Finland loved baking. He couldn't explain what it was about the activity that he found so calming, but whenever he started mixing flour and eggs, popping over to the cookbook every few seconds to check an ingredient, even for a recipe so well-known that the book was creased to the page, he found himself relaxing, humming without noticing it. As a result, anyone who knew him at all knew that at the slightest anxiety or provocation, he would be in the kitchen, cheerfully popping on cream-colored oven mitts or tsking as he took stock of the remaining chocolate chips. (Unfortunately, Sealand had something of a sweet tooth, and Sweden hadn't gotten the hang of being a "good example.") He smiled warmly and wiped his brow (with the oven on, the central heating was really too high), stepping back for a moment to admire his handiwork.
Ten neat batches of cookies sat before him. Seven on platters, three still cooling on racks. (Really more like 1 and 2/3 miscellaneous batches. They all preferred their cookies warm.) One was of thumbprint cookies and two were chocolate chip. The crinkles were almost gone, and the stained glass were almost ready to come out of the fridge. A neatly wrapped batch of meringues was by the door. (There had been two of those, but he had a particular weakness for the marshmallow fluffiness of the confection.) A tiny, neglected pile of macaroons lay untouched in a corner.
Most impressive, however, were the sugar cookies. Three batches in all, featuring over 40 patterns. Each one was lovingly, carefully frosted in an intricate design. Finland privately thought the sugar cookies were his favorite creations. He would spend many an hour slowly leaning over them, feeling their warmth waft up to his face along with their light vanilla smell, as he slowly added intricate whorls and curves to designs elegant in both their subtle elaboration and their deceptive simplicity. (In a rare moment of sentiment, Sweden had told him that it was a shame that they had to be eaten.) Brushing the flour off of his hands, Finland briefly felt as though the light, muted slapping was really a symphony of applause, a thousand spectators admiring his achievement. He chuckled and shook his head. It was fortunate that Estonia couldn't read his thoughts, or he'd be getting cracks about his role as a stay-at-home "mom" all week.
"What's so funny?" He couldn't help but jump a little. Sweden had a disconcerting way of entering rooms without being noticed. (It did help that, for all that his stare was intimidating, he ponderously munched on a chocolate chip cookie as he eyed the other nation.)
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about baking." He laughed. "It's strange how something so simple can be so great for you. It must be awful for those who don't have hobbies. Of course, they probably do, but I've never really taken the time to check." Hugging himself in a free, thoughtless gesture, he turned around to see Sweden still crunching the cookie. Each slow, cracking bite seemed to echo in the small, well-lit room. "You know, speaking of weird hobbies, I can't believe that Austria's so good at making tea!" Sweden's eyebrow rose slightly. Mentioning Austria had been a mistake. "I mean, I can see why he'd like it, but I've been thinking about it, and I'll bet you that that blend he made us had some imported stuff in it. It was really unusual. Creative, you know?" Sweden didn't respond. He just kept chewing his cookie. "You know, when I met you, I'd've never had you pegged for chocolate chip. Honestly, I would have thought you'd prefer plain oatmeal, or peanut butter, or even something other than cookies. That's why the first time I baked here, I made you those rum cookies. They seemed like the sort of thing you'd like." There was a pause, and convinced that he'd successfully diverted the topic, Finland turned back to his work.
"What did Russia enjoy eating?" He froze. "You did cook for him, right?"
"Ah… yes. This and that, really. He liked little cakes a lot, and things from England and France. Those were very popular back then, you know." He focused on the stove, trying to keep his voice as light and airy as the dough he was beating. "I got to practice a lot of things from around the world. It was interesting experience, really." There was something wrong with the dough. Oh, he'd forgotten to add the last ¼ cup of flour.
"I can feel you staring, you know. Believe it or not, Russia wasn't so bad back then. I didn't really like working for him – but then, I didn't like working for Denmark, either." He released a tentative chuckle. It spread its wings and took off, only noticing after rising a couple of feet that its wings were broken. The joke fell with a flat thud. "He certainly wasn't anything like what I've heard about him these days." With horror, but unable to stop himself, he watched his right hand drift down to rub his left wrist. He could feel Sweden's eyes on the limb like a persistent rash. His rubbing turning to scratching, he continued, "Anyway, it's not really your business, and I'm busy, so would you please leave?"
He could've sworn he heard the rustle of a raised eyebrow. Neither of them was accustomed to such directness from him, and they both knew it. He involuntarily tensed, half-expecting his partner to yell, or say something reassuring, or perhaps come up behind him and hug his waist. (It had never happened, but there was something in that concerned look he knew he was getting that suggested it.)
He stayed that way, waiting patiently. One minute, two, three. The eyes continued to bore into him, making him squirm and twitch as if impaled on their stabbing points. The dough was more than sufficiently mixed; any more and it would lose its buoyancy. Sighing deeply, he lowered the thick wooden mixing spoon.
"Alright, look – " he started, then broke off. There was no one else in the room.
Sweden had left five minutes ago.