Hetalia Deaths

Tino (Finland) Theory 2

All of the characters belong to Himeruya Hidekaz and the theory was written by fanfiction's InfernoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them.

Now, for Finland.

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His porridge was the color of the sky. The clouds lacked its undisturbed topping of clotted compote, the same hue as mulberry wine, and the sashes of sugar sprinkled haphazardly on its surface, but its color- a faded beige threaded through with white- was but a reflection of the cold sky beyond the window.

The winter had come softly that year, easing the country into it from the canary and crimson shocks that came with the end of the autumn. Despite its gentle approach, Tino's entrance into the white season had been a hard and fast one. His mood had come crashing when the first flakes begun to drift down past the streetlights, and the precipitous drop had nestled in to stay, even as the year turned and January approached its close. He felt the pit in his stomach, like he had in all the years before, but its void somehow seemed more teeming with malice than he was used to.

His porridge tasted bland. He knew that it wasn't, really. He'd eaten it enough mornings here to know that it was, in fact, quite flavorful. It was always made with good milk, on the stove, and the oats were high quality. The jam was always beautifully reduced, and he could usually appreciate it as much as it deserved. Not today, and not this month, or this season. He still held hope for when spring burgeoned once more, and the snow began to melt, and the wind began to die down, but for now he just resigned himself to waiting.

He turned it over in his dinged-up spoon, a newspaper, untouched, beside him, and the pale gray of the world outside looked in at him, peering under its yawning expanse. The daylight had yet to arrive, but it would likely be blinding when it came, so he had learned to savor these long, dark hours in the before.

He called for his check, his voice ringing quietly around the mostly-empty café. A familiar waitress, clad in a mustard sweater and thick, winter pants, placed the printed paper down gently in front of him, offering Tino an equally as familiar smile. The two knew each other about as well as he figured office acquaintances did: they shared friendly glances, pleasantries every now and then, a handful of more personal questions, first names.

"Here you go. I hope to see you soon!" We had been graduated to I in their exchanges. Nothing remotely flirtatious, of course, but it was enough to make Tino's days just barely bright.

"Yes, I'll look forward to it." Polite, always polite.

He watched her walk away, and he was alone again.

He grabbed his newspaper- still unread, mind you- and began the task of wrapping himself in a couple of layers of coats, a thick woolen scarf, and thicker gloves. The air was frigid, like it always was in the last week of January, and even a millimeter of exposed skin was enough to ruin you and wrack you with chills for hours upon endless hours. He checked himself meticulously every time.

Certain the cable-knit scarf covered everything from the tips of his ears to his collar bone, he exited the warmth and relative safety that the café provided, and threw himself into the frigid, distant cold.

Their main street was small, only two lanes, but it held a great deal of life when it wasn't covered in nearly a meter of snow. He supposed he was the same way, too, in hindsight. Lively and personable in the absence of snow, but something quite different when the world was covered in white and ice. His boots were sturdy, but he still struggled to trudge through the snow.