First-person Fin-centric.
Written during commercial breaks while watching a History Channel documentary about the 70s. Thus, pot. High!Sve is slightly OOC, because I can. Fin stays sober because I stay sober.
Soren is Denmark (which should be obvious). I've heard him named Matthias and Soren, and I kind of like both/either.
His silent exterior can be misleading. People assume he's straight-edge, strait-laced, stone-cold sober. That's just what the wide world sees. We know better.
He nods at the joint Denmark is holding. Soren passes it to him. Sve holds it gingerly between his thick fingers and breathes it in slowly. He turns, looks at me for a moment. Then he passes the stub back to Denmark. He knows I don't want it. I don't need it, considering the way he gets when he's high. He turns to me. His face breaks into a wide grin. Denmark and Norway can't see. This bright face is meant only for me. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me tightly into his side. I snug into his shirt. It's falling open, and smells like smoke, detergent, and Sve. He puts his hand in my back pocket, and I put mine in his chest pocket.
Denmark looks up from pestering Norway and points lazily at us.
"Look'a them, Nor," he chuckles. His voice is grating. I tuck my head further into Sve's side. Norway pffs.
"Whatever makes them happy," he says apathetically.
"What about what makes me happy?" asks Denmark. Norway pretends to fend off a kiss attack, but it's just a game they play. Nor is more willing to lose the game in this private, loose place.
As they roll over wrestling, Sweden turns to me. He puts his other hand under my shirt, just on my waist, but skin on skin. I look up at his face. It is soft, smiling. I take off his glasses and tuck them into the pocket where my hand had been. I put one hand on each side of his neck. His loose smile widens, and he kisses me. He tastes strange. Like himself, but also like smoke. I don't mind. His honey-snow taste cuts over it and envelops my head, filling me with warm and navy butterflies.