He was his punching bag.
Every night, Denmark would come home to his house in silence. He would throw off his long, dark coat and sink into the couch. Finland would dash over immediately, muttering several apologies about being late, though he was perfectly on time. Denmark would request a drink, or sometimes a snack, and Finland would bring it over immediately.
Sweden would watch.
From behind the doorway, Sweden would watch Finland's frantic actions without a word. He knew his turn would come soon. His turn to talk with Denmark would come.
Denmark would go downstairs into the old guest bedroom for any new territory, and he would drag Sweden along with him. Sweden never argued; he just went with it. He knew that Denmark needed him.
Denmark would close the door, and begin to yell. He would scream, and maybe even start tearing up. He still tried as hard as he could to never move from where he stood. No matter what horrible thing he went through that day, he never laid a hand in Sweden.
Sweden was Denmark's punching bag.
And Sweden hated it.
His gaze would never waver, his body would never do so much as twitch, and yet his brain would be running a mile a minute. Everything Denmark said struck Sweden in the heart harder than any punch.
Sweden had always admired Denmark, for a plethora of reasons. Denmark was quick to talk and try to get to know someone, compared to Sweden's tendency of being shy and only muttering a few quiet words in greeting. Denmark was also amazing at making friends. He had too many buddies to count, while Sweden just stuck with him and Finland. All in all, Denmark was what Sweden wanted to be. You could almost say that Sweden loved him.
And that's why it hurt Sweden so much.
Sweden always wanted to know who did this to Denmark, who made him so mad and upset and teary-eyed and so filled with negativity. Sweden wanted nothing more than to stop it. It was so wrong, so horrible, to do something like this to such an amazing nation.
One day, Denmark walked in with a black eye. Finland immediately fretted over the wound, while Denmark just waved him off with a small grin and a joke. Finland nodded and left, though he was still worried. Sweden stared hard at Denmark's face from the doorway. It looked painful, the black eye. It was swollen and dark.
Denmark walked into the guest room in silence. His face said nothing; it was blank, blank as the look Sweden gave him ever day while Denmark let everything out. However, that changed the second Denmark closed the door.
He ran, sobbing, into Sweden's arms. Though he had promised himself and Denmark that he would show no emotion towards anything Denmark did or said, he gasped. What had happened?
He never got an explanation, for he was too afraid to ask. He looked down at the broken man that had been so great, so wonderful, and the man that he loved. He had been worn down to nothing.
At that moment, with Denmark cradled in his arms, Sweden made a decision. He couldn't do this anymore. It wasn't at all because it was hurting himself. It was because it was hurting Denmark.
"I'm sorry, Denmark." Denmark jumped, and ripped himself from Sweden's arms. Ignoring the disapproving and upset glare Denmark sent him, though it hurt so badly, he continued. "You need to learn to handle your own feelings. I'm sorry, but you will be hurt even more than you are now if you rely on a strong person to let go. Let go yourself. Even better, use your emotions to make your situation better. You're not going to get any better if I stay. Denmark, I love you. But I have to go, for you. Stop using me as a punching bag. Get into a tournament with your enemy."
And with that, Sweden was gone.
Finland followed him, though Sweden really didn't understand why. Denmark was a great guy; why not stay? However, Sweden said nothing of it and they continued on their way.
That black eye from Russia changed Denmark's life. He became louder, stronger, and more independent. He had really changed for the better. Sweden was right; Denmark won wars now that he felt like this.
Sweden watched and smiled as Denmark lived on. He was the old punching bag, thrown away by the boxer that moved on to greater things. And honestly, if it weren't for that punching bag, where would Denmark be?
A/N: I'm sorry. I know that the amount of people that will hate me for this is uncountable. I just got the idea, okay?! *huggles Flying Mint Bunny in despair*
Rose