Shoulders
Finland stands in front of the full-length mirror, admiring himself.
It was true that he had softened out a bit over the years, but there were things about him, things he had gone through, that were unmistakably his and would never leave his body.
The morning sun filters in through the window. Sweden is still asleep, most likely, and Finland has this time to himself, to admire himself in a way unique from anyone else's, even Sweden's.
Sweden does lavish adoration on him, but mostly on the parts he assumed Finland was self-conscious about, like the layer of softness over his stomach, his thighs, and his hips. But Finland knows that Sweden knows about the steel they conceal underneath, and lets him worship as he pleases. But the things that Sweden misses are what Finland admires about himself the most.
His shoulders, for one. He is proud of them, because even if they are narrower than Sweden's or Denmark's, he knows the burden they have carried over the years, and that burden sculpted them into what they are today.
His shoulders are nothing but lean muscle and narrow lines, like the strokes of a brush. Finland especially enjoys the way the morning light falls on them, turning every little dip of his skin into a dark shadow and making the raised parts glow gold. He can see every muscle, every joint, and it makes him feel strong, proud, and attractive.
It is then that Sweden stumbles into the bathroom, blinking away the sleep in his eyes, completely unprepared for the sight he finds when his sight clears.
Finland loves those eyes. They remind him of sea glass, or the sky when looked at through the surface of the ocean.
"Good morning, my love," he says calmly, without a sense of embarrassment or any move to hide his nudity, and reaches out to touch Sweden's cheek.
Sweden peers into the mirror, resting his chin on Finland's shoulder. "What're ya lookin' at?" he asks (more of a mumble), the slightest hint of concern in his voice.
Oh, Sve, Finland thinks amusedly. He smiles and gives his reflection another once-over. "Myself." He stifles a laugh the moment Sweden's gaze drops lower, resting on his stomach, his thighs, his bared manhood.
A chuckle escapes his lips when Sweden replies, "Makes sense. Yer nice t' look at." Sweden's deep breath tickles Finland's neck, the skin on his shoulders prickling into tiny goose bumps with every puff of air. He takes another look at the mirror. Sweden's head still rests on his shoulders contentedly, as if it has always belonged there. Finland wants to kiss those slightly-parted lips, but that would mean disturbing Sweden from his perch.
Sweden traces the shadows his collarbone makes with his fingertips before brushing his lips against the back of Finland's neck and disentangling himself from his lover. "I'll make breakfast," he says, turning and leaving.
Sweden is gone, but Finland feels his kiss linger as if it's been burned into his skin. Finland turns to leave as well, casting one last look at his reflection in the mirror.
He won't tell Sweden about his shoulders. Sweden already seems to know, anyway.
AN: X-post from Tumblr.
This was written in about 20 minutes and I was really happy how it turned out. c: