Chapter Text
Ladonia had never asked for change.
His life, as far as he was concerned, had been working just fine. He had Sweden—his dad—and that was all he needed. Their house was quiet and orderly, filled with shelves and tools and the buzz of computers. Even the silences had a kind of warmth, like soft static between radio channels. Comfort in the quiet. Routine in the stillness.
But things didn’t stay still for long.
First came Finland.
Tino, with his soft-spoken kindness and endless patience, and warm, lingering looks toward Sweden. The kind of looks Ladonia pretended not to notice. He didn’t mean to dislike Finland—he hadn’t done anything wrong, really—but the shift was immediate. The house smelled different now. The kitchen had color. There was singing in the mornings. Someone else was making pancakes.
Then came Sealand.
Loud. Clumsy. Endlessly curious. The human equivalent of a firecracker left burning in a shoebox. He filled the space Ladonia had carved out as his own. The living room. The attic. Even Dad’s attention.
Suddenly, Ladonia wasn’t the only one anymore.
And that stung in a way he couldn’t explain—not even to himself.
He started skipping dinner.
No one told him he had to. He just wasn’t hungry, he said. He wasn’t feeling great. He had homework. He was coding.
And at first, no one pushed.
But Finland would still knock on his door, every single time. A plate in his hands, or a mug of tea, or sometimes just a little note folded in half with a hand-drawn smiley face on it. Ladonia never threw them away, even if he pretended not to care.
Once, Finland said quietly through the door, “I hope you know you’re still important. Even when you don’t feel like talking.”
Ladonia didn’t answer. But his fingers clenched tight around the little note he hadn’t opened.
It all boiled over on a Sunday afternoon.
Sealand was in the kitchen with Finland, shrieking with laughter as they attempted to make some disaster of a volcano project. Paper mâché everywhere. Flour on the floor. Baking soda and vinegar erupting down the sink. Even Sweden joined in for a while, sleeves rolled up, eyes soft in a way Ladonia hadn’t seen in a while.
Ladonia watched from the hallway stairs, arms crossed, teeth digging into his lip.
It wasn’t fair.
That used to be his spot.
He didn’t say anything. He just disappeared. Went upstairs. Slammed the door. And when Finland knocked—gently, because he always did—Ladonia exploded.
“Stop acting like you’re my dad!” he shouted, voice sharp and cracking. “You’re not! You’re just someone who moved in and took everything!”
There was a pause. Tino’s hand faltered against the doorknob.
“I didn’t ask for you. Or him. Or this!” Ladonia continued, heat rising to his face. “It used to be me and him, and now I barely even get to talk to him without someone else being there. You act like we’re all just one big happy family but I hate this!”
Tino opened the door slowly. Not to scold. Not to argue.
Just to see him.
The tears burning at the corner of Ladonia’s eyes hadn’t fallen yet, but they were there, dammit, and that made it worse.
“I know,” Finland said softly.
Ladonia’s jaw clenched. “You don’t.”
“I do,” Tino said. “I know I’m not your dad. I’m not trying to be. I’m just trying to be someone who cares about you.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Ladonia hissed. “Having everything ripped away and replaced and being expected to smile about it.”
That struck something.
Tino stepped in and shut the door behind him. He didn’t sit. Just stood there for a second.
Then he said, “You think I haven’t lost things? That I don’t know how hard it is to share your life with people who weren't there from the beginning?”
That caught Ladonia off-guard.
Tino exhaled, voice calm but laced with quiet pain. “I know what it’s like to rebuild. And to feel like you’re being pushed aside. I promise, Ladonia, I’m not here to take anything from you. I’m trying to give you something.”
Ladonia’s throat tightened. “I don’t want it.”
“I know,” Tino said gently. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to want it today.”
He set the plate of cookies on Ladonia’s desk, then turned to leave.
Just before he stepped out, he added, “I care about you. Even when it’s hard. Even when you’re angry.”
And then he was gone.
Ladonia didn’t cry.
Not then, anyway.
He sat there, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the door like it had betrayed him. Like he had betrayed himself for listening.
Eventually, he ate one of the cookies.
Just one.
But he didn’t throw the rest out.
The next few days were quiet.
Finland didn’t hover. Sealand didn’t ask questions. Sweden didn’t push.
But Ladonia started noticing things. Little things.
How Sealand always saved a spot for him on the couch during movies, even if Ladonia never took it. How Tino started leaving tools and wires and bits of scrap from Ladonia’s projects in a tidy box outside his door. How Sweden still knocked on his door every night to say “good night,” even if Ladonia barely mumbled a reply.
They hadn’t stopped caring.
They were just… trying.
And trying was something Ladonia wasn’t used to noticing.
A week later, he came downstairs in the middle of the night, unable to sleep.
He found Sweden in the kitchen, quietly washing a mug.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Ladonia said, voice barely above a whisper, “He’s not so bad.”
Sweden blinked, turned toward him slightly. “No,” he said. “He’s not.”
A pause.
Ladonia looked down at the tile. “Still wish it was just us sometimes.”
“I know.”
Sweden dried his hands on a towel, then stepped over and placed a hand on Ladonia’s shoulder. Not heavy. Not controlling. Just steady.
“You’re still my kid,” he said. “That’s not changing.”
The words caught in Ladonia’s throat. He swallowed, but the lump didn’t go away.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
Sweden didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence be what it was—soft and quiet and full.
That weekend, Ladonia wandered into the living room to find Sealand halfway through building a cardboard rocket. Tino was reading on the couch, legs curled up under him. Sweden was asleep in the armchair.
Sealand looked up. “Wanna help?”
Ladonia hesitated.
Then sighed.
“…Yeah.”