A child had never really been part of Finland’s life plan - but then again, he was a nation, and nations didn’t have life plans (unless you were Germany, in which case you had a plan typed out and filed neatly in a ring-binder for ever possible eventuality, as well as a therapist, though being with Italy, Finland supposed, would do that to you.)
No - as a nation, he’d thought of nothing but conquest, of survival, of keeping his head above the water, of keeping his people alive. Everything was treaties and diplomatic meetings and war and money, money, money, even (especially) now, in the so-called “modern age.”
There was Iceland, he supposed. But Iceland was Norway’s brother, and Norway had raised him, and Norway was fiercely protective, and so Finland had only really seen Iceland, at least at first, when Norway deemed it acceptable for him to do so. The first twinges of parental feelings had not stirred in his belly until the New World had been discovered; he had kept his eyes peeled for that blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, barely more than a baby, when he and Sweden were there, and slowly, a kind of warm longing had lodged itself somewhere deep within his abdomen, and swelled, just a little, over time. It made him feel slightly strange, and he wasn’t sure what it was, at first, though he knew that he liked it.
Of course, England had taken America, and when Finland had seen the island nation cradling the child, rocking him against his chest and singing softly into his feathery fair hair, he had known at once that things were how they should be. But the sight of them together had not eased that pull, that stretch deep inside his body, though for a long, long time after it remained unidentifiable.
The feeling had not been resolved - it had continued to tug away insistently, faintly somewhere between his hips and his ribcage - for a long, long time after this, when Finland and Sweden were seeing each other a lot, a lot, practically living together (because Sweden wasn’t so scary, it turned out, he was actually quite lovely and kind and handsome, even though he still insisted on calling Finland his “wife”.) Sweden had brought Sealand home (they traveled between each other’s houses, Finland having resigned himself to his position as Sweden’s spouse), called Finland into the hallway, and said: “This is Sealand. Sealand, this is Finland. ‘s yer new Mama.”
Sealand had beamed, said “okay!” and ran off to explore the rest of the house.
Finland had dragged Sweden into the kitchen, shut the door, and shouted at him.
It had only taken a few days, however, for him to realise that whenever Sealand smiled up at him, or ran past him making aeroplane noises, or drew him pictures, or called him “Mama,” (“I’m not a woman!” Finland always protested, half-heartedly), that tugging twinge deep inside had gone.
And so one day, when Sealand had tired himself out running around the garden screaming cheerfully to himself, falling over, and making feeble attempts to climb the trees out there, and was flopped on the sofa at Finland’s side, his eyes half-closed, Finland took a deep breath, gathered the boy tentatively into his arms, and kissed him on the head.
Sealand smiled into his collarbone.
“H-have you had a good day?” Finland asked.
the boy yawned. “Yes,” he said, “Mama.”
Finland didn’t have the heart to correct him.
LLLLLLOOOOOOUUUUUUU
RIGHT IN MY MOMMY-FEELINGS.
THIS. IS. BEAUTIFUL.
MANNN
(via elizaabeth)
