This is a very short little story. Barely over a thousand words.
But this couple, as well as Germany x Sealand, is my crack pairing.

I hope you think it's cute, like I do.
(Even though Sweden really doesn't talk this much...)

-ooo-

"Get out! Get outta here!" Berwald barked, throwing his lover's things into a box. The other man sighed and stepped closer. Sometimes, the blond could be such a burden.

"Stop this, Sweden. You are being ridiculous and I should hate to punish you."

"'s a damned lie!" he shouted, "Ya'd love t' hurt me, wouldn't ya? 's the only thing 'm good fer, right?" The silence that followed answered more than he wanted. He blinked back tears, trying to focus on packing the box. He'd been with this man for two years, yet he'd never been able to let him go. This wasn't healthy, not in the least bit.

"Berwald…what is wrong? Did Belarus say something to you?"

"...no." Sweden looked away, trying to look honest. His inability to lie well gave him away, he realized, as the accused closed the distance between them. A gloved hand gripped his chin and tugged him closer. In an effort to resist, he shoved the box at him.

"Take yer things an' get out. 'm not sharing ya, Ivan…I don't care if it's dipl'matic or not." he muttered, anticipating the Russian's excuse.

"What did she tell you?"

"I said she didn't-"

"I am aware of what you said," he said, "But I ask again. What did she say to you?" Sweden hung his head in defeat and sat down on the bed.

"…told me th't America an' ya were sleepin' together."

"And you believe that shit?" Russia mused, a smirk across his lips.

"W-well yeah. If ya think 'bout it. He's younger th'n me so you'll have him longer. We both have blond hair, blue eyes, an' glasses. J'st how ya like 'em, right? He's stronger th'n I am, more powerful…"

"And shorter. I do like it when they are shorter than me." The addition was the final straw. Berwald tossed his glasses across the room in anger, but resigned to sadness by crying into his knees. He was a broken man. Sighing for a second time, Ivan dropped the box and stood in front of his dearest.

"I would never want that brat. I do not want some 'young thing' instead of you. You are enough for me, da?" he assured, resting his cheek against Sweden's head. His hand went to the back of his neck, massaging lightly. Two years ago, he wouldn't have cared if someone was crying. He would've let them cry alone or he would've punished them for being so weak. Yet, after being with this man, he'd been softened. It was noticeable only to the residents of the house, but he hurt them less. His smiles had started to appear less creepy, his actions less intimidating. The only thing that hadn't changed was his obsession. It was the same, despite it being shifted to another person. This person sat in front of him, trying to push him away. An act that neither of them bought. If Sweden were honest with himself, even Ivan knew that he wouldn't care if there was someone else as long as he came back at the end of the day. As long as Ivan still held him, kissed him, fucked him…

It would make no difference. As long as Russia kept loving him – even pretending would be fine – he wouldn't leave. He was in too deep to stop. Of course, Ivan was no different. He'd never be able to have anyone else; he'd grown too accustomed to the blond and there was no returning from that. Without the man, he would surely crack for good. He'd go insane, start a war he couldn't win. Possibly even on purpose. But there was no point without this man, no point in anything. Frankly, he felt he needed Berwald more than air. It wasn't healthy, not in the least bit.

"R'lly?"

"Da."

"Pr'mise?"

"Of course I do. There is no benefit in lying about this."

"Still...ya could j'st want me fer m' body or m' alliance..."

"Well that is not the case, Berwald." The Russian was growing impatient.

"...pr'mise?"

"Oh, enough of this," Russia snapped. He forced Sweden to look up at him, smirking at the expression he bore. Tears traced down his cheeks, having caused his eyes to gloss over. His cheeks were flushed from the effort of crying; Berwald didn't do it very often. His lips, unlike the rest of his face, smiled at the Russian.

"I love you, Berwald. Is that good enough for you?" he questioned as he leaned in closer. There was a quick nod before lips pressed against lips. Ivan wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping the other hand on his love's cheek. The younger man leaned back, spreading his legs so the other could lie on top of him. His hands couldn't decide where to go. Instead, they skimmed along a strong chest, pulling at a waist before sliding up to hold his face close.

"Mmmm, open." Russia ordered against the kiss. Sweden parted his lips, allowing his tongue entrance. The muscle rubbed against his own, permeating his senses with vodka.

As a result of his resurfacing drinking problem, the man always tasted of vodka. In turn, Berwald always became drunk on his lover. He could never get enough of the man, which both of them knew. That's why he could never bring himself to leave; he never really wanted to.

Ivan suddenly rolled them over so Sweden was straddling his waist. The Russian took his hand and began to kiss his knuckles, his fingertips, anything his lips could reach. He loved this man, he understood that. But he couldn't understand why his love was returned. Who could love a terrible, sadistic man like him?

As if reading his mind, Berwald took Russia's hand and held it against his cheek.

"I l've ya," he whispered, searching violet eyes for what he wanted to hear. In return, he was pulled closer and nuzzled.

"Da, I know…and I return that love tenfold," he replied before kissing Sweden's forehead. Their love overflowed from each other, mixing together to form something greater than even Romeo and Juliet. Their love was beautiful, obsessive, and all-too essential. One couldn't live without the other and their love.
It wasn't healthy, not in the least bit.