A/N: Sleepy, introspective weirdness! Who doesn't like that? Oh... everybody, you say? Darn. I have the alarming tendency to get absurdly poetic whenever I'm tired and stressed, and then to sic it on unsuspecting SuFin fans. I hope it's not too painful or too stupid.
Title's from a Paul Simon song that has nothing to do with the story at all. I just thought that particular lyric fit. And I do love me some Paul Simon, so.
oooooo
Sweden knew that it was foolish. He knew that feeling for Finland as he did, so deeply and with such longing, was to entertain a futile hope. A tiny, timid thing his hope was, so unlike himself in body and in temperament, but still there, cowering in the corner of his heart, leaping at every brush of skin against skin, clutching desperately to every elusive, tremulous smile.
He knew it was nonsense, to ever think someone so beautiful and so carefree as Finland could ever return such feelings. He was too high in the air, swirling peacefully around the melodies of his own laughter and language, shifting among the wavering ghosts of mist and birch trees. Fluttering like a precious jewel of a bird, high above Sweden's grasp.
Below, on the unforgiving earth, Sweden would watch, entranced, his fragile hope reaching, stretching to fly without the wings to do so. Sometimes, like a blessing from God, his efforts would be rewarded and Finland's dance would descend into his realm. Feathery light fingertips would brush the rough skin if his palms, sunlight and sparkles scattering about his face, sifting through the shadowy corners of Sweden's mind and igniting his passions. But then their closeness would be gone again, as ephemeral as his fantasy.
No, he could never capture something as fleeting as that. His eyes were too dazzled, his hands trembling and dark with dirt and blood. As strong as they were, they were not hands to ensnare an angel. No hands were. No sane person, even one as besotted as Sweden, could dare to pluck such a soul from the shining world he spun. And so Sweden worshiped in his customary silence, hesitant to even touch the man he so desired, for fear that he would fall and shatter, fading into nothingness in the cold monotony of reality.
oooooo
Finland could not understand how someone like Sweden could harbor such tender feelings for him. He knew they were there, of course. They were too obvious, too sincerely expressed, to be anything but truth, and Finland was sure he didn't imagine it. Whether the sense was from an extra blanket against the cold, a gentle hand to lighten the daily load of firewood, or determined protection in times of war, Finland knew that he was loved. Deeply, passionately, and unconditionally.
It was overwhelming, to have that love. Overwhelming and terrifying and maybe a bit gratifying, but most of all it was completely and utterly confusing. Finland was sure of Sweden's affections, but still incredulity buzzed at the edges of this knowledge. How could such a man love him so? Sweden was a man, a warrior, almost a king. What was Finland? Small, defenseless, subordinate... useless. Sweden had to know he was useless. He wasn't even a real country, just a smudged word on an archaic map. How could he even begin to deserve the attentions of such a formidable, important person?
And yet he knew that however useless he may have felt, something in him captivated the other man. Something made Sweden shiver whenever their shoulders accidentally brushed on cold nights in front of the fire, or flush when he occasionally forced himself to meet those icy blue eyes. Finland marveled at this newfound power, amazed and enthralled by the way he could undo his master with the slightest of glances, the tiniest of smiles.
He knew it was a tortuous, teasing thing to do, but somehow he could never look away. Every time, Sweden would bow to his every wish and whim. Never would he protest, nothing did he ever take. Finland found it silly that Sweden was so dedicated, so devout, that he would forever ignore his own needs, his own wishes, to grant his.
Foolish, nonsensical, stubborn, man! Finland would laugh softly, and reach out to take Sweden's weathered hand in his own. He would smile, his own breath catching in his throat as the other would startle at the contact, look down at him with astonishment in his eyes, hope tripping and stuttering through his pulse. And for a moment their dance would still, separate wonderments entwining and spinning around them, floating high in a reality all their own.
oooooo
My attempts to do serious/"aristic" work don't ever turn out very good, in my opinion. They sound to familiar. I'd love to hear what you think of it, though, whether it be praise or criticism. Thanks for reading!
Hum. Back to drawing Sweden wrapped in aluminum foil!