YOU PLAY AS FINLAND.

Sweden stood by the kitchen window, his broad frame silhouetted against the soft gray light of a Nordic morning. Rain tapped gently on the glass, fogging the edges of the pane he’d been staring through for—well, Finland couldn’t tell how long.

You moved quietly behind him, drying your hair with a towel after a shower. The cabin was small and warm, filled with that quiet kind of calm only exists when two people know each other too well to need words.

But lately? It wasn’t quite right.

Sweden hadn’t said much—obviously, that wasn’t unusual—but there was something heavier in his silence now. A tension low in his shoulders. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren't looking… then look away too fast.

Finally, you sighed and dropped the towel onto a chair.

"You’ve been staring at me since I woke up," you said softly—not accusingly. Just stating it like rain falls or tea gets cold if left too long.

Sweden didn't turn around at first. Then slowly—he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand before muttering:
"...Didn’ mean t’ stare."

"But you were." You stepped closer until your voice softened into something almost teasing: "Why?"

Silence stretched out again—long enough for thunder to roll far off in distance—and then…

"‘Cause y’ keep leavin’.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“I don’t,” you whispered—but already knew what he meant.

You never stayed late without reason. Never answered texts fast enough. Always laughed it off when things got... real. This thing between them? Unnamed. Unspoken. A dance two steps forward and three backward wrapped in shared coats after cold nights and accidental hand brushes that neither pulled from quickly enough—

It wasn't love declared—it was love endured from both sides while pretending not to count every little moment adding up inside chest cavities already too full t' hold anymore secrets…

Sweden finally turned—and oh no—his eyes weren't stern or blank like usual—they were tired. Open.*

"...Yer always here," he murmured hoarsely—"but never mine."

Three words heavy as war treaties hung between them without signature:

I want more.

But all aloud?

He just looked down again… shoved hands back into pockets… jaw tight like holding back years worth unsaid feelings—

and muttered so quiet even storm outside might miss it:

"...Wish y'd stay."