In the morning it was Berwald who had awoken first, feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks. It was difficult climbing out of bed without waking Peter, but he managed it and gave the slumbering boy a grateful peck on his forehead. The master bedroom was predictably empty, the inviting bed neatly made and the thick curtains thrown back to let the sun dazzle. Berwald's toes curled in the cold, digging into the thick shag of the cream carpet as he dressed hurriedly. A charcoal grey suit, fresh and neatly pressed, was laid out on the bed, reminding him they had a conference that afternoon. Thoughfully, he fingered the subtle golden buttons on the cuffs and smiled softly. It was his favourite suit.

Tino was not in the kitchen as Berwald had expected him to be, but the table was laid with various delicious things for breakfast. There was some pillowy sweet bread - still slightly warm from the local bakery - with jam, honey and chocolate spread to slather it with, and a platter of fresh fruit. He ate slowly, enjoying his quiet meal alone where he could finally relax without his wife around to unintentionally wind him up. It was probably the first breakfast he had properly savoured in quite a while. Sipping his luke-warm mug of cocoa, a distant rumbling on the wooden staircase warned him his peace was going to be short-lived.

"Mornin' Papa," Peter chirped in an absolutely-not-appropriate-for-that-time-in-the-morning voice as he practically bounced into kitchen. Berwald merely grimaced in return, his eyes narrowing as he studied what his son was wearing; his special sailor suit, un-ironed and complete with juice stain.

"Where d'y'think y're goin' dressed like that?" he asked over the brim of his heavy mug. Immediately Peter's expression soured.

"Oh Pa, please!" he whined nasally as he grabbed at a carton of fresh orange juice, "I have to come! I have to!"

"No y'don't," Berwald said firmly. The powerful puppy eyes he was recieving from across the table done nothing to weaken his resolve, as painfully cute as they were, "The UN is for United Nations only."

"But how am I gonna become a real nation one day if I can't go to the meetings," was the familar reply, genuine disappointment masking the indignant defiance in his son's voice. Berwald frowned slightly, and reached over the able to take ahold of a small fisted hand.

"We'll find a way, you'll see," he said kindly, sharing a warm smile as Peter reluctantly perked up again. There was no keeping the boy down, as much as he tried to maintain his sullen pout. It didn't suit him, "Now y'should go 'nd get changed out of that before y'r Ma sees."

Peter nodded, excusing himself from the table and running from the room. The threat of Tino's displeasure was enough to make even the boldest nation flee in fear. He could be ferocious when the time called for it, something that Berwald admired deeply. Tino, little Tino - and Jökull too, so cold, so hot. Probably why they got on so well, on the phone every other night for hours on end. What did they have to talk about? It wasn't as though they had any international relations of pressing importance between each other, or any relations at all for that matter. He was supposed to be with Morten anyway, after things with idiot Lars had went sour. What did he want with Tino? Berwald stood, crossing to the sink with his dirty plate as jealousy prickled up his spine. He tried to push thoughts of Iceland and his wife to the back of his mind as he washed the plain white porclain gently - but it was still there, sulky and poisonous, sullying his good mood. He knew it wasn't his place to say who he should or shouldn't see, or that in an ideal world he would be happy just to see him happy, but it didn't work that way. It couldn't, it never would. Tino was his wife, and that was that. No-one dared say otherwise, it was practically written in stone. Sweden and Finland, always Sweden and Finland. Everyone could see that - everyone but the one person that mattered most!

Berwald exhaled shakily. His knuckles were white with the force he had been gripping the delicate porclain plate, and it was a miracle it had not snapped in two. He sat it down guiltily on the drying rack, and wiped his hands with a near-by dish cloth before checking his watch. They would be leaving in less than an hour, and Tino was still not around. He had probably forgotten something at the market, Berwald mused. Something nice for dinner. He always liked to make them something a little bit special after a hard day's work.

---

The conference had been remarkably unremarkable. No spontanious wars, amazingly few gropings (accidental or other-wise), no full frontal nudity and everyone left with all vital regions intact. America acted the idiot, England cursed and ranted, Germany shouted at his Italy and was shouted at by Southern Italy in return, France leered and Russia creeped. Everything went accordingly - though progress was as arduous and slow as ever - and when four o'clock rolled around everyone went their seperate ways, tired and slightly irratable. It was a good day.

Berwald felt slightly claustrophobic in his little racing green Saab 93, but it was a sturdy car and got him from a to b in relative comfort and style. Tino fit quite neatly into the passenger seat, smart in his beautifully tailored black suit and playful pink tie. His hands were clasped in his lap, and he was staring vacantly at the flashing scenery with the slightest purse in his sweet lips. Berwald didn't bother to ask. He'd been fairly absent all day, and despite his husbads best efforts he insisted nothing was wrong. The small talk between them had dried up twenty minutes into their long drive home, and now he was more concern on trying to focus on the road and not the nation beside him. They had to drop by little Viveka's house to pick up Peter, and they wouldn't be home for hours yet.

"Prussia spoke to me at the interval when I went to fetch us coffee," Tino said quite suddenly in a flat tone that made Berwald wish for the stuffy silence again.

"That so," Berwald hummed, trying to sound casual, "What was he sayin'?"

"He wanted to know where Peter was."

Berwald's hands tensed slightly on the steering wheel. There was ice creeping into that voice. Peter must have promised Gilbert to see him at the next meeting, not counting on his father putting his foot down quite so firmly. Despite the large age gap, Gilbert was probably the closest thing to a boy his own age for Peter. Im Yong Soo refused to recognise him, Noemi was hardly ever let out of her brother's sight and even though Raivis might have been his best friend, he was still a complete wet blanket. However, the sea fort and the ex-nation got on like a house on fire; united by a lack of status and a love of explosions, giant robots and cowboys. It was almost sweet.

"Why does he want to know where Peter is?" Tino pressed on, apparently undetered by Berwald's lack of reply, "Why is he allowed to attend UN meetings anyway? He's not even a country any more, he hasn't been for more than sixty years!"

"He's part of Germany."

"Then what's wrong with Ludwig representing him?"

"They're brothers, Tino. He wouldn't dissolve him completely like that."

"He should," Berwald was taken back by the venom spat in those two words, and frowned slightly, "I don't like him, Su-san. I don't like him, and I don't want him sniffing around around Peter."

"They're friends, Tino. There's nothin' wrong w'that."

"Nothing wrong with that!" came the disbelieving squawk, "There's nothing right about it! He's a brute, a hooligan and a bad influence for a start, nevermind the fact he's even older than me."

"He's harmless now, 'm sure..."

"No, Berwald. I don't want that relic anywhere near our child."

Berwald opened his mouth to object, but faultered. Our child. Their child. A child they had together, raised together for a little while, brought into their lives with love and trust. His heart fluttered uncomfortably, and he nodded mutely. There was no point in arguing.

"I'll talk t'the boy."

AN: Viveka = Aaland Island, Morten = Norway