"England cruelly taunts Sealand about being Aland's replacement, after having a particularily bad day and not wanting to deal with the brat. So, Sealand, who previously had no idea his 'parents' already had another kid, decides to..."
I think I saw this filled a couple of pages back, but I've been writing on it on and off for something like a month, so. Concrit is welcomed with open arms.
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (the title was always guaranteed to crank up the heat during family dinners) had some experience with dealing with children. Whatever else people said about imperialism: it did do something with your sense of responsibility.
Not that it quite spoke of maturity that England to this day insisted that rearing America had been a baptism of fire that could have readied anyone to step directly in as Jo Frost's stunt double. But frankly, even Mother Teresa would have lost some of her goodwill towards man if she had been the European alibi of somebody who insisted that ketchup counted as one of the five a day. England wondered, sometimes, if it had been he who erred in his inexperience or if there was something more fundamentally wrong with his oldest.
As of the appearance of his latest family member, those times had gotten notably rarer. America had, at the very least, had a motivation that - England was not an idiot - had been backed up by sincere ideas and a kind of common sense, even if it wasn't the kind of common sense that England himself had agreed with, at the time.
The Principality of Sealand was a joke, but Scotland denied all responsibility and had been the victim of a rather nasty attack with a water balloon after he had patted the micronation on the head and told him that democracy was a criteria for joining the Commonwealth. England, for his part, had coped with him the way he coped with anybody else - regardless of how and when and were, Sealand existed and those eyebrows did not lie. England had a proud tradition of taking others under his wing whether they wanted it or not, and Sealand was family. He might not be very openly affectionate (and sometimes late at night, he thought that that was America's fault, too), but he knew that stay as he might with others, the brat would ultimately be a part of the household. Kicking him out had never been an option.
That was not to say that it was a burden he carried with any joy that went beyond that of dignity desperately clung to through keeping that stiff upper lip even as America served him something "strawberry-vanilla" and called it tea.
It was dignity, or at least a semblance, a principle of it, that kept him standing when dealing with America on the days when modern-day piracy could be dealt with by sending in Johnny Depp. After having spent most of the afternoon telling that idiot why that wouldn't do, he had shouted himself into a fine headache and achieved little else than for some secretary who didn't work for him to remind him about his non-existent office hours. He had gone home with the singular ambition of taking off his shoes and then spend the evening in his good chair with a cup of actual tea or better yet, a glass of gin; but even that was to be denied him. When the lock of his front door clicked shut behind him, his eyes landed on his rather modest collection of kitchen utensils carefully arrange so to cover every area of the carpet that could possibly be used to thread on.
'What the bloody hell' wasn't usually the most constructive way to ask for clarification, but there were situations where nothing else could quite do.
Sealand family fic, 1b/?
anonymous
July 5 2009, 22:29:29 UTC
"If you agree with my bargain, I'll lift the blockade of your kitchen," Sealand declared from where he was doing his best to fill the doorway to said room, hands on his hips as he leaned forward in a manner that might have spoken of authority if he hadn't been shorter than England, and on the other side of the room.
It had been three weeks since the last time. Three blissfull weeks without young would-be-nations dressed in clothes that went out of fashion ninety years ago. Three weeks without Danish pop music out of the late nineties being played in his closet. Three weeks without being accused of being a imperialist jerk from somebody who didn't even have any actual territory.
Three weeks of leaving the painkillers wherever he damned pleased, but it didn't seem like the brat had gotten into them. So England, assured that he was dealing with somebody who was (theoretically) lucid, tried the more eloquent approach.
"Why are you here?" it came out tired, resigned. Not at all like how England knew you are supposed to talk to children without regard for their elders, but he felt his head pound harder as he bent over to retrieve the frying pan he very nearly had stepped on when he came into the hall.
"Since you have consistently refused and sabotaged all my attempts at joining any - "
"Didn't you have a home?" England asked, pushing spatulas and whisks and serving spoons and graters aside with his feet as he went, "what the hell happened with that? Did Sweden finally throw you out? Did Åland want his room back?"
"I'm here to claim my rights to diplomatic relations independent of yours! And who's Åland?"
"Åland," said England as he picked up a de-boning knife and shoved past the brat who seemed to have forgotten the part about the blockade, "would be Sweden and Finland's boy. The one I assume you're some pitiful replacement for, as I cannot imagine why else anybody would want to put themselves through that on a daily basis." and there was the Paramol box, emitting a soft aura of love and sweet relief from where it was faithfully waiting beside the radio and within arm's reach of the cabinet where he kept his everyday glasses.
"Sweden's boy?" he heard Sealand ask somewhere in the room as he registered that the glasses had been replaced by his silverware, carefully lined up like tin soldiers readied on the floor for somebody shoeless to step on them.
"Yes," he snapped, turning around and not raising his voice because he had caused himself enough pain for the day. Still, he felt that the utter hatred he felt for the world as a whole and for the ambition of his youngest brother in particular was expressed quite clearly despite the modest volume, "Sweden's boy. Who unlike you is well-behaved and modest and aware of his situation and is internationally recognized as an autonomous region, has actual land territory and a population that goes into double digits and then some." He slammed the door shut and yanked the next open, "the one who actually could, stretching the meaning of the word, be called a nation."
Sealand stared at him with an expression of empty blankness that England was suddenly thought that he never had seen on his face before. Then he had a sudden relevation about where the glasses could have been relocated. By the time he had swallowed the pills and turned back to take the quarrel about cleaning the mess in the kitchen, the boy had gotten to his senses and disappeared.
Re: Sealand family fic, 1b/?
anonymous
July 5 2009, 23:40:16 UTC
(writer of other fill here) YES. I wasn't sure how to get England upset enough to say that, but yes, you've done it and done it well and with empathy. (Also, "want his room back"!!!! I died a little on the inside. in a good way.)
Re: Sealand family fic, 1b/?
anonymous
July 6 2009, 00:48:29 UTC
Gosh yes! Glad to see another fill and boy~~~~~~~~ Sealand's usually such a boy who can seem to take just anything and throw it back at you, and this! Man~~~~~~~ England's words... That's done very well.
England really needs to sit down a moment if even recaptcha is saying 'to thinking'.
Norway, Denmark reflected, had always been a such cat kind of person. Silent to the point of incomprehensible, dangerously patient and surprisingly dangerous if he just put his mind to it; proud in that cunningly mute way that you never recognized until you realized that he never had listened to you in the first place. Whenever Norway for whatever reason had felt like being disagreeble, it had always been with that passive ignorance of orders. Denmark found it decidedly ironic that a cat of Norway's actually answered to its name.
Normally.
"You can't sit there all night," he said into the empty space of his garden, leaning against the railing of his balcony and staring forlornly at the field into which he was pretty certain that cat was hiding between waist-tall grasses and getting things stuck in his coat that would take an hour to comb out.
There was the sound of somebody trying to sniffle slowly enough to not be heard, but no other reply.
He tried again. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
The answer from beneath his feet somewhere was utter silence, but Denmark was not discouraged by that. Denmark knew how kids worked; Denmark had dealt with Iceland, too, for some centuries, and Iceland had always looked up to his brother. Much as Norway tried to deny it today by insisting that the kids had been all his, there really was no way for him to accuse Denmark of skirting his part in raising them.
Not that Norway ever had asked him to take over their upbringing, and he thought that maybe that was just another thing that Norway had gone and been sore about for centuries afterwards, too... but regardless, the bottom line remained: Denmark knew how you dealt with kids.
"I'm calling Sweden."
"No!"
"You can't sit there all night," he started, satisfied with having established bilateral communication, "aren't they waiting for you at home?"
There was a mutter of something that sounded suspiciously like an distressed 'I don't have a home' from the raspberry bushes.
Now, Denmark was of the opinion that growing up with Sweden could have made any kid run away to escape the boredom; he could sympathize. But to that, he firmly believed that every man was on his own; he had lived for long enought to have learned that the world was a place where the dog eats the dog. And, more importantly, where the fox was known to take cats.
When Sweden had read the same page of personal ads in the newspaper four times, Finland had suggested that maybe he should take Hana-Tamago for a walk. By that point, they had already called England, who had sneered something cruder than usual about Sealand and the key he still had to England's house, Holland who asked why they were looking for Denmark's kid, Denmark who hadn't seen a thing, Latvia who had spent the day letting Estonia look through his budgets and Norway who wasn't at home. Having exhausted the most likely places where the boy could have gotten himself lost, there had been nothing to do but suffer the duty of any parent of the modern age: the waiting for offspring that had not called to announced its delay on the way home.
"His mobile probably ran out of power," Finland had assured himself. There had been some discussion about that mobile - first about whether it really was necessary to give one to a boy his age, then a considerably longer one about whether it should be a Nokia or a Sony-Ericsson which never really had been resolved as Korea had overheard one such debate and insisted on giving them his Samsung since he was getting a new one. So Sealand owned a model that was not yet available in the western markets, and he did so with the pride required of such. He would not have forgotten it anywhere, and Finland knew, for a fact, that the boy took great care to check if he should recharge it every night.
"Nn," had been what Sweden answered to that theory, but he did take the dog out. It had been nearly an hour since, which was longer than Hana-Tamago's short legs required of daily workout and possibly also longer than the dog actually could walk while keeping up with Sweden's long legs and quick stride. Finland was not surprised when, when he called to ask he was, Sweden had mumbled something that he could only make out as 'V'lmina'.
"Denmark called. He said Sealand is hiding under his deck and won't come out," Finland said in place of asking why in the world Sweden had walked to - well. A near millennium of mostly uninterupted cohabitation had long since taught him that Sweden tended to lose track of his surroundings when he thought too hard about something, and also that Sweden maybe thought too hard about most things. Not that he had been in a much better form himself; the sheer relief that had washed through him at Denmark's call had made him uncomfortably aware of how some irrational instinct had been overruling his reason not very far beneath the surface. "I'll go over and take him home," he said, and hung up without needing to ask Sweden when he would be turning home.
It wasn't long to walk to Denmark's home, parted from the road beside it with a fence that Finland could swing his leg over with relative ease rather than walking around the garden for the gate on the other side. He grimaced as he felt the fabric on the inside of the thigh catch onto something from which it was pulled away before he had the time to really register it, but he didn't stop to check for damage. It wouldn't be something that Sweden couldn't fix, so he ignored it and made his way over to where he spotted Denmark sitting before his front door. He was smoking, and lifted the hand with the cigarette in greeting when he saw Finland. He certainly didn't seem very concerned about a micronation hiding in his garden, but waved Finland over with a grin as he climbed to his feet and came to meet him.
"Did you take away his pocket money or something?"
"No," said Finland, confused, "why?"
Denmark shrugged and took a drag before he put the half-smoked cigarette out against the flat stone that paved the way up to his front door. "Maybe you should talk to him yourself. Just get him out of there sometime tonight - I think he's scaring Hasse away."
"Hasse?"
"I can't think of any better answer unless he was run over. He always comes when I call."
"Right," Finland answered rather than asking any more, and followed Denmark around the corner of the house to the side that was facing west. Denmark went directly over to the deck and rapped his knuckes against the floor in three sharp knocks.
"Hey, Finland's here to get you."
There was no indication that anything at all was hiding behind athe raspberry bushes that had settled beneath the shelter of the raised decking.
"See?" Denmark said, "he's sulking about something."
Finland wasn't so sure he agreed with that, seeing that Sealand very rarely was one to let his disagreements go undheard, but finding out if the boy really was under there took the priority over correcting Denmark's assessment. He leaned forward slightly, as if trying to peer through the foliage. "Sealand? Are you there?"
There was still no answer, and Finland was at loss for what to do.
"Did something happen?" he finally tried, "Papa was worried when you didn't come home at time. He took Hana-Tamago out to look for you, you know - won't you come home? We'll make something nice for supper while we wait for him to get back."
Still nothing. He looked at Denmark and Denmark looked back, rolled his eyes, and slammed his fist onto the deck with enough force to make a flower pot in the corner jump.
"Back when war was the way we did things, I would own your Papa's ass every damn time he tried anything! Don't make me come under there and get you!"
There was a minute of silence, but just as Denmark started shifting impatiently, they could hear something quietly shuffling, followed by the sound of twigs and leaves brushing against clothing. The deck was too low for Sealand to stand beneath it; he came through a narrow gap between two bushes while leaning forward, but not enough to to hinder the floor of the deck to catch his hat as he straightened just a moment too early. He didn't move to pick it up, and didn't say a word to explain why in the world he had been hiding in Denmark's garden. He only stared at the grass in front of him, clutching a gray-and-white cat to his chest. Denmark brightened at the sight.
"I thought it was weird for him to be afraid of kids!" he plucked the animal out of the boy's arms and ruffled its fur roughly - more roughly than the cat liked, from the sound it made and the struggles that Denmark ignored. Sealand did not - he had looked up in surprise when Denmark took the cat from him, and for a moment, Finland thought that he was going to tell him off for the careless handling of the animal. But Sealand's reaction remained at the slight indignation - he didn't say a word when Denmark bent over to pick up his hat, which he placed on the boy's head with a jovial pat afterwards.
"Well, that's one problem less in the world. Good night to you, and remind Sweden to pick up after the dog."
He disappeared around the corner with a grin and a wave. Sealand reached up to adjust his hat, before letting his hands drop to his sides. And Finland, about to suggest that they went home, realized that the boy still hadn't spoken a word.
Yay you updated! =D I really like where this is going so far; Denmark's appearance was much love~ It was also rather... endearing that Sealand was hiding out like that; so very child-like for a lack of a better word.
XD I'm now late to bed, thanks to you. But this was certainly worth it.
LOVE YOU for including Denmark in there (also, wtf Holland referring to Sealand as "Denmark's kid"? XD), he was just fantastic in every way. Especially loved him here:
[...]Denmark looked back, rolled his eyes, and slammed his fist onto the deck with enough force to make a flower pot in the corner jump.
"Back when war was the way we did things, I would own your Papa's ass every damn time he tried anything! Don't make me come under there and get you!"
"England cruelly taunts Sealand about being Aland's replacement, after having a particularily bad day and not wanting to deal with the brat. So, Sealand, who previously had no idea his 'parents' already had another kid, decides to..."
I think I saw this filled a couple of pages back, but I've been writing on it on and off for something like a month, so. Concrit is welcomed with open arms.
The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (the title was always guaranteed to crank up the heat during family dinners) had some experience with dealing with children. Whatever else people said about imperialism: it did do something with your sense of responsibility.
Not that it quite spoke of maturity that England to this day insisted that rearing America had been a baptism of fire that could have readied anyone to step directly in as Jo Frost's stunt double. But frankly, even Mother Teresa would have lost some of her goodwill towards man if she had been the European alibi of somebody who insisted that ketchup counted as one of the five a day. England wondered, sometimes, if it had been he who erred in his inexperience or if there was something more fundamentally wrong with his oldest.
As of the appearance of his latest family member, those times had gotten notably rarer. America had, at the very least, had a motivation that - England was not an idiot - had been backed up by sincere ideas and a kind of common sense, even if it wasn't the kind of common sense that England himself had agreed with, at the time.
The Principality of Sealand was a joke, but Scotland denied all responsibility and had been the victim of a rather nasty attack with a water balloon after he had patted the micronation on the head and told him that democracy was a criteria for joining the Commonwealth. England, for his part, had coped with him the way he coped with anybody else - regardless of how and when and were, Sealand existed and those eyebrows did not lie. England had a proud tradition of taking others under his wing whether they wanted it or not, and Sealand was family. He might not be very openly affectionate (and sometimes late at night, he thought that that was America's fault, too), but he knew that stay as he might with others, the brat would ultimately be a part of the household. Kicking him out had never been an option.
That was not to say that it was a burden he carried with any joy that went beyond that of dignity desperately clung to through keeping that stiff upper lip even as America served him something "strawberry-vanilla" and called it tea.
It was dignity, or at least a semblance, a principle of it, that kept him standing when dealing with America on the days when modern-day piracy could be dealt with by sending in Johnny Depp. After having spent most of the afternoon telling that idiot why that wouldn't do, he had shouted himself into a fine headache and achieved little else than for some secretary who didn't work for him to remind him about his non-existent office hours. He had gone home with the singular ambition of taking off his shoes and then spend the evening in his good chair with a cup of actual tea or better yet, a glass of gin; but even that was to be denied him. When the lock of his front door clicked shut behind him, his eyes landed on his rather modest collection of kitchen utensils carefully arrange so to cover every area of the carpet that could possibly be used to thread on.
'What the bloody hell' wasn't usually the most constructive way to ask for clarification, but there were situations where nothing else could quite do.
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It had been three weeks since the last time. Three blissfull weeks without young would-be-nations dressed in clothes that went out of fashion ninety years ago. Three weeks without Danish pop music out of the late nineties being played in his closet. Three weeks without being accused of being a imperialist jerk from somebody who didn't even have any actual territory.
Three weeks of leaving the painkillers wherever he damned pleased, but it didn't seem like the brat had gotten into them. So England, assured that he was dealing with somebody who was (theoretically) lucid, tried the more eloquent approach.
"Why are you here?" it came out tired, resigned. Not at all like how England knew you are supposed to talk to children without regard for their elders, but he felt his head pound harder as he bent over to retrieve the frying pan he very nearly had stepped on when he came into the hall.
"Since you have consistently refused and sabotaged all my attempts at joining any - "
"Didn't you have a home?" England asked, pushing spatulas and whisks and serving spoons and graters aside with his feet as he went, "what the hell happened with that? Did Sweden finally throw you out? Did Åland want his room back?"
"I'm here to claim my rights to diplomatic relations independent of yours! And who's Åland?"
"Åland," said England as he picked up a de-boning knife and shoved past the brat who seemed to have forgotten the part about the blockade, "would be Sweden and Finland's boy. The one I assume you're some pitiful replacement for, as I cannot imagine why else anybody would want to put themselves through that on a daily basis." and there was the Paramol box, emitting a soft aura of love and sweet relief from where it was faithfully waiting beside the radio and within arm's reach of the cabinet where he kept his everyday glasses.
"Sweden's boy?" he heard Sealand ask somewhere in the room as he registered that the glasses had been replaced by his silverware, carefully lined up like tin soldiers readied on the floor for somebody shoeless to step on them.
"Yes," he snapped, turning around and not raising his voice because he had caused himself enough pain for the day. Still, he felt that the utter hatred he felt for the world as a whole and for the ambition of his youngest brother in particular was expressed quite clearly despite the modest volume, "Sweden's boy. Who unlike you is well-behaved and modest and aware of his situation and is internationally recognized as an autonomous region, has actual land territory and a population that goes into double digits and then some." He slammed the door shut and yanked the next open, "the one who actually could, stretching the meaning of the word, be called a nation."
Sealand stared at him with an expression of empty blankness that England was suddenly thought that he never had seen on his face before. Then he had a sudden relevation about where the glasses could have been relocated. By the time he had swallowed the pills and turned back to take the quarrel about cleaning the mess in the kitchen, the boy had gotten to his senses and disappeared.
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England really needs to sit down a moment if even recaptcha is saying 'to thinking'.
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I look forward to the rest! C:
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Normally.
"You can't sit there all night," he said into the empty space of his garden, leaning against the railing of his balcony and staring forlornly at the field into which he was pretty certain that cat was hiding between waist-tall grasses and getting things stuck in his coat that would take an hour to comb out.
There was the sound of somebody trying to sniffle slowly enough to not be heard, but no other reply.
He tried again. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
The answer from beneath his feet somewhere was utter silence, but Denmark was not discouraged by that. Denmark knew how kids worked; Denmark had dealt with Iceland, too, for some centuries, and Iceland had always looked up to his brother. Much as Norway tried to deny it today by insisting that the kids had been all his, there really was no way for him to accuse Denmark of skirting his part in raising them.
Not that Norway ever had asked him to take over their upbringing, and he thought that maybe that was just another thing that Norway had gone and been sore about for centuries afterwards, too... but regardless, the bottom line remained: Denmark knew how you dealt with kids.
"I'm calling Sweden."
"No!"
"You can't sit there all night," he started, satisfied with having established bilateral communication, "aren't they waiting for you at home?"
There was a mutter of something that sounded suspiciously like an distressed 'I don't have a home' from the raspberry bushes.
Now, Denmark was of the opinion that growing up with Sweden could have made any kid run away to escape the boredom; he could sympathize. But to that, he firmly believed that every man was on his own; he had lived for long enought to have learned that the world was a place where the dog eats the dog. And, more importantly, where the fox was known to take cats.
When Sweden had read the same page of personal ads in the newspaper four times, Finland had suggested that maybe he should take Hana-Tamago for a walk. By that point, they had already called England, who had sneered something cruder than usual about Sealand and the key he still had to England's house, Holland who asked why they were looking for Denmark's kid, Denmark who hadn't seen a thing, Latvia who had spent the day letting Estonia look through his budgets and Norway who wasn't at home. Having exhausted the most likely places where the boy could have gotten himself lost, there had been nothing to do but suffer the duty of any parent of the modern age: the waiting for offspring that had not called to announced its delay on the way home.
"His mobile probably ran out of power," Finland had assured himself. There had been some discussion about that mobile - first about whether it really was necessary to give one to a boy his age, then a considerably longer one about whether it should be a Nokia or a Sony-Ericsson which never really had been resolved as Korea had overheard one such debate and insisted on giving them his Samsung since he was getting a new one. So Sealand owned a model that was not yet available in the western markets, and he did so with the pride required of such. He would not have forgotten it anywhere, and Finland knew, for a fact, that the boy took great care to check if he should recharge it every night.
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"Denmark called. He said Sealand is hiding under his deck and won't come out," Finland said in place of asking why in the world Sweden had walked to - well. A near millennium of mostly uninterupted cohabitation had long since taught him that Sweden tended to lose track of his surroundings when he thought too hard about something, and also that Sweden maybe thought too hard about most things. Not that he had been in a much better form himself; the sheer relief that had washed through him at Denmark's call had made him uncomfortably aware of how some irrational instinct had been overruling his reason not very far beneath the surface. "I'll go over and take him home," he said, and hung up without needing to ask Sweden when he would be turning home.
It wasn't long to walk to Denmark's home, parted from the road beside it with a fence that Finland could swing his leg over with relative ease rather than walking around the garden for the gate on the other side. He grimaced as he felt the fabric on the inside of the thigh catch onto something from which it was pulled away before he had the time to really register it, but he didn't stop to check for damage. It wouldn't be something that Sweden couldn't fix, so he ignored it and made his way over to where he spotted Denmark sitting before his front door. He was smoking, and lifted the hand with the cigarette in greeting when he saw Finland. He certainly didn't seem very concerned about a micronation hiding in his garden, but waved Finland over with a grin as he climbed to his feet and came to meet him.
"Did you take away his pocket money or something?"
"No," said Finland, confused, "why?"
Denmark shrugged and took a drag before he put the half-smoked cigarette out against the flat stone that paved the way up to his front door. "Maybe you should talk to him yourself. Just get him out of there sometime tonight - I think he's scaring Hasse away."
"Hasse?"
"I can't think of any better answer unless he was run over. He always comes when I call."
"Right," Finland answered rather than asking any more, and followed Denmark around the corner of the house to the side that was facing west. Denmark went directly over to the deck and rapped his knuckes against the floor in three sharp knocks.
"Hey, Finland's here to get you."
There was no indication that anything at all was hiding behind athe raspberry bushes that had settled beneath the shelter of the raised decking.
"See?" Denmark said, "he's sulking about something."
Finland wasn't so sure he agreed with that, seeing that Sealand very rarely was one to let his disagreements go undheard, but finding out if the boy really was under there took the priority over correcting Denmark's assessment. He leaned forward slightly, as if trying to peer through the foliage. "Sealand? Are you there?"
There was still no answer, and Finland was at loss for what to do.
"Did something happen?" he finally tried, "Papa was worried when you didn't come home at time. He took Hana-Tamago out to look for you, you know - won't you come home? We'll make something nice for supper while we wait for him to get back."
Still nothing. He looked at Denmark and Denmark looked back, rolled his eyes, and slammed his fist onto the deck with enough force to make a flower pot in the corner jump.
"Back when war was the way we did things, I would own your Papa's ass every damn time he tried anything! Don't make me come under there and get you!"
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"I thought it was weird for him to be afraid of kids!" he plucked the animal out of the boy's arms and ruffled its fur roughly - more roughly than the cat liked, from the sound it made and the struggles that Denmark ignored. Sealand did not - he had looked up in surprise when Denmark took the cat from him, and for a moment, Finland thought that he was going to tell him off for the careless handling of the animal. But Sealand's reaction remained at the slight indignation - he didn't say a word when Denmark bent over to pick up his hat, which he placed on the boy's head with a jovial pat afterwards.
"Well, that's one problem less in the world. Good night to you, and remind Sweden to pick up after the dog."
He disappeared around the corner with a grin and a wave. Sealand reached up to adjust his hat, before letting his hands drop to his sides. And Finland, about to suggest that they went home, realized that the boy still hadn't spoken a word.
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LOVE YOU for including Denmark in there (also, wtf Holland referring to Sealand as "Denmark's kid"? XD), he was just fantastic in every way. Especially loved him here:
[...]Denmark looked back, rolled his eyes, and slammed his fist onto the deck with enough force to make a flower pot in the corner jump.
"Back when war was the way we did things, I would own your Papa's ass every damn time he tried anything! Don't make me come under there and get you!"
Eagerly waiting for the next update!
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Google "Zealand" :)
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