Opening the door, Sweden could already feel that something was wrong. Something actually was. Something was missing or someone, rather. He himself had just helped walk them right into the hands of the enemy.
Finland was gone.
Passing room to room, Berwald tried not to pay attention to the missing objects and each empty space. Each place where the other's possessions had been and where they weren't any longer.
Tino was gone, and try as Sweden might, he couldn't shake the pain off and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was to blame for Finland's absence.
Sweden came into the bedroom but didn't bother to turn on the light, not wanting to see, or rather not see, the missing objects. He dropped down onto the edge of the bed and glanced down at the bedside table. A mug sat there, turned onto its side. Across its side, little hearts and flowers had been painted on by hand, Tino's name written on in probably the best hand writing the small male had. He had left it there. Sweden picked it up, staring at it. The dried remains of a sweet smelling drink were in the bottom. How long had it sat there? It had been hours perhaps, or days. Their last hours together had been too rushed for him to be sure.
Berwald could feel his chest tighten a bit, the feeling of pure sadness welling up in him. Dropping the cup back down onto the bedside table he laid back and rolled over to bury himself in the pillows. He drug one in particular close, Tino's. It still smelled vaguely of the smaller male, a sort of fruity sweet scent. He had lain there only a little while before, before Sweden taken him to the border, to pass him over to the monster in the east. He passed Tino over to the monster that had stolen Finland's lands, and ultimately Tino himself, away.
He tried not to acknowledge the wetness rolling down his cheeks and into the pillow. After all, what kind of man cried? He couldn't be, as nothing was supposed to phase Sweden. He wouldn't believe he was really crying. He ignored how the pillow slowly became damp, the fruity smell lost to the smell fo saline.
Holding the pillow to his chest tightly, he simply laid there until the stinging wetness had stopped and he could scarcely form a proper thought. Until the birds outside had started to chirp to indicate morning and the dawn of a new day.
AN: Ah, something for a friend of mine, based on her dream. It's supposed to take place after teh Finnish War in 1809, I believe, when Sweden had to hang Finland over to Russia.
Iz sadface. :c