic efficiency.”
“…in th’ short run.”
Finland makes an abbreviated gesture that amounts to throwing up his hands in despair. “Fine, let’s come back to this later. Transportation and rail usage quotas.”
And on, and on. He spends three days in that room with Finland, only stopping for meals and for sleep, and on the third day, after they’ve settled what they can, they eat dinner together.
Finland is kind and gracious all through the meal, and Sweden’s heart burns wanting to hold him.
Over a dessert of blackberry pie Finland leans forward, secret-close, the fork’s tine-points pressing against his lower lip. Old, old gesture – You see my lips? I smile to have this steel touch me, and would dearly love to have you follow its example. Sweden’s blood warms, unhappily, at the memory, an irretrievable past.
“The offer of the days in bed is still open, you know,” Finland says. “Now that we’ve finished with business…”
Sweden knows he’s gone bright red. “N’t n’w,” he manages, which is about two minutes of Finland being persuasive short of a yes, but at least is the truth.
Finland nods, drags his finger through the smears of pie filling left on his plate, licks his fingertip. “In that case, I’d like a goodnight kiss.”
…that being, of course, the two minutes of persuasion. Sweden wants to accept, but there’s something to be said for restraint.
Or, alternatively, he can give in and hope that what they do will affect how things fall out with their people.
“If y’want,” he says, and Finland smiles, and reaches to him. His hands are sand-dry against Sweden’s skin.
