for sum_lejon and whoever, i guess! }
1944 ( Swedish volunteers disbanding from the Continuation War. )
Cold.
It is cold, and Finland walks the snow laden ground and feels the eyes of handfuls of his soldiers studying him and his surroundings dutifully through the one inch scope of a sniper rifle. Countless ( or are they really countless? Russia certainly seems to think so ) loaded barrels of war pointed at him, and he is overcome with a strange, foreign sense of security.
Finland nearly laughs at the thought of it, the irony, the peculiar and permanent twist of his sense of humor, but the temperature alone freezes his mirth in his throat.
Maybe he was confusing emotions with hunger, anyway. Ha! Another bad joke.
"Sverige," he ventures, in his language, lowering the cloth from his mouth to keep it from smothering his words. Finland side glances his long-ago-former housemate and fidgets with the German pistol in his hands. Germany, Germany, who knew he'd be such a complicated guy.
"Ruotsi," he repeats, in his language, because perhaps Sweden hadn't heard him.