Written for this prompt (hetalia-kink. livejournal. com/ 19013. html? thread= 71083589 #t71083589) at the Hetalia Kink Meme, now cleaned up a bit. The prompt was basically "anything goes as long as it was inspired by a Beatles song." Um. I may have a slight love affair with this song, yes.

"It's a good home," Finland said, when the last nail had been driven in and Sweden'd stepped back with a satisfied nod.

Tomorrow would be for painting, the wiring and insulation having already been completed. No doubt this cottage would last little longer than its predecessors; in his lifetime, he and Sweden had shared many centuries and many more roofs, shelters built of wood or brick or stone. Not all of them had been places they could call their own either, and some of them had been less 'home' and more 'cage' until he'd been scrabbling at the walls just to keep himself together.

(There were still days when Swedish would stick in his throat, the language too familiar to let out. He never mentioned it to Sweden, but somehow, on those days, he'd end up finding candy in his pockets, an extra treat by his plate.)

Well, they had learned to live with each other, he and Sweden had. They weren't building houses together because they had to any more.

Over the years he had even gotten used to the quiet, for nothing could compare to those early, awful days. Ah, they'd been barely a head taller than knee-height then, and it'd been a long time before Sweden ever looked less frightening. In hindsight, it was a little amusing to think about the very first time Sweden had barged into his home and settled there. He wouldn't be able to find the place on a map these days, but the memories were still clear as water.

They hadn't even known how to speak to each other then, in their first meetings, and Finland suspected they only ever picked up each other's language by osmosis and the fact he'd talk into that awkward silence day in and day out.

Denmark's home had almost been a welcome change, if just because he wasn't the only one filling the air any more. (He didn't want to say he missed it, but he did a little. Not as a nation but as Tino Väinämöinen, for whom it'd been nice to have a family around.) Even in Russia's house, he'd had his friends to keep him company, and Russia hadn't turned an eye to him all that often...

Ah, he'd drifted off! His eyes darted to Sweden, who was just standing there staring at him. Even when Sweden had been caught looking, the man didn't turn away, and Finland found himself flushing instead. "Gyah! W-we should carry in the mattresses now! Aha... ha..."

Some things, he thought beneath the dull roar of his pounding heart, he'd yet to get used to.

...

"I'll make y' a fam'ly," muttered Sweden that night.

Finland, who had turned to fuss with the bedding, glanced back with a quizzical look. "Did you say something, Sve?"

"Mmn." He shook his head, a negative. His palms sweat at the thought of repeating his declaration.

But years later, Finland would find a wobbling delivery box on their doorstep, that held a little boy with a very big dream. They'd already have a dog by then; to be honest, Sweden was fairly sure Finland loved Bloody Flower Egg more than the man loved him.

("You can't just buy children off the internet!" A jab of the finger into Sweden's chest. Finland didn't care if Sweden loomed over him; that just wasn't right.

Sealand, on the other hand, was paying no attention to his new parents and their spat. There was a dog.

The boy did earn a critical glance from Sweden, though. "Looks like 'e arrived okay."

Sputtering. "That's not- never mind..."

Sweden shrugged. His wife could be funny sometimes.)

...

On a little hill in Finland, there was a house that sometimes held three not quite people and a dog. There was a matching cabin in Sweden that also played home to the family, and equal time was spent in each place. In the nearby villages rose a host of rumours and superstitions, but the small family was left well enough alone for all the gossip.

.

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
-"In My Life" by the Beatles

.
End.