Chapter Three: Sweden (February 17, 2000)

Sweden has a nice house. It is a bit large for just one person, but he supposes it is appropriate for someone like him to have a grander sort of house.

Someone like him. What a strange phrasing. There is no one like him. Just Sweden.

For the most part, Sweden only uses a few rooms in the house. The kitchen, struggling to cook food he half remembers and often leaves half-eaten. The living room, where what he does there hardly counts as living, sitting and watching the news of the world. He finds that it's painful to watch news of any place but his own, so he gets up and clicks the tv off after the local news. On good nights he watches hockey, and his plate is empty, belly full. Those are good nights, because he goes up to the bedroom that is his, and is actually able to sleep. He doesn't know why he has guest rooms, because they really are never used. Then again, so is his own bedroom. On good days, he falls into the covers and sleeps until the morning, but on bad nights the bed feels much too large, and he tosses and turns and finally just gives up, going downstairs again and sleeping fitfully on the couch. He thinks about asking his boss about it, but it isn't something worth bothering his boss about.

This is not something that is wrong with his country, Sweden realizes. This is purely him. Something is wrong with him, and not being able to blame it in odd happenings within his borders is a scary thing. Something that has never happened to him before-

his heart swells, and he wonders why, surely his people can't be making him this happy, this is coming right from him, just him

-and it's almost terrifying. He needs to rationalize this feeling, and so he takes to blaming it on the room. The locked room, the one he doesn't try to find the key for. He can't even look at the door, not since the first time, when curiosity had him peering under the door, glasses sliding off his nose as he tried to make out what, exactly, he was seeing.

Not much was identifiable. But there was what looked like a hat, a little sailor's hat, a few feet away from the door itself. Sweden saw nothing else because that was enough- he walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and stood under it as it scalded his skin, wishing he knew why the hat made him shake like he was standing naked in the snow. He hadn't looked at the room since, but that chill still remained, something he can't banish, even as summer hits his country, and he celebrates by spending less and less time at home.

Instead, he spends his time wandering the country, leaving his car at home- he never uses that thing- and instead relying on public transportation and his own too feet. It is slower, yes, but this way he missed nothing. And there is something comforting, being surrounded by the bustle of your people. Even Sweden, who is not exactly social, found it pleasant. Like being wrapped up in a warm security blanket. It was only when he is hiking through some dense woods, nearing the Finnish border, that he realizes where he has been getting slowly pulled towards. Out of the crowds, it's painfully obvious. THe border is covered in snow, invisible to most, but it stands out like a brand in Sweden's mind. Still, Finland looks no different from Sweden, really. And it had once been his, a long time ago. There should be no reason why he can't just... step over the border. Explore a bit. He had never been curious about his neighbours before, and can't recall when it started, but this new-found curiosity is not just a trivial want. It's an ache, a hand clenched around his lungs, bitingly cold.

The abandoned hat, in the locked room, comes to mind. He ignores this.

He stands there, staring at that border, for longer than he cares to admit. Long enough for his body to go numb, even. before he finally steps closer. As he teeters a few feet away from that line, he frowns. What if he disappears, when he leaves his own land? He doesn't like the thought of ending, of forgetting everything and being forgotten. It scares him in a way he can't quite articulate. Like he was ever great at articulating in the first place.

Then reason catches up with him. He isn't going to vanish. He's been on front lines before, after all. He had sailed with vikings. Borders were never a problem then. Though they changed more often, back then. He could almost recall-

His foot steps across the line. And his thought is cut off by the distinct sound of a bullet whizzing by him.

"Don't do that!"

That voice isn't familiar. He's disappointed, but doesn't know why. He's standing in Finland now, he supposes, and feels very awkward, as he tries to spot where the bullet came from. And the voice.

"Wh't?'

"That! Stepping over the border like that!"

The voice isn't familiar, but it is pleasant. Sweden should probably be concerned about the fact that it's owner has a gun, but he can't bring himself to get tense over it. For some reason, he very much doubts that the voice will shoot him. Even though he's done it before.

The thought is so ridiculous, when it floats through his head, that he doesn't even dwell on it. In fact, he forgets it almost the instant he dismisses it. Instead, he opens his mouth. He means to ask the voice how he knew exactly where the border was, but his lips form other words.

"'m Berwald."

There is a moment of confused silence. Sweden thinks he hears a gasp, but he's not sure.

"Why... what? Why do you think I want to know your name?" This time, the sharp inhale is obvious. "...Tino."

"Nice t'meet y'." He's not sure Tino will understand. People usually have trouble understanding him. He's used to it by now. But there is rustling to his left, and Tino steps out from behind a tree, his gun- a sniper rifle, Sweden notes with surprise. He definitely missed on purpose, then- resting casually on his shoulder. He's under-dressed for the weather, but so is Sweden, so he can't exactly comment.

He smiles shyly, even though his eyes are weary. "I suppose I should say the same, then? Though you did just jump my border." His voice gets harder, but... he looks so young. And though his voice is strong and his eyes are dangerous, his expression can't be described as anything but a pout. Sweden is unsure of what to say, so he just stares at the boy.

"...S'rry."

And Tino stares at Berwald, and Berwald stares at Tino, as they both entertain strange thoughts along the lines of 'he's what I was waiting for?' and 'he's the one who pulled me here?' If either of them believed in soul mates, they may have taken this all as a sign. But they are not idealistic teenagers. They are nations, and such notions are just silly, at their ages. So the fact that Tino blushes, as he shoots a still-cautious smile at the other, is merely because of the awkwardness of the situation. Of course.

"Would you like to join me for some coffee?" A soft laugh. Sweden takes a step closer, almost without realizing. "Consider it an apology. For shooting at you."

Tino certainly doesn't look sorry, but that's okay. Sweden nods, a muttered 'y'please.' escaping his mouth. As Tino begins to lead him away, talking almost absentmindedly about how he hopes his cabin is still warm, Sweden feels a sad pull somewhere inside him, as though his country is trying to hold on. But he'll only be gone for a little while. He doesn't notice that the other pull, the one that made him leave his house and wander aimlessly, is completely gone now. He does, however, want to reach out and touch the other's shoulder, or perhaps even hold their hand. But that's just stupid. So he refrains. For now.