A/N: This is a one-shot for the pairing SuFin (my favorite. Shhhh, don't tell GerIta). It's part one of a series called How Love Falls, which is basically a bunch of one-shots about how each nation fell in love. Except don't do series, so the only place you'll find all of them put together is on Ao3. Otherwise, just go to my profile. Anything I come out with will be listed there.

Feel free to send me requests. And I adore reviews, so go ahead and leave those, too. XD

Part 1. The Meaning of Fear

In which Sweden seems scarier than usual, and Finland is afraid for all the wrong reasons.

Tino was afraid of Sweden.

Admittedly, this in itself was nothing new. The tall and quiet nation had always been scary to the smaller one on some degree, and over time he'd grown used to the fear and settled into a semblance of normalcy. Well, as normal as one could get when one was an anthropomorphic personification of an abstract concept at best, with a body made of invisible lines, and powered by the fickle minds and hearts of humans. But that was a thought process for another day.

The normalcy felt... oppressive, somehow.

Not a negative oppression, with politics and bloodshed and revolution and lasting consequences no one was really prepared to deal with - that, again, was a topic best left for another day. A day when his mind was clear and his heart had steadied and Sweden was far, far away, because Tino was afraid and it was all his fault.

This oppression had nothing to do with his country or people, and more to do with himself and how he was handling his own inner turmoil. He felt like a string drawn taut, held by invisible hands just to the point of fraying, but not yet having been driven to snap. The tension was tangible. His emotions were on fire, running in circles and screaming, guns blazing, all chaos and no order, and Tino was caught up in the midst of it all, pliable and breakable as a paper boat on a vast stormswept sea. One day the string would break, the fire would extinguish, the boat would capsize and he would drown. Tino would be quite happy to drown, if only to make the madness in his skull go away, even if it only lasted a moment.

He'd brave that ocean before he'd brave Sweden, and the confusion and fear that came with him. But alas, the ocean was at least an hour drive away, and Tino really couldn't be bothered to put so much effort into his own brief self destruction. He'd have to just suck it up and deal with it.

Tino huffed, brows furrowed as he clutched his coffee closer to him. It was an early winter morning, and though he'd never been one so succumb to the cold so easily, being the relatively frigid arctic nation that he was, the temperature had dropped well below its usual range the night before, and no amount of heavy quilts or furs had been able to keep the cold at bay.

Tino pulled one such quilt tighter around his shoulders as he set his coffee cup down on the cool surface of the kitchen counter, which he still wasn't quite sure how long he'd been staring at since he'd come downstairs. Sweden wasn't anywhere to be seen when he woke up that morning, either. Tino felt heat creep up his neck at the thought, and fought the urge to cringe in embarrassment. Sweden had been the only reason he'd gotten any sleep at all, really. And the nerve of him, too, with his warm arms and silent breaths and nose buried in his hair, a source of comfort while the wind howled against the windows...

Yes, Tino had always been afraid of Sweden, but it would seem that "fear" now needed a new definition, because surely it shouldn't make him want more. Not like this.

The dull 'thud' of a blade hitting wood caught the distracted nation's attention, succeeding in pulling him from his decidedly dangerous thoughts. It was muffled and faint, coming from outside the house, but it was a familiar sound, and Tino felt himself relaxing despite himself. He spared a brief glance to the cold, dark fireplace in the living room, and the empty wood grate next to it, and sighed before moving to stand. He left the cup sitting half full on the counter as he went to the door.

The frozen world behind the door was still and silent, the smooth blanket of snow marred only by the deep scars left by the snow shovel leaning against the house a few inches away. Tino stepped out and pulled it shut behind him, breathing into his cupped hands and wrapping the quilt even tighter around himself. I really am going soft, he thought grimly as he began to follow the rhythmic sound of blade on wood. A century or two ago, this sort of whether wouldn't have fazed me at all. I've become too dependent on human advancement...

Tino rounded the corner of the house and paused to take in the sight. A significant space in the yard had been shoveled and cleared of snow. On one side stood a small but growing pile of wood split into halves and fourths. On the other, two medium sized trees lay stripped of their branches, the cuts clean and smooth as if the wood had been butter instead. In the center of it all stood Sweden, his tall frame hunched forward over the stump he used to steady the sections of wood for chopping. Despite the harsh bite to the air, he wore only a plain t-shirt to cover his upper body, paired with the thick blue pants of one of his older uniforms, and heavy black boots more suited to the weather than Tino's own thin slippers.

A few feet to Sweden's left and slightly behind him stood another stump, next to which lay his long blue coat - another piece of the old uniform - folded neatly with his glasses resting on top. After another moment of surveying his surroundings (he was not watching Sweden, thank you), Tino moved as quietly as possible to the old tree stump next to the coat and glasses and sat down, gaze fixed on the much larger nation's back. He was determined to figure out the source of the hurricane in his head, and Sweden held the the key. He just needed to find it.

Tino wasn't sure if Sweden noticed he was there or not. If so, he gave no acknowledgement of the fact and went on about his self-given chore, the swing of the axe fading into the background as the small blonde delved into his thoughts once more. It must have been the better part of an hour that he watched Sweden work, but try as he might, he couldn't find anything different. The graceful, yet powerful way Sweden carried himself, the strong set of his shoulders as they tensed and loosened with each swing, the tiny drops of sweat glistening on his skin the only thing betraying how his task was beginning to strain him. The arch of his spine was the same. His pale blond hair, only a slight shade darker than Tino's own. All the same, nothing changed but time and place.

He studied the way Sweden's long fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of the axe, as if lifting it was like lifting air. He remembered the way those hands gripped a larger, sharper, more deadly axe, meant for slicing through the limbs of people rather than trees. And he'd held that battle axe the same, as if killing was an art which required skill and grace. It had been easy for Denmark to control Sweden in the beginning, while he was young and observant and quiet. But then he hadn't been so young anymore, his observation had turned to defiance, and his quiet had become every bit the weapon his axe was, if not more so.

But... when he'd offered Tino his hand, his axe limp and nonthreatening in the other, there had been something in his eyes that compelled him to take it, and a part of him had felt as if he'd follow Sweden anywhere. It was a look of soft pleading that Tino just couldn't turn away from, couldn't ignore. Denmark lay bleeding and groaning in pain some feet away, Norway kneeled down beside him and watching them with a mix of wary curiosity and stone calm.

It was then that Tino realised that taking Sweden's hand, letting him lead him away from Denmark's house and into the unknown, was his only chance. Because he knew that Sweden wouldn't stay and wait for Denmark to recover while Tino was being indecisive. As soon as Denmark could stand, that little taste of freedom was over for Sweden. And the silent, observant nation had seen enough to know he likely wouldn't last another battle.

Norway had let Tino go that time, but Denmark would not have, and the younger and smaller nation hadn't been strong enough to oppose the powerful warrior like Sweden had. Yes, it was either Sweden or who knew how many more centuries under the Dane's foot. And so, prompted by another pained yet definitely stronger groan from Denmark as he struggled to sit up, Tino gave one sharp determined nod, and grasped the offered hand without another moment's pause.

Back in the present, Sweden had made his way through the last of the wood that needed chopping, the stack now towering above Tino's height and nearly to Sweden's nose, and he let the blade of the axe drop to rest on the frozen ground. His other arm came up to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, his breathing coming back under control from the strenuous work. Carefully, he leaned the axe against the stump and turned around, eyes flitting to Tino immediately.

He looked him over for a moment - Tino assumed it took a little longer for his vision to focus without his glasses - then shook his head and moved closer to pick up said glasses. Sweden was so close in that moment that the smaller nation could smell his distinctive scent of pine forest and mountain air, clouded over by the sharper tang of hard work well done. Tino could have reached out and wrapped both arms around him without having to get up or shift much at all. Not that he wanted to, of course. He felt his face burn at the thought.

Scary, indeed.

Suddenly, something heavy and warm was dropped over his shoulders, those two deadly hands soft as they wrapped the object around him tightly so it wouldn't fall. Reaching his own hand up to see what it was, and his eyes widened. "Um, Sve… Sweden? Won't you be cold?"

By that point, Sweden had withdrawn and stood at the large stack of freshly cut wood, a pile of it forming in his arms. He paused in reaching for another log to look back at Tino, his normally dark blue eyes made strikingly pale against the white of the landscape. "No. 've been movin' round." Tino wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but Sweden's stern gaze seemed to soften a bit. "Y' looked cold," he said, then went back to gathering his armload of wood for the fireplace.

Tino let his gaze drop to the ground, ears burning from a little more than just chill. There he went again, being strange and unpredictable. The smaller nation was finding it hard to mentally keep up with it all. Just what was Sweden playing at? Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone? It would make everything so much easier, Tino was sure, though a small part of himself wondered if he'd be satisfied with that outcome in the end.

Tino didn't voice his thoughts. Instead, he offered quiet thanks and ducked his head sheepishly, burying his nose in the heavy blue fabric of the long-coat. It smelled like pine and rain and crisp winter air, reminding him of times long past. Times when he was a wild child dancing in the snow and bearing a name he hadn't heard in centuries. These smells were accompanied by a deep musk which brought with it images of campfires in the night and shifting lights in the sky, and deep blue eyes with a thousand unspoken emotions no languages have names for. Eyes which simultaneously pulled him in and pushed him away without the use of touch. Dangerous eyes, with the capability of destroying everything Tino had ever known about them and himself in one fell swoop.

Eyes which appeared before him now, studying him with a hint of worry and something else he dare not name. Yes, Tino was afraid of those eyes, and those eyes belonged to Sweden.

"Y' hear me, Fin?"

Tino blinked, coming out of his memories and back into the present. "Yes, Ru- Sweden, just lost in thought." He shuddered inwardly at the near slip. He hadn't called Sweden "Ruotsi" in centuries, and he wondered why the name had chosen now, of all times, to escape his tongue.

Sweden paused a moment, almost certainly recognizing what Tino had nearly said, but in the end declining to acknowledge it. With a curt nod, he stood, shifting his armful of wood for the fireplace into a more comfortable position before turning and heading off towards the house. Tino, not wanting to be left alone in the cold, moved hastily to follow, drawing the heavy coat closer around him so it wouldn't fall.

The house was just as cold as Tino had left it when they stepped through the front door, and Tino cast a remorseful glance to the cup of coffee he'd abandoned on the counter, knowing without a doubt it was ice cold, too.

Folding Sweden's coat carefully and laying it across the arm of a chair across from the fireplace as the man it belonged to knelt at the hearth to arrange the wood and get a fire started, Tino wondered at how his fingers lingered on the soft fabric beyond his control, as if reluctant to let go. Tino frowned and pulled his hand away, stepping into the kitchen and picking up his cup to wash, careful to face away from the slowly strengthening fire and the man gently nurturing it.

The warm sink water stung his chilled hands, the pin needle pain bringing relief from the cold. Once again, Tino sunk into the storm of his mind, all turbulence and chaos, and attempted to bring it order.

The nation had always prided himself on being a rather orderly person. Daily showers, perfectly ironed clothes, three square meals a day, paperwork in the office sorted according to topic and relevancy… Every rifle he owned was cleaned and shined and lined single file in the cabinet in the hallway, each one spaced exactly two and a half inches apart from one another, from oldest to newest. Hell, the two warehouses he and Sweden owned further south, both filled with belongings they'd collected for centuries, were arranged according to year and displayed much like they would be in a museum - all of that, Tino's work.

Yes, Tino would say he was well organized, perhaps a bit more so than most humans would consider normal. He wouldn't go too deep into detail. The point was that the current turmoil taking over his mind wasn't normal. Not by his standards. Something was wrong, and it had been for awhile now. Tino was afraid he'd finally started to crack, just like the older countries. England and Mongolia and Egypt, to name a few.

Gods, Tino didn't want to be like England, the crotchety old bastard.

The small blond nearly shouted out loud in surprise when another, much larger hand caught his wrist gently, removing the now clean coffee cup from his grasp.

"I think th' cup 's clean now, Fin," Sweden's low voice rumbled behind him, reaching around the frozen nation to shut the water off.

Tino stiffened at the brief moment of contact between his back and the larger man's chest, the burning it ignited racing down his spine and searing through his veins. He suddenly felt the need to turn around. Perhaps to push Sweden away, or run, or hit him, or… or what? What else was there to do? Something… something different. Something he wouldn't normally do. For the life of him, Tino could not put a name to what that "something" might be.

And then the contact disappeared, the other man's larger body moving away to dry the cup and set it carefully on the rack with the others. Tino shuddered at the loss of warmth, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. He was mildly aware of the heat in his cheeks through the sound of his heart in his ears.

Stop it, Tino! He scolded himself, gritting his teeth. Snap out of it! Stop it right now!

His body must not have heeded his silent demands, because the next thing he knew, Sweden was prying his hands off the edge of the sink, his touch sending shocks up the smaller man's arms.

"Wh… what…?" Tino stuttered. What is this, he'd meant to say, more to himself than to Sweden.

The tall nation bent down a bit, looking into Tino's eyes. With his brows drawn together and his focus so intense, anyone else would have seen nothing but deadly fury and run in the opposite direction. The personification of Finland, however, had known this man for hundreds of years. Was Sweden confusing? Yes. Was he a bit strange and closed off? Absolutely. Did he scare Tino a bit more than necessary sometimes? Without a doubt.

Did Tino mind?

… No.

Huh. Well then.

"Wha's wrong, Fin?"

The point was that the small, slim finnish man had known the tall, strong and quiet Swede for long enough to at least be able to tell when it was time to run or not. Now was not that time.

"Fin?"

And why should he need to run, anyways? Tino had been living with Sweden for the past couple of centuries, at least. Not once in all that time had the man ever raised a hand against him, nor had he ever done anything around Tino to even hint that he was an inherently violent man (unless you counted the last few hundred times Denmark had managed to break through that mask of calm and expose the seasoned warrior within, but that was Denmark, so those didn't count).

"Finland."

And why the hell couldn't Tino seem to be able to sort all this out himself? What was he missing? What was there that he wasn't seeing? There had to be something. Something wrong. Something out of place. Where was it hiding? Why couldn't he find it? He needed answers, before he drove himself insane.

"Tino!"

The sharper edge to Sweden's voice brought Tino suddenly from his thoughts, nearly making him fall out of his own skin in the process. But however much the taller nation's voice had startled him, it was the sound of his human name which brought everything in his mind screeching to a sudden halt. "Wh… what?" he sputtered.

A nation's name was a private, personal thing, an intimate part of themselves that they shared only with the people of their country. It was given to them by the people and served as one of the most important parts of themselves that linked them to their country in ways too deep and intricate to even begin to explain. As such, they kept their names closely guarded. It was considered extremely rude for another nation to use it unless it was under very specific circumstances.

Norway and Denmark called each other by their human names.

But Norway and Denmark were lovers.

Love.

Oh.

… Oh.

Sweden sighed - a small, breathy sound that was hardly there at all, and took Tino's face in his hands. Something he didn't do often. Something he did often enough that Tino had stopped questioning it. Something Tino was very much questioning now.

… His hands are warm, he thought.

"Wha's on your mind?" Sweden asked softly.

It was such an innocent question, but the answer wasn't so simple. It was a mix of everything and nothing and something in between. It was Tino's sudden fear. Not of what Sweden had said, but rather of what he could say. Of what he might as well have said the moment he spoke his name. It was the fear of what Tino himself would say if he dared to open his mouth.

Fear.

But it was so much more than that, because Tino had just come to a sudden and far more terrifying realization. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear Sweden say his name again and again and again. He wanted to hear him say it for the rest of their long, nearly everlasting lives. There was a certain beauty to the way he said it. A beauty the likes of which are only found in midnight embraces during blizzards and a coat which smelled of pine and mountains and him. In old names nearly spoken and others said aloud. In the heat from the fire and the large, gentle hands which held him like something precious. Something treasured.

Fear, and…

… Love?

Yes, in that moment, Tino realized that there was no way he could ever brave the ocean before Sweden, because Sweden was the ocean. He was the tempest, and the fire and the hands which held the string taut. And Tino was the paper boat caught in his waves. He always had been. Always would be. It was dangerous and deadly and yes, Tino was afraid. He was so, so afraid.

But that's what love is, isn't it?

The waves were large and powerful and his paper boat was so fragile and easy to capsize, but despite all of that, Sweden…

Sweden had never let him drown. Not ever.

It was love all along.

Taking Tino's wide eyes and drawn out silence as his answer, Sweden closed his eyes in a resigned manner and began to pull his hands away. " 'm sorr -" he began, but cut off abruptly.

Suddenly, their positions were reversed as Tino planted both hands firmly on either side of Sweden's face, pulling him down until they were eye level. Sweden was too shocked to resist, shown in the widening of his eyes and the open look his features had adopted that Tino had very rarely ever seen. Violet eyes searched deep blue ones for answers he hadn't been able to give himself. He found them.

"That's it!" Tino gasped. "That's what was missing!"

Sweden frowned, bewildered. "Fin, wha -"

"It wasn't fear!" Tino exclaimed, a laugh bubbling up from his chest. "I'm not afraid! It's not fear, I'm not afraid!"

"Of what, Fin?" the taller nation asked, still bent down. Still there.

Tino smiled, twisting the other man's blond hair - had it always been so pale? - gently with his fingers. He knew now. It had been so obvious, right there in front of his nose, and he had never seen! But Sweden always had. He was certain he had.

"Of you, Berwald," he replied. He felt the other nation freeze, but continued to forge ahead. It was too late to turn back. "... I love you, Ruotsi. I… I think I have for a while, now."

For a long moment, Swe - Berwald remailed still, frozen in place, his muscles tensed and his dark blue eyes staring forward, unreadable. Slowly, the tension melted away, and his face softened into a vulnerable look Tino had never seen before. He looked like he was almost smiling. Tino wondered how he had ever lived without it.

Berwald leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Tino's as his large hands returned to his face. It was an incredibly intimate gesture, something he had never done before, but Tino didn't move away. The wondrous look in the taller nation's eyes said he had been expecting him to.

"Wha' took y' so long?" he breathed, a very slight cracking in his voice.

"Oh, you know," Tino chuckled. "We Finnish men can be quite stubborn. Even where our own hearts are concerned." He traced his fingertips lightly down the edge of Berwald's jaw - another thing he had never done before. Sweden was beautiful. Why hadn't he ever seen it before? "How long have you been waiting for me?" Tino whispered.

"Centuries," he replied. "Since y' first took m' hand all those years ago."

"I'm sorry," Tino said. "I'm so sorry I made you wait so long."

Berwald shook his head slightly, his nose brushing against Tino's. "Don' be. Havin' y' here with me all this time… gettin' t' see you ev'ry day… has made me th' luckiest nation, an' th' happiest man."

Tino dropped his hands from his face to wrap his arms around his broad shoulders. "Kiss me now," he said. "I can't wait for centuries."

Without another word, the swede complied.

Tino was afraid of Sweden. But it seemed that "fear" now needed a new definition, because only love could make him feel quite like this. Tino would just have to rewrite it himself. He had no doubt that he could manage it, now that his mind was back to order once more. And with Berwald by his side, he had all the time in the world.