Damn, all these fanfiction's keep spewing out of my head! Make it stop! Ah anyway, multiple pairings and stuffz so enjoy. AND REVIEW DAMNIT. I do not own Hetalia.

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"Like…Why are we, like, doing this again?" The blonde Polish man whined again, trudging through the scratchy fields of the meadow. Small wildflowers already bloomed and were nestled in the dry prickly grass. The small clustered group of boys had been wandering around the back skirts of the village for nearly an hour now, and the sun on their backs was beginning to grow blistering and brutal. The Polish man whined again.

Nikolas, the Norwegian leader of the group just frowned blankly. "Because we were dared to Feliks." He stated with spite, turning to glare at his younger brother Björt. Björt just laughed cruelly.

"What? Are you going to back out on a dare, Nikolas?" his little brother taunted, pinching his own cheeks back to make a face, his babyish eyes showing bright. Norway sneered, getting ready to pound the little Icelandic into the ground.

"I'll kill you when we get home…" were all the words the fair haired Norwegian said, turning back to the field.

"Come on guys, it's not thaaaaaat bad." Tino, the overly cheerful, happy-go-lucky, member of the group tried his best to smile. Norway glared at him. Tino fidgeted and laughed nervously, turning to gaze at Feliks once more.

"Um…like, guys? What was the dare again?" the Polish man asked, flipping his hair back. Fishing a leather cord from his tunic he grabbed a fistful of his wheat colored hair and tied it back. Then, scooping up a flower that he deemed nice enough, stuck the blossom behind his ear.

Björt smiled once more. "Since the Midsummer feast is tomorrow, I wanted to try out a little experiment."* He trailed off, sitting himself down on an old stump. The three boys looked nervously at the small Icelandic. They didn't like the wording the smaller boy had used, and they certainly didn't like the wicked gleam in his sky blue eyes.

"I want you guys…to do the flower tradition."* It was said simply, with little menace, yet it made each boy cringe.

"Perkele! But we are not girls!" Tino shouted out, his eyes wide. There was no way in hell he was doing this, he would be the laughing stock of the entire village! To do the flower tradition…and as a man no less! Why, it was one of the most embarrassing things he could do! Well…maybe not as embarrassing as what Mathias, their Danish friend did last year when he was found drunk and kissing a cow in the barn. Yep, nothing was that embarrassing.

Feliks lips pulled into a pout. He plopped in the grass and grabbed a handful of the straggly weeds.

"Like, someone is like, going to have to explain this to me, like, now!" he complained, throwing the weeds in to the air, watching as the wind drifted them away. Nikolas sighed, clearly annoyed.

"Ah… that's right. Felik's moved here in the winter from Poland. He doesn't know what the flower tradition is!" Tino exclaimed, sitting down next to the Polish boy, who Tino noticed, was wearing a woman's tunic instead of a boy's one.

"Like, if you guys are talking about Wianki, then I know what it is."* The pole said, dusting off his bright green tunic. Norway shook his head.

"No. It's a silly tradition that the girls partake in every Midsummer." Nikolas groaned out, picking up a dandelion and twirling it around his fingers.

"What's it like, entail?" Felik's asked, shielding his eyes from the sun. Tino sighed and plucked a small white yarrow flower from its stem. He gazed at the flower before handing it to Feliks. The Pole accepted it with glee, adding it to his hair.

"The night before Midsummer, when the smaller bonfires are lit and the village huts are decorated with flowers, the unmarried maidens in the village go out into the fields at dusk and each pick seven different wild flowers from the meadow, then that all race over the rounded gate poles of the livestock's paddock's and run back home were the flowers are put under their pillows." The Finn explained, leaning back and resting his head on the grass. Somewhere to the South a ewe bleated and a farmer's horn was called, but other than that the meadow was contently silent.

Feliks smiled. "I love flowers, like, what's so bad about that?" He asked, emerald green eyes shining.

"It gets worse…" Nikolas sighed, resting his head in his palms as he sat down on the dry pasture floor.

"When the maidens go to sleep, the flowers are supposed to enchant their dreams and while they sleep, their husbands face will be shown in their dreams…." The Finn finished, sitting up straight.

"Björt, do we have to do it? Were not girls, and it's stupid anyway!" Tino pleaded with the younger lad. But the silver haired boy would have none of it. Crossing his arms over his doe skinned jerkin he shook his head.

"A dares a dare." He stated childishly. He was not going to budge and inch. Nikolas frowned.

"Björt, we shouldn't mess with magic. You know that Midsummer is the longest day of the year, a day of divination and the supernatural! We'll only anger the Gods with our trickery; do you really want to piss off the Goddess?" he added, looking his brother square in the jaw. Björt's face looked a bit pale for a split second but then it resumed its haughtiness.

"So, does this mean you're a coward?" the little Scandinavian asked, mocking his older brother. Nikolas's face kept its cool demeanor.

"Fine, I'll do it. But don't come crying to me when you wake up tomorrow with Thor's hammer up your ass…" The Nordic warned.

Björt suddenly smiled cheerfully. "Just for that, you all have to do this while wearing girl's dresses!" The little boy giggled, swinging his little legs off the stump. Nikolas and Tino's faces drained of all their color.

"No." the two repeated with deadly swiftness. There was no way in hell Tino was dressing up in a silly girls dress to go pick damn flowers and hop over fences! No way in this world or the next!

Feliks then clapped his hands in a friendly motion, trying to dispel the tension. "Come on guys, so what if it's like, a bit embarrassing? Were men! We can like, take the embarrassment!" His voice shook with courage. Tino sighed. A dare was a dare…

After the rest of the two boys silently agreed to the troublesome challenge, they all sat up and dusted off their tunics. Tino looked to the sky. It was a deep sea blue, but soon it would turn a bloodied orange, with a few salmon colored clouds squeezing in from the sun. It was time for them to get going, there was only a few hours of day light left!

"All right, we'll meet back here with the women at dusk, so don't be late!" Björt chuckled to himself. Nikolas swatted at his brothers head playfully.

"Just you wait Björt; we'll get you for this." He threatened, giving the little seven year old a noogie. Björt whined and broke free from his brother's arms, running around like a mad goat, bucking and kicking along the high grass. The three boys, all over nineteen winters just laughed at the little boy, trying to get the awful terms of the dare out of their mind. It was only when they heard the shrill sound of the hunting horn that they all turned their heads behind them.

"The hunters must have gotten a good feast," Tino observed, pausing in his steps to gaze at the source of the sound. Feliks nodded and then smiled suddenly. "Well, I don't like, know about you guys, but it's too damn hot! Let's like, go for a swim, huh?" he asked, swaying in the grass, he began to walk towards a few boulders that led the way to a fat and lazy river that cut near the village. The rest of the boys nodded in agreement and hurriedly ran to the river, laughing and making crude jokes all along the way.

…

The pig made a harsh squeal as its belly was ripped open from the obsidian arrow, the shaft of the dart sticking out limply from the now bloodied flesh. The sow gave one more harsh grunt before her throat was slit, entreating the forest to silence. She plopped to the floor and sank into the musty, rotten leaves. Her hunter crouched down and ripped out the arrow, squinting as blood hit him lightly in the face; it was hot and tasted of dreadful iron. He licked his lips.

He tossed the now broken arrow in the leather nap sack and turned back to the pig. He laid his hands across her eyes, closing them, watching the glow of life leave the pupils, enchanting the creature with death. He then snaked his hands to her belly, where the mortal wound still bled. The bent figure placed his fingers upon her flesh, letting them lightly lace on her belly, covering the wound, the blood. He thanked the forest and the Gods for the sow's meat, knowing that nothing of this world could hear the words he spoke in his head.

Then, as quickly as the young man had knelt, he was back on his feet. Near the pig, he scrambled around until he grabbed the hind legs of the sow and hoisted the swine on his bare shoulder. The blood began to slide down his pale, almost translucent frame, sticky and nauseatingly sweet.

It had been an hour since he left the hunting party, choosing to hunt along the forest instead of the meadow. Looking up at the sun he could hear the soft shouts of his hunting party. They were near the river, not too far off he guessed. Slapping the pig on the rock floor, he wiped his hands on his tunic. As hungry as he was, he would gut the pig and carry it over to the village for everyone to share. He smiled. They would be so proud of him, all of them-even him. Blushing slightly at the mention of 'him', Berwald shook his head to dispel his thoughts.

Then, digging his knife hesitantly into the quickly chilling carcass, he began cutting up and down, spearing chunks of meat on shaven pine bows and placing it over his back. In a few seconds he heard the laughing and the joking voices of the rest of the hunters. A few of them carrying a kill of some sort. Three rabbit's, a few stray hens, and even a string of trout. They would eat well tonight.

After pausing to greet Berwald, the loudest of the hunters and the one Berwald surely hated the most, smiled at the tall Swede.

"Well, Berwald, it seems like you've caught another big one, eh?" the Danish man asked, eyeing the slowly bleeding pig. Berwald grunted in an answer before hoisting up a pine bough that had the head of the pig, he gestured for the rest of the hunters to bring the meat and follow him.

But then that annoying voice that he hated so much stopped him.

"Whoa whoa buddy. Were all tired, and well, frankly we smell, and by we I mean you." Berwald glared up at the blonde blue eyed Dane. "So. Can't we just take a quick dip in the river to wash up? The meat will be fine by the river if we keep it on the rocks?" he proposed, resting his hands on his hips. Berwald furrowed his brows. He did smell…and he did desperately want to dive into the cool river water. But he shook his head.

"It go bad." He grumbled, picking up the pine pikes again and hauling them over his shoulder. Mathias, the Dane, scowled.

"Well I'm taking a damn swim!" he shouted, his voice full of spite, trampling off through the forest he left Berwald with the rest of the hunters, a skinny lithe Lithuanian with bark russet hair, a tall broad and flaxen haired German, along with his annoyingly vocal albino brother, and an easy go lucky Spaniard with bright eyes.

The men, who had decided to help Berwald instead of go to the river, each took up a spit of meat and together they carried back the food to the village. It was a short walk but due to the blazing sun it was torturous work, and for Berwald, who was covered in blood, it was sticky and uncomfortable.

But, after much curse words and cackling, from the albino German mostly, they were able to bring the meat back to the village. Berwald, assuring the men that he could take care of it from here, carefully speared the hog on the fire pit, and set the planks of meat to cook. Then, turning to the head cook, a skinny French man gave him the right away to roast the meat. Berwald had to make sure this Midsummer was perfect. He had to make sure the village had enough to eat, and that the bonfire was ready to be lit at twilight. Everything had to go according to plan. Because this was the only shot Berwald had.

Berwald was well aware of the Midsummer night traditions, on this night, the sun was at its peak, and so, the people of the camp all got up to dance around the fire, drums beating, feat leaping up into the earth, and the sweet aroma of flowers filling the crackling air. After homage to the Sun was paid, the people would then feast and drink their fill of ale, bread and meat.

And then it was the maiden's dance.

Berwald felt a shiver run through him. As the fires were stoked, and the time approached, the unwedded females, and sometimes males, would skip to the bonfire and dance around magically in traditional robes, their hair crowned with heather, yarrow, broom and meadows sweet. And then Berwald would see him. The domination of Berwald's affection. Tino Väinämöinen. The sole thing in this world that could make Berwald's heart beat like it was on fire. The young boy, with hair like crystal snow, eyes like the bright violet of the morning glories that dusted the meadows, and that smooth skin, like churned butter. The youth was everything that Berwald craved. And tonight Berwald would take the Finn as his midsummer bride.

Berwald turned to the roasting pig. It had taken him forever to track the damn sow down. Berwald looked to his upturned hand; he felt a stinging sensation flame up from his wrist to seep out of his palm. Blood. Bringing the boar down had not been easy, and he paid for it with a tusk slitting into his palm back in the forest. Berwald sighed and squeezed his hand into a fist.

He had brought down that swine just for Tino, so that the Finn would find him worthy. Only a warrior or a hunter with sure accomplishment could pick a bride first tonight, and Berwald had worked his very hardest to ensure himself first pick. By being the best hunter, finest swordsmen, and greatest provider for the village, he had acclaimed many achievements in the clan that most men never hoped to attain. And though Tino was not a maiden, Berwald did not mind.

The Finn was still as beautiful as any of the women in the camp and still as attractive to the Swede as any female he had ever laid eyes on. Berwald only hoped that the Gods would be kind to him this midsommarstång*, and grant him his summer bride.

Berwald was torn away from his thoughts as a stray white dog began to lick up his leg, trying to lap up the dribbling blood that was still on the Swede. Grunting and shooing the dog off the Swede decided to go down to the river to wash off, yet the door still followed, bounding around the Swede's legs. Begrudgingly he trotted off through the thicket in the direction of the river banks, the small little pup close behind.

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Sorry about all the blood in the first chapter! Poor piggy…. REVIEW DAMNIT

Authors note:

Midsummer- Midsummer is a Pagan holiday that takes place in June when the sun is at its highest in power. Certain masculine Gods or Gods representing the Sun are honored.

"Flower Tradition"- I have no idea if there is an actual term for it, but it's basically a tradition that is most dominate in Sweden were unmarried women place seven flowers underneath their pillow, and when they sleep, their future husband will appear in their dreams.

Wianki- A Tradition in Poland were at Midsummer, women throw wreaths of flowers into the Baltic Sea or into rivers.

Midsommarstång- Swedish term for Midsummer