Work Text:
(1701)
Sweden is quiet when he fights. He bends and glares and holds his chin up but does not break. He fights like a warrior, he fights like a machine, like his whole world depends on his victory.
But he does not fight like his life depends on it.
Russia catches a glimpse, though, of the boy behind him, the one with silvery blue eyes and wispy blond hair who's a full head shorter. He wanders behind Sweden, his armour less complicated, his crest the same as Sweden’s though with less garish.
But his eyes promise death, and when Russia next sees him alone he stabs Russia right between the ribcage, not a single inch off. Russia’s heart has never fit properly since.
.
(1721)
When he wins the Great Northern war, crushes Sweden into the ground with the heel of his boot and builds Saint Petersburg atop of it, he’ll begin to catch sights of Finland- he finds his name easily, in the way he engraves Suomi on all his belongings, as if he couldn’t stand to see himself forget what everyone else had never cared for in the first place. He finds said belongings easily, as he marches through the land again to twist Sweden’s arm and force his hand.
Sweden he finds in a grand palace, atop a throne.
Finland he does not find at all.
.
(1809)
During the whole of the Diet of Porvoo, Finland stares at him with steel in his eyes. Sweden is not there, so it is just them now- them, and an ocean of politicians between them. But in spite of being so pathetically smaller than him, in spite of being nothing compared to Russia- he doesn’t cave. Doesn’t even flinch when Russia walked up to him, smiling, just close enough that most people (most nations) would pull away, close enough that he could smell pine and metal and wood, can see the silver glint in Finland's eyes.
“Does it feel nice, to know how pathetic you are?” He says, because he wanted to see that steel in his eyes break, wanted Finland to take the bait- to kick, to scream, to beg, to bite. But Finland did none of that. Finland held his gaze, shoulders ramrod straight and mouth a tight line.
He tilted his head, and kept his expression neutral as he whispered, in the most hostile tone Russia has- to this date- ever heard,
“You'll have what you want, now.” He smiled a bit, the way one smiles when swallowing slime.
“But eventually, Russia, I will kill you. And your blood will be sweet.”
Revenge is best served cold, Russia thought as Finland turned his back, no sign of recognition on his face.
I know that as well as Finland.
.
(1917)
He stares across the table with his mouth set in a grim line, something that might have been a smile had it been anyone but Russia across the table from him.
“Congratulations,” Russia says, and notes the abysmal amount of bitterness in his voice- he hadn't known it was there until he'd said the words. He feels sick, like Revolution, like coughing up blood. “You're finally free.”
Finland looked at him from across the table, the little curl at the edge of his lips at odds with the way his knuckles clenched white over the edge of the table.
“We are never free, Russia. You know that as well as I do.”
He looked at Russia, long and hard, and Russia thought, this. This is why I enjoy his company.
It didn't make up for the poison in his drink, but it came close.
.
(1939)
The thing about Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania is they break so easily. The thing about Belarus is she doesn't fight at all, she welcomes him with open arms. The thing about Ukraine is that she fights but she loses. And they never say anything again, they all cower because they're afraid of him (even Belarus, no matter what she says- she lies, to him and to herself). No, the other nations may protest, but they do so in silence.
Finland is the only one who talks back. Russia offers him a deal to take his land, and Finland stands up so fast he knocks the inkwell over, lips pulled back in a feral smile as he leans over the table (ink staining his hands like blood) and hisses, “Over your fucking dead body, Venäjä. I’d rather side with Germany. ” He spits the words like they’re venom, and he throws the remainder of the inkwell at Russia. It smashes against the wall with a loud crack, followed by Finland taking two long strides across the room to curl his fingers in Russia’s collar. He’s a head shorter than Russia, but his glare could kill anything less than a god.
“I’ll kill you.” He whispers slowly, and stalks out of the room, footsteps echoing in his wake.
.
(1940)
Russia's fingers freeze, in spite of his gloves. Were he human he would have been dead.
He's lost, and from the footsteps he appears to have been found.
He barely looks up to see a hand pushing through the darkness. White, like the snow around them. His coat is entirely white, and when Russia bothers to look up his eyes are purple, gleaming silver with dimly reflected light.
Of course.
He fumbles with shaky fingers for the cyanide pill trapped in his pocket. A hand curls around his as he does, strikingly warm.
“Finlandia,” he greets, and hopes to a god he no longer believes in that it is all just a nightmare. “Come to fulfill your promise?”
Finland's hand in his is unfortunately real.
“Not yet.” He smiles, nothing more than a slash of red against his pale cheeks.
“How do you plan to make me pay, then?” Russia says.
Finland kneels, snow scraping up to his knees. “Later.” He says, “For now-”
Russia barely remembers what happens next. He thinks Finland smiled, and he thinks Finland kissed him. The next morning he'd woken up alone, and never talked of it again.
He wonders how much of Finland's smile was fake, how much of it was his exhausted imagination.
Later, he thinks that's what other nations see when they look at Finland. Someone who smiles, someone who's kind, someone weak.
Russia wonders if this was just peeking through the veil.
.
(1950)
He deals out the cards like they're made of thinly sliced metal. They're playing- poker, maybe, the type of game where both Russia and Finland cheat and who wins is just a question of who cheats best.
“Stop trading with America,” Russia says.
“I think not.” Finland replies.
“You're making a mistake,” Russia says. Finland doesn't look up.
“I disagree.”
At that, Russia tilts his head.
“Why?” his voice sounds sharp, like a knife's edge. Finland doesn't flinch.
And this time, he meets Russia’s eyes.
“I've spent enough of my life doing what others command of me.”
And then he glances down at the cards.
“Oh,” he says. “Checkmate.”
.
(1965)
He wonders why Finland impresses him where America annoys him. In some sense, they’re similar; they both play kind where they are indeed cruel, they both refuse him what he wants, they both paint him as the villain.
Perhaps that is that America could never quite play the part of ‘innocuous’ as beautifully as Finland. Perhaps it is that America never stood against him when no one else did, he always necessitated the aid of his allies. Perhaps it is that while America has felt threatened ideologically, through his rampant naïve ideals, he’s never had someone leering at his doorstep, ready to take his whole country and conquer it in one sweep.
Finland looks at him like he wishes Russia was dead. America looks like he would keep him around, if only so that there was someone to fight, some villain to crush.
Or, he thinks, Finland understands they’re all monsters in the end, whereas America still believes himself a benevolent God.
.
(2000)
He wonders how Finland can so easily be mollified in Sweden's presence, how the boy who will stare him down through his own blood and with twenty different broken bones so easily becomes a soft-spoken child in the presence of someone who barely casts a shadow anymore. At first, he thinks that Finland loves Sweden, that his true nature is kind and sweet and beautiful. But the harder he peers the more he sees it for what it is- a façade. Finland’s smiles are too sweet to be real, with the uncomfortable hard edge of someone who detests disparaging themselves.
But Russia has known Europe since the end of the war. He knows the type of nations they prefer to pretend they are- benevolent, kind, forgiving, sweet. Saviours, like America, not killers, nor victors.
And with a jolt, he realises that Finland is precisely that. Not just to Sweden, but to the whole continent. He pretends to lack spine where Sweden is concerned, because it is easier to let them think he is easily walked over, so that they will not foresee it when he turns around and bites them with sharpened teeth. He tried the strategy with Sweden first, of course- and he kept with it, because it worked.
It’s a good trap. Russia fell for it.
Across the table, Finland smiles at him- soft and sweet, but Russia sees how his eyes glint, like menace, like danger. His smile shows just a bit too much teeth.
The realisation falls upon him like a needle through the eye; fast and vicious. Behind that sweet demeanor is someone with sharpened teeth, who’s fought tooth and nail for everything he’s earned, who’s broken free of his chains only to have to constantly play weak, play sweet, because it may not win him the battle, but it will always win him the war.
Finland is a survivor.
Russia comes to admire him for that.