Various Hetalia One-Shots

SuFin songfic: Mefish no uta, Ayabie

How long has it been since then...?

He fumbled with the feeble slip of paper in his clammy hands, sweat-logged despite the snow, as he continued to trudge through the wild, snow-capped abyss. He paused briefly to swipe away the mist which had formed on his glasses, before returning to his hurried gait and hopeless joeny. He knew exactly where he needed to be; exactly who he needed to be with. But ever since he had claimed independence, a new image of him had been imposed. He had grown so independent and strong, and Sweden was glad for him, but be had never felt so devoid of human interaction, and the wirey slit that had stained his heart since the day Finland abandoned him grew and stretched further just by thinking of the times he was in his company.

For the fifth time, he glanced at the clumsily scrawled word that had been inscribed onto the torn-out strip of paper - Sweden was aware that he didn't have a way with words in the least, and he had remembered that this was the last thing that Finland had taught him from his language:

Rakkaus. Love.

Maybe if Finland could understand that pulchritudinous, concise soliloquy that he had frantically scribbled on the post-it note, the one he had found on his bedside table all those years ago, had it not been in Sweden's native language? It seemed as if they where prized apart by some kind of rift, a wall of glass.

A light in the distance. Kicking up an avalanche of snowflakes, Sweden frantically pulled his heavy boots through the knawed grass and the sodden patches of snow until he was an arm's length away from a clouded window. Beyond the glass was beakan of warm orange and yellow hues, a certain aura of comeliness that seemed to tell Sweden that he was here. And there he was! Sitting at the dinner table! Beaming just as he did in Sweden's vivid dreams, laughing childishly, gazing wistfully at the woman sitting opposite to him.

Not this. Not now. Eyes closed, Sweden collapsed to his knees, feeling his heart being wrung like a cloth. As every fibre of his being cried, screeched and constricted, Sweden forced his features into the usual mask of indifference and forcibly stuffed the slip of paper under the wooden door, the only opening between Sweden's solitude world and Finland's. Through the piecing tears that clouded his vision and threatened to cascade down his cheeks, Sweden wrote his last, short burst of consciousness on the mist enveloping the thick, cold glass that separated them.
But he would never understand, anyway. The words faded into the abyss as if they never once existed.

At least she does.